The Milkman's On His Way Page 6

  ‘It’s been good, talking,’ I said. ‘You don’t know how good!’

  ‘Maybe you should have told me before.’

  ‘Yes. Yes, I reckon so.’

  ‘Your only answer is. . . to find other people like yourself.’

  I nodded. Though I wasn’t ready for that. One day, but not yet.

  I was still too unhappy with being what I was, not reconciled to it at all.

  ‘You’re great!’ I said. ‘I wish I could appreciate it better!’

  She laughed. ‘I expect you’ll do as you are. You’ll have to, won’t you?’ I stood up and hugged her. Swung her round the room. ‘Put me down!!’ she screamed. I did, and discovered I was staring at her parents.

  ‘What on earth is going on?’ her mother asked.

  I saw a lot of Louise during the next few weeks. We went to a disco one evening. The gang were all there: Louise and I smiled at each other several times, a look that said ‘We know, but they don’t.’ And some afternoons we sat on the cliffs and talked. Then she started going out with a guy called Martin, and I didn’t see so much of her. I began to keep a diary. When it rained I’d scribble away, more to prevent loneliness and boredom than for any other reason. Not the usual stuff people write in diaries, like ‘One p.m. lunched at home’ or ‘8.30 meet Louise,’ but thoughts and feelings. It passed the time: there was nothing else to do. I went after jobs when I saw them advertised, but it was all hopeless. Nobody wanted a seventeen-year-old with four C.S.E.s, even though I had a grade one in English.

  Then the other interesting event of that summer occurred: during the first week of September.

  It was one of those magical days that seem to come only in September and early October, when the softness of the light makes everything precious and golden and the air is so still you think the world has stopped turning. Yet the shadows are long — shafts of slanting greyness — and you know the earth has been nudged a fraction towards winter. And distances are hazy; there is no edge to sea and sky. I took my board with me, but there was no chance of surfing: the sea was so calm you could scarcely hear it.

  I wasn’t going back into town on a day like this. I walked along the beach, beyond the holiday-makers enjoying the year’s last moments of freedom: next week the schools re-opened and the sand would stay almost virgin till April. The board was a nuisance; I should have left it at the Club. However, I walked on. Past Northcott Mouth where ten summers ago Leslie and I had learned to swim, and round Menachurch Point, beyond which, if you look back, you’ve got rid of Bude, any hint that it exists. Ahead is Sandy Mouth, nearly a mile away; today it was a mile without people. Except for three men bouncing a beach ball.

  I took off my jeans and shirt, then stretched out on my towel enjoying the sun on my skin. I wasn’t far from the ball-game, but I didn’t want to go too near; it would have looked odd. One of the men, slim and suntanned, with long dark hair parted in the middle and reaching down to his shoulders, was very attractive. Londoners, I guessed from their voices. Eventually the game stopped and they lay on the sand. Then two of them stood up; they seemed to be leaving, though I couldn’t hear the conversation. There was a lot of joking and laughter; the darkhaired one didn’t want to go for some reason, and the others found this very funny. They walked off in the direction of Sandy Mouth. The man who was left turned over and looked at me.

  I decided to go for a swim. As I went past him, he smiled and said ‘Hi.’

  I stopped. I felt, suddenly, very tense: that knotted-up sensation in the stomach again. ‘Hi,’ I answered.

  ‘I think I’ll join you,’ he said. He had a chain round his neck, on it a flashy silver pendant. He was very hairy. From his throat down to where it disappeared inside his shorts.

  We ran into the sea. It was warm, and almost as flat as a swimming pool, only a hint of rise and fall. ‘You swim well,’ he said, then dived and grabbed at my legs, pulling me under. I surfaced, shook the water from my eyes, and grinned. ‘What’s your name?’ he asked.

  ‘Ewan.’

  ‘I’m Paul. The others are Jay and Derek. Del for short. We’re on holiday, renting a cottage in Coombe Valley.’

  ‘I live here,’ I said. ‘In Bude, that is.’

  He made a face. ‘Don’t like Bude.’

  ‘It’s a dump.’

  ‘Come on. Let’s sunbathe.’ We walked up the beach. ‘Bring your things over here,’ he said. I did so, wondering why I was obeying the commands of a total stranger so easily.

