The Milkman's On His Way Page 5

  I kissed him. On the mouth, very gently, so that he wouldn’t open his eyes and be disgusted. A gift, love, worth more than all Arabia’s oil. And I went downstairs and cooked his breakfast, feeling so light and joyous I wondered why I didn’t float in space like an astronaut.

  It was a disastrous blunder. If at the time I’d been able to think properly, I would have known before I started; but it’s impossible to live a one-hundred-per-cent lie and keep your wits about you during every second of your existence. When the food was ready I went up to his bedroom. He was still asleep. Or so I thought. I pulled the quilt off: stark naked, with a massive erection. ‘Caught right in the act!’ I said. ‘Hands off!’

  He opened his eyes. ‘How the hell did you get in here?’

  ‘You forgot to lock the back door last night. And you forgot to put the cat out. What will your mother say? Oh, yes. Prize every time for size!’ (‘Prize every time for children’ was what Kay shouted from her stall at the fair.) ‘And remember that it makes you blind!’

  He leapt out of bed, extremely angry. And punched me hard on the mouth. Blood on my lips. ‘Get out of here and stay out!’ he yelled. ‘Bloody stupid fool!!’

  I sagged against the wall. ‘I’ve cooked your breakfast for you. It’s on the table.’

  ‘Who asked you to run round and do my jobs for me? I’m quite capable of making my own breakfast. Get out!!’

  I turned tail and fled. This time I was not called back.

  I deserved it, I suppose. Well, not deserved it, except in the sense that I’d walked straight into a situation — had been doing so for months — that could only end up like this. People being what they are. Selfish and frightened and threatened and nasty and. . . human. I kept away from him, avoided him at all costs. On the beach I helped Phil Cloke with life-saving practices. He was one of the guys who’d bawled me out when I nearly got myself drowned. It was interesting and useful, and in the sea I was still a real man in the eyes of the others: butch, heterosexual.

  It was the afternoon of the surfing championship. Chilly late June weather. After Kay had left there was no more talk from Leslie about not competing. I was glad, and determined to come first; it would be a sweet revenge. Show him that I didn’t have to screw women to win this most male of sporting events. I hadn’t seen him for a week, and when I did, in the Surf Club changing-room, I walked right past without recognising him. But something familiar made me turn round: he had permed his hair.

  ‘What do you reckon?’ he asked, grinning.

  ‘You look like a poodle!’

  We came first in our heats, and as I surveyed the opposition in the final I knew it was between him and me. Our fifth and last wave was superb, the biggest of the day, a real giant that rose up and up: it demanded we went in the tube, the most difficult of all surfing manoeuvres. I was terrified it would disintegrate on top of me before I could shoot sideways along the slope of it, but there was no time for thought or hesitation: I simply did it. Success! Marvellous!

  Leslie had done it too. We stood on the sand, laughing and smiling at each other, then hugged like footballers when the winning goal has just been kicked into the net.

  We were placed first equal.

  I was thrilled: ideas of petty revenge seemed far away; we were joint champions! Justice had been done. ‘It’s the first time anything good has ever happened to me!’ I cried.

  ‘A fair result,’ was his comment. ‘A very fair result.’

  In the showers at the Surf Club, I said ‘I’m sorry about the other morning.’

  ‘There’s nothing to be sorry about. I was the one who lost his temper.’

  It sounded less than warm. I did not answer for a while, but soaped myself all over. I watched him and he watched me. He knew. Knew what I was. That I fancied him like mad. ‘We’re growing apart,’ I said.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Or to be more accurate, you’re growing apart.’

  ‘Yes. I want a job. I want a girl. Above all, I want to leave Bude.’

  ‘I shall miss you. A lot.’

  He walked away and sat on a bench. Then covered himself with a towel.

  ‘I’m leaving on a jet plane,’ I sang. ‘Don’t know when I’ll be back again; oh babe, I have to go.’

  When he was dressed he said ‘See you around.’ And left.

  Next day he hitch-hiked to Newquay, and found himself a job in the still-room of a hotel. At the end of the season he went to London and worked as a builder’s labourer. I didn’t see him again till Christmas. Every night, for weeks, he was in my mind’s eye as I tossed myself off in bed.

