The Colour of His Hair Page 2

  ‘Is it cooked through?’ Mum asked. ‘I’m always worried with lamb that I’ll undercook it.’

  ‘It’s nice and juicy,’ Dad answered. ‘Just how it ought to be. How many spuds, Donald?’

  ‘Four.’

  ‘Four please.’

  We ate for a while in silence, then Mum said, ‘Shame about this fog. I feel like going out for a drive this afternoon. However … I could pop over to Hilda’s. We’re making lampshades and we’re not getting on with them quickly enough.’

  ‘Because you two spend all your time gossiping over cups of tea,’ Dad said. He looked out of the window. ‘We could go out for a drive if you want to. Just because it’s foggy here doesn’t mean it’s foggy everywhere.’

  ‘No need to waste the petrol if it is foggy everywhere. Says in today’s paper the price is going up. More sprouts, anyone?’ Before we could answer, she began to dish them onto our plates

  ‘Foggy soggy,’ Donald said.. ‘They’ll only be put in the bin if they’re not eaten; when you cook them up again they always turn soggy.’ ‘I didn’t know you talked in rhyme, Mum.’ A grin hovered at the corners of his mouth, and his eyes signalled that he was trying to repress a great deal of laughter. The effect on me was catastrophic ― a fit of hysterical giggles. I couldn’t stop. It was the contrast between our recent conversations and those of Mum and Dad: Donald shook his head slightly, and frowned, as if to say, ‘Don’t let them think something strange is going on!’

  ‘Helen!’ Mum said, crossly. ‘It isn’t in the least bit funny!’

  ‘Teenagers!’ Dad snorted. ‘More like little children. Grow up, the pair of you! Helen! Pull yourself together!’

  TWO

  The following weekend I did something I bitterly regretted. I told Brian.

  He brought the subject up, but that didn’t mean I had to say anything; I could have fended him off. He’s doing ‘A’ level Chemistry, Maths and Physics, and he has that condescending air all the science students at our school have towards the arts students ― arts are O.K. for girls, but for boys English and so on is a bit cissy. Science, they seem to think, is where thereal work of the world is done, and women don’t have a role in that: unimportant old English is fine for us because we’ll sooner or later get married, have kids, and become housewives. Needless to say I object strongly to such attitudes, which caused the biggest row Brian and I ever had: the result was Brian doesn’t talk like that any more, though I guess he still thinks that way.

  We’ve been going out for nearly three years. He’s very good-looking, sane, mature ― and thoughtful. Except for the arts/science thing he doesn’t usually give me the impression that he considers girls have inferior brains, or are merely useful for sex, or exist just to cook meals and wash socks. He’s gentle. I grew to love him. But recently I’d been asking myself if love wasn’t now growing a bit thin; I was finding Brian predictable. Perhaps even boring. That may account for my annoyance with his response when I told him ― I hadn’t reckoned on his lack of understanding when it came to the subject of homosexuality. We were on our way home from a disco; Saturday night ― it should have been a pleasant, enjoyable evening out, the two of us with my friend Pat and her boyfriend Keith. I used to love dancing with Brian: we were a good pair; music, rhythm, us ― it made a whole. But this, also, was becoming predictable. I began to define the problem more clearly that evening. It was something which revealed itself when Brian was with male friends, not on occasions when he and I were alone: the stupid stories they swopped, the swilling down of pints of beer, the childish … competition: yes, that’s the right word … that seems to go on between boys when they get together. The function of their girlfriends changes then. We cease to be the one person of importance; it’s as if we’re being regarded as prizes to show off to all and sundry. My bird’s got bigger tits than your bird. Nobody says that of course, at least not in front of us, but that kind of suggestion is floating in the air.

  Was it at this point I came to a subconscious decision to finish with him? I don’t know. But I do remember thinking, as he and Keith tried to outshine each other in their knowledge of what went on inside the engine of a Triumph Herald, that I was bored, and that Brian’s face was not always so attractive: it sometimes glistened, sweatily, where he shaved. My thoughts turned to Donald. How different this scene would be for him! No girlfriends, no showing off to his mates. Perhaps he wouldn’t ever come to a disco such as this, or only very occasionally. But … what was all this like transferred to a gay context? I knew they had their own discos. And similar jealousies, I imagine. They wouldn’t be able to walk home arm in arm. however, or hold hands on the bus, or kiss in the street. Donald had already said that; the ordinary little pleasures which we took for granted ― he might never have them.