  We talked for a long time. He had just completed his probationary year as a teacher, at Deptford in south-east London. He was twenty-three. A surf enthusiast, but, he said ruefully, he’d obviously chosen the wrong week. I told him about sharing first prize in the competition. ‘We’re just amateurs,’ he said, ‘me and Del and Jay. If we get a fortnight each year in the sea, we’re lucky.’ The conversation drifted on, technical stuff: types of wave, different equipment, the personalities in the England team. How nice it would be to practise in Hawaii. But certain things in the talk seemed odd: half-finished statements he left hanging in the air, as if he wanted me to pick them up and work them out for myself, or maybe throw him back something of a similar nature. ‘Del and Jay are together.’ he said. Then gazing at me, a wide smile on his face, ‘I’m just looking. Looking around, that is’. But I didn’t know what the answers were that he expected, so I said nothing. He had green eyes: open, trusting. Green as wet grass. There were some long silences. After one of them, he asked ‘Do you have a girl-friend?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Between girls, is it?’

  ‘No. Not really.’

  Another silence. ‘Maybe it’s a boy you’re interested in.’ I shut my eyes. ‘Or maybe you aren’t sure yet.’ He rolled over, his hand brushing my leg. He didn’t take it away. The effect was the same as Leslie touching me. ‘Perhaps I should go,’ he said, laughing. ‘I don’t want to be accused of corrupting the young.’

  I opened my eyes and sat up. ‘Don’t go! Please don’t go!’

  He said, very quietly, ‘You’re beautiful.’ And he kissed me. The first time in my life I had been kissed by someone of my own sex. ‘Is it safe here?’ he asked.

  ‘Safe for what?’

  ‘Oh, Ewan! You are young and inexperienced!’

  ‘Yes, I am.’ I looked round. There was no one in sight. And he was touching my skin, caressing me, sucking my cock, arousing me so much that I felt there could be no stopping now even if coach-loads of people suddenly appeared on top of the cliffs. It wasn’t a bit like it had been with Leslie. This was making love: so much feeling passing between us, so much gentleness. We came at exactly the same moment, in each other’s hands.

  ‘I think, somehow, you needed that,’ he said.

  ‘I did! Christ, oh, I did! You just don’t know! My first time. My first proper time, that is. I feel. . . oh, I can’t explain! Terrified.’

  ‘Terrified?’

  ‘I don’t want to be gay! Suppose people find out? And how can you ever be happy?’

  ‘Aren’t you happy at this moment?’

  ‘Yes. Yes!’ I stood up, ran down the beach, then jumped in the air and shouted at the top of my voice ‘I am happy!!’ When I returned, Paul was roaring with laughter. ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘I think you forgot you’ve no clothes on!’

  I looked at myself and grinned. ‘Yes! I did!’

  I sat on my towel. ‘There isn’t anything wrong with being gay,’ he said. ‘When you’re sure enough of yourself to realise that it doesn’t matter if people know, you’ll value the ones who accept it and not give a damn for the others who don’t or won’t or can’t. It’s true there can be a lot of problems, a lot more than if you’re straight. But that’s not so important as being content to be what you are. That’s the most difficult thing to learn. . . to love yourself. Much more difficult for people like you and me because of what society thinks of us. But you’ve as much right to be here as any other person, with as much right to
find partners of your own sex as they have to find the opposite. And as for being happy, provided you’re glad to be Ewan, you have the same chances as the rest of the human race. Just like the boy next door who screws a different girl every night. Or the one who’s faithful to his wife and two-point-four kids and mortgage. The same chance.’

  ‘Ah. . . the boy next door!’ I told him all about Leslie.

  ‘Perhaps he’s bisexual. And won’t come to terms with it.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Your mate’s not done you much good, has he? In fact, I reckon he’s done you a lot of positive harm. Without intending to, of course.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘He’s landed you with a huge inferiority complex. Because he’s so attractive and sexy and the girls wet their knickers when they see him, and he’s left home and found himself a job, he’s made you feel you’re still a snotty-nosed kid. You’re even jealous that he has an outsize cock. As if that added one iota of difference to the total sum of human happiness! What’s wrong with your own, for God’s sake? You certainly know what to do with it! You’ve ended up more unsure of yourself than you were in the first place.’ It was absolutely true. But it didn’t stop me being envious of Leslie, wishing I was him. Not one bit. ‘The worst thing you did was to let him have sex with you. Oh yes, I know that’s easily said. But it’s caused more heartache than happiness, hasn’t it? I should give him up if I were you. Not see him again.’

  ‘I couldn’t do that!’

  He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Perhaps you’re in love with him.’

  ‘No. I’ve wondered if I was, but. . . I don’t think so. He isn’t at all lovable. Not like you.’ I wished I hadn’t said that, the moment the words were out of my mouth. ‘What a stupid thing to say!’ I muttered, reddening to the roots of my hair.