  Mum’s fortieth birthday. It seemed incredibly old to me, though I had a vague suspicion that she was more hide-bound by routine, more a creature of habit, than many people of her age. Leslie’s mother was born in the same year, but she was much more inclined to do things on impulse: the previous week she had been dancing at a night club in Exeter till two in the morning. I’ve never seen my mother dance anywhere, let alone at a night club. Forty: born in nineteen thirty-eight, a wartime upbringing. Mum had often told me about evacuees and doodlebugs, what Plymouth looked like after the destruction and Exeter with its heart ripped out.

  I gave her a dozen mugs, each one different: those we used for tea and coffee were so old and chipped and stained they should have been thrown out years ago. It cost me most of a week’s dole money, but that didn’t matter. In Bude the only things to spend money on were alcohol and fags. And she liked the present. Very much.

  We went out to dinner to celebrate, an almost unheard-of event in our family. It had only happened once before, and that was so long ago I can’t remember why we did. Before I dressed, in a clean pair of jeans and a blue shirt, I surveyed myself in the mirror once again. (It had become a habit; I don’t know why: I don’t think I’m all that worried about my appearance. At least, no more than anybody else.) Seventeen. Still thin. A hairless chest: I don’t suppose that will ever change. But I shaved every other day now. And that thing down there, my cock, not exactly invisible. More than ready for active service. The outside of me was all right: and no one could see the horrible mess inside.

  It was a good evening, with Mum and Dad determined to enjoy themselves. Our family at its best. Though Dad looked weird in a jacket and tie.

  ‘It’s choking me,’ he said, fingering his collar. ‘Perhaps it’s shrunk in the wash.’

  Mum laughed. ‘You’re putting on weight; that’s all. Have a good look at yourself in the bathroom mirror some time.’

  ‘I’d rather look at you any day of the week.’ He squeezed her hand.

  ‘Or page three of the Sun.’

  ‘No. Not really. There’s nothing in the paper that’s a patch on my wife.’

  She seemed pleased, and embarrassed, and giggled like Adrienne and Karen in the Wimpy bar. ‘Everything all right, Ewan?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes. I’m trying to visualise you two when you were my age.’

  ‘Is it difficult?’

  ‘A little.’ I sipped my wine. Sauternes: far too sweet for my taste, but it was Mum’s favourite.

  ‘We didn’t know each other when we were your age,’ Dad said, as he tucked into steak, chips and tomatoes. What a peculiar meal to order, I thought, when you go out to dinner for the first time in ten years! He could have steak, chips and tomatoes any day of the week at home. And did, when we could afford to buy the steak. I thought it a splendid opportunity to eat something I’d never had before, and I’d decided on chicken chasseur, which was proving to be quite delicious.

  ‘We met when I was nineteen,’ Mum said. ‘At a dance. I was working behind that same baker’s counter even then! If I’d known I’d still be there twenty-one years on I’d have died on the spot!’

  ‘Eighteen,’ Dad corrected. ‘You were eighteen.’

  ‘No. You’re thinking of some other girl.’

  He grinned. ‘Could be! But I gave all that up when I met you. When you find the right one, then all that playing around see
ms an absolute waste of time.’

  ‘If she is the right one.’

  ‘Come off it! I think we love each other now more than we ever did then. Though it was pretty good at the time, I remember.’

  ‘You grow into one another.’

  He nodded. ‘Yes. Marvellous, isn’t it?’

  ‘We ought to do this more often. Come out and enjoy ourselves.’

  ‘Question of money.’

  ‘I know.’

  I couldn’t make up my mind whether I was watching something that was perfect: , or was it a horrible kind of trap, a total delusion? Narrow, boring, restricted; the little square inch most people allowed themselves, and because it was just like everybody else’s lives you kidded yourself it was the ultimate pinnacle of happiness? It certainly wasn’t going to be my life. But whether that was a good thing or not I didn’t know.

  ‘You’ll be in the same position one day, Ewan,’ Dad said.‘And we’ll have grandchildren to look forward to.’

  ‘Give him a chance!’ Mum protested.

  ‘Oh, he’ll have plenty of chances. More than we had, I daresay. Don’t you want grandchildren?’