  Brian and Keith had left car engines; it was Irish jokes now. ‘Do you know what Irish foreplay is?’ Keith asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Brace yourself, Bridget.’

  A deal of laughter at this from both of them; Pat and I just raised our eyebrows. ‘Do you know the definition of an Irish pervert?’ Brian asked.

  ‘Yes,’ Keith said. ‘A man who wants women more than he wants Guinness.’

  The mention of the word ‘pervert’, I suppose, led to the next joke. ‘Do you know what happened when Oscar Wilde fell into the sea?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘He came up clinging to the bottom of a buoy.’ Keith looked blank, so Brian explained: ‘B-O-Y. B-U-O-Y. It’s a pun, thick-head.’

  Even as recently as last week I would have taken no notice, but tonight I felt uncomfortable. I began to think how much the Irish, the gays ― any minority ― would detest this sort of fooling. I said, ‘Why don’t you stop that? You could be talking about your closest friend.’ Perhaps there was something edgy in my voice, because Brian, on the way home, asked me why I’d said it; was there a particular reason? No, I answered, but he didn’t look convinced.

  ‘I wouldn’t be happy if I found out my closest friend was gay,’ he said.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I guess … I’d be frightened he’d be after me.’

  We had just got off the bus and were walking up my road; the night was cold and I was looking forward to being indoors, to making Brian a cup of coffee and sitting with him on the sofa in front of the fire. His arms round me, reassuring me that he wasn’t insensitive and dull. ‘I think that’s a dreadful thing to say!’ I exploded. (I’d forgotten that I’d thought the same myself, about gay girls.)

  ‘Why?’ He was puzzled.

  ‘Because you flatter yourself it’s your body he’d want! Wouldn’t he more likely be after ―if that’s the right word ― someone who’s also gay?’

  ‘Helen … what is going on?’

  ‘Nothing.’ I opened my handbag, and searched for my keys.

  ‘I want to know what it’s about,’ Brian persisted.

  If you have to tell him, then you have to, Donald had said. He’d also said ‘I’d prefer you didn’t.’

  Mum and Dad were still up, watching a foreign film on TV. ‘I don’t understand a word of it,’ Dad said, ‘but your mother seems to think it’s all very marvellous.’

  ‘Where’s Donald?’

  ‘Staying overnight at a friend’s.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Mark … uh … I can’t remember his surname.’

  ‘Coming into the kitchen, Brian?’ He followed me out of the room, thinking, I guess, that I’d make coffee, but I said, ‘Let’s go upstairs. I want to show you something.’ I took him to the attic and pointed at the photograph on the wall.

  ‘It’s Mark Sewell! What’s he doing here?’

  He looked astonished when I told him, then uneasy, and, finally, very disapproving. ‘I can’t take this,’ he said. ‘It’s creepy!’

  ‘What do you mean, creepy?’

  ‘It’s unnatural. Wrong! Donald! The first eleven centre forward! How can it be? It’s not possible! I never did like Mark very much.
Something … phoney about him. Now he’s going round corrupting your brother.’

  ‘I don’t think you’ve listened to a word I’ve said, Brian! I did not say Donald has been corrupted. He seems a more than willing partner.’

  ‘Jesus! What’s got into the pair of them?’

  ‘Nothing’s got into them,’ I said. ‘It’s how they are.’

  ‘Well… I don’t want anything to do with it.’

  ‘Nobody’s asked you to.’

  ‘Helen … why are you telling me all this?’

  I’d put the same question to Donald. You have to talk to someone about the most significant thing that has ever happened to you, he’d said, and though it wasn’t the most significant thing that had ever happened to me, it had… changed me. Changed my perception of my brother, for instance. Of the minority he belonged to. ‘Because it’s on my mind,’ I said to Brian. ‘It disturbs me ― for Donald’s sake, I mean. I’m not disturbed by the fact of it, as you seem to be. It’s things like … what sort of an existence does he have in the future? Does he go on pretending to his mates that he isn’t? Or find a new lot of friends ― gay ones? What if Mum and Dad discover? And because the jokes you and Keith make aren’t amusing any longer.’

  ‘I agree the jokes aren’t brilliant. But they don’t hurt anyone. And … when you say what if your Mum and Dad discover, I take it you think it would be bad if they did. I think they should know. In order to get Donald straightened out.’

  I stared at him, hardly believing what I’d heard. It seemed so … pig ignorant. ‘How do you suggest we straighten Donald out?’ I said, trying to sound as sarcastic as possible.

  ‘I don’t know … doctors … psychiatrists?’

  ‘I didn’t realise till now that you were such an absolute moron. A complete idiot.’

  He said, ‘I’m going downstairs to watch the end of the film! I often think I get better conversations with your parents than I do with you.’ He stumped out, bewildered and annoyed.

  Not, however, as annoyed as I was. I went to my room, took off my clothes and got into bed. I didn’t care very much if Brian felt awkward saying to Mum and Dad that he didn’t know where I’d gone; or, if they guessed I was in my room, that he might have to invent some reason for why I was there.

  He phoned next day, but he wasn’t puzzled or angry. ‘Oh, I just assumed you were tired,’ he said.

  Donald and Mark were very discreet. You didn’t notice them in each other’s company at school, and they didn’t walk there together. There were, of course, a number of places on the premises where they could be private; I knew that from my relationship with Brian. Donald, if he was seen with anybody, was with his football friends ― Gary, Andy and Jake. Mark I’d always considered a loner; he’d never gone around in a gang. I found myself walking behind him one morning. He was aware it was me, for he stopped, waited for me to catch up, and said, ‘Donald says he told you.’ He smiled. ‘I’m pleased … grateful… you took it so well.’

  Something about this remark made me a bit uncomfortable. ‘It’s no big deal,’ I said, staring intently at the house we happened to be passing. Then I looked up at him and said, ‘You shouldn’t have to be grateful! In ordinary circumstances gratitude wouldn’t come into it.’

  He laughed. ‘That’s perfectly true. But boy loving boy is extraordinary circumstances. Donald needed to talk to someone, perhaps … I’m not sure… to put himself and me back into the rest of his life. To stop thinking our tine together occurs on a different planet. I’ll be honest… I didn’t really want him to tell you.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because of Brian. I haven’t anything against Brian, but there’s this sixth sense, this intuition that warns me it might mean trouble.’

  I hoped I wasn’t blushing so crimson he’d guess at once that I’d already given his secret away. I concentrated on a nearby front garden ― jasmine in bloom, a yellow patch of crocuses on the lawn ― and tried to look serene. ‘I don’t know how much longer Brian and I will be together.’ I mumbled.

  ‘Oh?’ As I said nothing further, Mark probably assumed I’d already revealed more than I wanted to; he changed the subject back to himself and Donald. ‘I’m lucky,’ he said. ‘I’ve been able to talk to my parents.’

  ‘To your parents!’ The idea was inconceivable.

  ‘Yes.’ He was amused; the expression of astonishment on my face, I suppose. ‘They’ve always been pretty liberal,’ he said. ‘Some adults are, Helen.’ His father was a social worker and a Labour member of the Borough Council; my father was a scrap metal dealer and never bothered to vote; all politicians, he said, were liars. Maybe that led to liberal attitudes, and vice versa. ‘I told them I was sure I was gay about six months ago. When Donald and I ― ‘

  ‘Six months ago! I’d thought… this all started a couple of weeks back!’

  ‘Beginning of the autumn term. The first time we spoke was in the changing-room at school … I’d fancied him for months. Then next day I saw him in the park, the one where you walk your dog. I think we both knew by then. If we hadn’t, I wouldn’t have dared to say what I said next … I asked him to go out with me. We went to the zoo.’

  ‘I remember! He told me he’d been to Regent’s Park. Unexpectedly.’