  ‘Oh yes! All the pleasures of babies without any of the responsibilities.’

  ‘Suppose I never get married,’ I said.

  ‘I hope you do,’ Mum said. ‘Life can be very lonely if you don’t.’

  ‘Till death do us part is an insurance policy against being lonely, is it?’

  ‘Well. . . you don’t think that at the time, of course.’

  ‘I certainly didn’t,’ Dad said.

  ‘Lots of people don’t get married these days,’ I pointed out. ‘And it isn’t like it used to be, being left on the shelf, I mean. Lots of people don’t choose to get married.’

  ‘One of the reasons why the world’s in such a terrible mess.’ Mum was never a very logical person.

  ‘All boys of your age think like that,’ Dad said. ‘He always wants it without taking her to the altar; she wants the ceremony first. The old, old story. I was exactly the same at seventeen. But you get caught in the end.’

  ‘Caught?’

  ‘I don’t mean in that sense, though plenty are. If we had been, you’d be several years older! No. . . I mean walking up the aisle and all that sort of caper.’

  I didn’t reply; the subject wasn’t worth pursuing. It was like trains on parallel lines; the chance of meeting was non-existent. As I said before, parents don’t hear you. Don’t ever wonder who you really are: they assume you’re a carbon copy of them, and, if you actually show them that you aren’t, they get very disturbed. And I didn’t want to disturb my parents. Particularly when they were enjoying themselves.

  ‘Ah. . . this is nice!’ Dad said when we were back home, and he was sitting in his favourite armchair, tie off now and collar loosened, a cup of tea in front of him. ‘Did you have a good time, Ewan?’

  ‘Yes. I did.’

  ‘I’m glad. It wouldn’t have been the same without you, you know.’

  ‘That’s very true,’ Mum said.

  Four: First Love

  The time after Leslie went was bleak and empty. The weather was beautiful and the surf good: I took my board into the sea every day, and I liked the other kids looking up to me now I’d won a competition, even if I’d had to share first prize with somebody else. But I was lonely as hell. I thought about Leslie nonstop: working, even if the job might prove boring and badly paid, and away from home and able to spend all his free hours with girls he’d met. He had shifted so easily into the next stage of life: and I was still in Bude, out of work, and alone.

  But two important things happened that summer. I’d more or less given up going around with the gang: I hadn’t been in the Wimpy bar for weeks. I just couldn’t continue having the same old conversations with Alan and Little Michael about tits and how far you could go with Molly or Juicy Lucy. I couldn’t relax, pretending to be fascinated with something that didn’t interest me in the least. But if I didn’t join in, they’d ask questions; ‘Are you on the turn?’ Though I was probably more scared about what they might say behind my back than to my face. I avoided them all.

  Then one morning I bumped into Louise. Quite literally bumped into her. I was rounding the corner by Mrs Radford’s shop, my mind far away — in Newquay, I guess — and I banged her on the head with my surf-board, very hard.

  Apologies, and ‘Are you all right?’ and ‘I’m fine; it didn’t really hurt’ for several minutes, then she smiled and said ‘Where’ve you been? Nobody’s set eyes on you for weeks!’

  ‘Busy,’ I answered.

  ‘Got a job, have you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Same as everyone else, then. Except for Wimpy John and Leslie, of course, and Adrienne. So what do you do all day?’

  ‘Surf.’

  ‘You think more of that board than any girl, I reckon.’

  I laughed. ‘Well. . . making the most of the good weather,’ I said. ‘Soon be autumn.’

  ‘Why don’t you come round tonight? There’s a good film at the Picture House. Or we could stay in; I’ve just got a couple of fabulous new records. Mum and Dad won’t be there: darts at the Red Lion for him, and she’s going to visit her brother in Stratton.’

  I looked at her. All that horrible make-up. Knockers that left other boys’ eyes hanging out on stalks. The thought of holding her in my arms and kissing her. . . once it had vaguely interested me, but the idea of it now made me shudder. ‘I don’t know,’ I mumbled. ‘There’s something I might have to do this evening.’ ‘Oh, come on!’ she said. ‘You can’t bash me around the face with that thing in broad daylight and turn down an invitation. Half past seven?’

  And before I could think of a good excuse, she’d hurried off. How the hell did you get yourself into this mess? I asked the reflection in the mirror that evening. I could, I supposed, simply not go. Or. . . I could regard it as a final test of whether I really was gay or not. Not very fair on her, though. Shit! She asked me. It was an extremely hot night. Sticky, heavy, with a promise of thunder. I was wearing only a shirt and jeans: but even with as little as that I was sweating like a pig. Nerves, possibly. My stomach felt knotted, and I couldn’t eat much tea. My mother raised an eyebrow and looked amused, but she didn’t say anything till I was leaving. I told her I wasn’t sure when I’d be back and she said ‘Don’t have too good a time,’ which made me blush scarlet and feel like an absolute idiot.

  A bloody awful time it proved to be, but some of it was surprising, and. . . in the long run, helpful. What was obvious, almost as soon as I got inside Louise’s front door, was that she wanted to go a lot further than we’d done previously; another boy would have found he had only to tilt the situation slightly, and he might have everything he wanted. It was nothing she said; it was the way she looked and moved that told me, the sense she managed to convey of a barely concealed excitement. We danced to her new records and drank pints of ice-cold orange juice. Then danced again, and I was kissing her because she’d be upset if I didn’t. Her hands were under my shirt, and, yes, it did excite me; then we were on the sofa and I had her bra undone so quickly that even Leslie would have envied the speed. Something down in my jeans stirred. But when I touched her, and felt hair and sticky damp, I Went completely limp.

  I looked at her, and, suddenly, I felt quite disgusted. There was no hope of an erection now. I shut my eyes and tried to imagine her hands were Leslie’s. He only had to touch my penis and it flipped vertical.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ she asked. She sounded a bit annoyed: I suppose it was a kind of metaphorical slap in the face.

  ‘I don’t know.’ I opened my eyes.

  ‘It doesn’t matter, Ewan.’ Her voice was softer, concerned.

  I zipped up my jeans, and buttoned my shirt. I couldn’t stand, any longer, her seeing me half naked. ‘It matters a hell of a lot!’

  ‘It isn’t just me, is it? I. . . think I know.’

  ‘Know what?’

  She s
tood up, re-arranging her clothes. She shook her head, smiling a little sadly. ‘You don’t have to say; it isn’t necessary. Shall I make some coffee?’

  I just wanted to get out of the house and leave this dreadful scene as far behind me as I possibly could; I wanted to walk on the cliffs, do something violently physical, and think and think and think. But I said ‘All right’ and she went into the kitchen. I sat on the sofa, puffing and choking on a cigarette. It soothes the nerves, people say. What rubbish! I ground it out, half finished.

  Had she told the other girls? Linda, Juicy Lucy, Adrienne? Were they, even at this moment, sniggering about it? Louise knew! I’d always thought her nice but not exceptionally intelligent: yet she had guessed. How could that be? I didn’t look effeminate, a prancing fairy, some drag act. Maybe it didn’t need intelligence, not that sort of intelligence. Intuition, sympathy, awareness of other people: Louise had all those qualities. She was warm and kind-hearted. I’d been so wrapped up in my own problems I’d almost forgotten what she was really like.

  I followed her into the kitchen. She was singing, that old Simon and Garfunkel number ‘A time it was, and what a time it was, it was. . . a time of innocence. . . and confidences.’ It sounded really sad. And horribly true. She looked up and smiled. ‘It’s just ready. I’ve put two sugars in yours. Do you want a biscuit?’

  I sat down, buried my head in my arms, and burst into tears. Slowly, ever so slowly, the tension drained out. I said ‘I’d better explain.’

  ‘Ewan, you don’t have to!’

  Nevertheless, I did. I told her everything. What I knew I was and how it scared me and that I didn’t know what to do about it. What had happened with Leslie. She listened, saying yes and no in the right places. And she didn’t mind! The relief that brought! More than her saying she’d kept her ideas to herself, hadn’t even dropped a hint to the others. But I was pretty pleased about that, too. ‘They haven’t a clue,’ she said, more than once. ‘How could they? I guessed, only because we’ve. . . well. . . been out together.’