  ‘After that … I found I was madly in love with him. He came over to my house, and … he fell off a ladder, in the garden. I caught him as he slipped, and … for a few moments… I held him. He was wanting me to kiss him.’

  ‘Did you?’

  ‘Yes.’ He laughed. The look on his face seemed to suggest a perfect love life, a perfect relationship. Unlike me and Brian. ‘I think I envy you,’ I said.

  ‘You don’t have to go that far! The difficulties are enormous, as you can surely imagine. But I’m glad my parents were so positive. I don’t suppose I’ll ever forget the evening I told them. We were having our supper at the time. Liver and kidneys. Casseroled. They said they’d rather I wasn’t … gay, I mean … but so long as I was happy … and that Donald seemed a nice person.’

  ‘Has he stayed overnight before?’

  ‘Last weekend was the first time. Your mum and dad didn’t suspect anything, did they?’

  ‘No. Not at all. Did you … enjoy yourselves?’

  ‘We certainly did!’ Again, the broad smile and the happy laugh.

  We had reached school. Hundreds of kids were milling in the playground, shouting and screaming. A moment from some morning last year came into my head; I’d looked out of a classroom window at kids yelling and chasing each other or playing football, two boys fighting, girls giggling, a boy and a girl in a deep serious conversation ― and I’d been reminded of the old advertising jingle of The News of the World: all human life is here. Now I was walking into that playground with a boy who represented a bit of human life I’d never have thought, on that previous occasion, existed in our school. Such is growing up, I said to myself, as Mark and I made our way to Ted’s room ― English first lesson, so we wanted to leave our books there before we went to Assembly.

  Ted was vigorously rubbing something off the blackboard, which was odd ― a quirk of his teaching methods was that he never used the blackboard. I once asked him why. ‘I can’t bear to touch chalk,’ he said. ‘And the sound of its squeak sends shivers up my spine.’ He peered at us over the top of his spectacles, then returned to his rubbing. There wasn’t much left of whatever it was that had to be erased; a bleeding heart, I think, with an arrow and drops of blood. Perhaps some kid had got in there and scribbled ‘Ted Viner loves Doris Hatchett ― Miss Hatchett taught Geography in the next-door classroom and was about as horrific as her name suggests ― but, it occurred to me, considering all the jokes that were repeated about Ted’s sexual inclinations, the other name could have been a man’s. Or a boy in the school.

  ‘You won’t need it,’ Ted said to Mark, who was taking his Chaucer out of his bag. ‘We’re doing a critical appreciation this morning.’

  ‘But we did one yesterday!’
I objected. ‘Edwin Muir ― The Horses.’

  ‘Yes, well, you’re doing another one today; I think you’re all sadly out of practice. The more literature you read, the more mature your mind becomes. There are far too many people in this school whose minds need a bit of maturing.’

  ‘What on earth’s got into him?’ I said to Mark, as we hurried downstairs to Assembly.

  ‘Probably jumped out of bed the wrong side.’ he answered. Something to do with whatever was scribbled on the blackboard was my opinion.

  I left Mark when we reached the Hall, and pushed my way through to where Brian was standing. En route I passed Donald, who winked and grinned. ‘You all right?’

  I said. My first words to him that day; he and I had such totally different bathroom and breakfast routines that we rarely met at home in the mornings.

  ‘Helen,’ he said, ‘you are always asking me these days if I’m all right! I am not ill!’

  ‘Pardon me for breathing!’

  ‘I’m sorry. I’m not being grumpy. But, yes’ ― he laughed ― ‘I am all right!’

  I had been, as it were, taking his mental and emotional temperature a bit too frequently; as if, I began to realise, I thought in my subconscious that homosexuality was some sort of disease. Which was absurd, considering it was not Donald’s and Mark’s relationship but mine and Brian’s that had caught a chill.

  ‘I wish you wouldn’t go around with that pouf,’ Brian said.

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Mark Sewell.’

  ‘I’ll go around with whoever I choose to go around with,’ I said, angrily. ‘I’m not taking orders from anyone! Least of all you!’

  ‘Helen … I’m sorry. I don’t want us to quarrel.’ I didn’t answer. ‘What are you doing this evening?’