  ‘It was a sweet thing to say.’ He touched my face, then stood up and started to dress. Jeans. Lemon yellow tee-shirt. ‘I have to go now. The others will be wondering where the hell I am.’

  ‘When they went. . . why were they laughing so much?’

  ‘You don’t know?’

  ‘Because they knew you fancied me, and you said you wanted to try your luck?’

  He put his feet in his sandals, and smiled. ‘You’re not that green, then! Look. . . would you like to come to the cottage with us?’

  I glanced at my watch. There was plenty of time before I had to be home, but I shook my head. I needed to be by myself. To relive the day, and think: decide if I wanted to see him again. ‘I have to get back,’ I said.

  ‘What about tonight?’

  Decisions. I had to make them now. ‘I’m not doing anything,’ I said.

  ‘Good. We usually go for a quiet drink in a country pub most evenings. The Bush at Morwenstow, or the Old Smithy at Welcombe. But you’re the local lad; you know better than we do. . . you decide where.’

  ‘What time?’

  ‘About seven?’ I nodded. ‘We’ll pick you up in the car at. . . Will the corner of Kilkhampton Street do?’

  ‘Yes. But I have to be indoors at half past eleven or midnight.’

  ‘Oh.’ He seemed disappointed.

  I smiled. ‘I’m still a kid, Paul! With parents who don’t like it if I’m in late and who want to know why. I’m the same age as one of your sixth-formers.’

  He shuddered. ‘Don’t give me heart attacks!’

  ‘See you at seven.’

  The week that followed was an oasis in a desert. Afterwards, I thought nothing so marvellous would ever happen to me again; indeed, I wondered if I had just dreamed it all, spent seven days outside space and time, lost somewhere in a figment of my imagination. But no, it was real, and the ending a particularly cruel piece of real life. I should have seen that coming, but I had no experience to guide me. The cloudless September weather held — hot, still. We lay on the beach and walked along country lanes, and in the evenings we went to the cottage, then, later, to a pub. Jay and Del came with us in the car to Tintagel, another time to Clovelly. They had been an affair for nearly three years; had met at the university where Paul had also been a student, and they, too, were teachers in London schools. They were fun to be with: uncomplicated people, joking and laughing nearly all the time, and they also knew when to take themselves off and leave Paul and me on our own. I was head over heels in love. All the clichés: walking on air, strolling hand in hand into the sunset.

  It was not, now, two boys masturbating, one of them imagining the other was a girl. Screwing. At first I was frightened; it would be painful, I thought. Did I really feel an urge for this? It was, perhaps, a denial of my maleness? I should penetrate: that was what it was for. Wasn’t it? Everybody said so. Into Paul? The idea was ridiculous. I wanted him inside me; I wanted to be fucked. Only that would give me absolute satisfaction, emotionally.

  ‘If it hurts,’ he said, kissing me, stroking me with his fingers, ‘I won’t do it. I promise. This will make it easier’.

  ‘What?’

  ‘K.Y. A lubricant.’

  Pain, yes, quite severe — he wasn’t small — but only for a moment as he entered: after that, though it still hurt a bit (I would get used to that in time; indeed soon there was never any discomfort), it was the most natural, normal and utterly beautiful experience. His hand, still slippery with K.Y., on my cock, a sensation more superb than any I had ever felt, then orgasm so perfect I thought I was changed from a body into pure dazzling light. And he, coming, the spurt and gasp of him inside me: oh, yes; this is what life is for, Ewan: for this I was made.

  Kisses, gentle hands touching skin. Drifting towards sleep.

  ‘I don’t have to wonder if you enjoyed it,’ he said, later. I smiled. No answer was needed. ‘Or if we were the right way round.’

  I opened my eyes. ‘I just want it again. For ever and ever like that. Till I’m ninety-six and dying.’

  I hardly saw my parents; in for a meal, then out again. It didn’t matter being absent during the day; with both Mum and Dad at work, there was no one to ask what I was up to. But they looked at me quizzically at tea-time, or when I returned at midnight. They said nothing, but clearly they knew something was afoot. What they thought that something was emerged when I asked Mum if I could stay over at Bookworm John’s; he was giving a party, I said. (This was a lie, an elaborate invention so that I could, just once, sleep with Paul for the whole night. I felt bad; I wasn’t in the habit of deceiving my parents: at least, not over big things like that.)

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said.

  ‘Why ever not?’ I was surprised; I’d stayed at John’s before. And Alan’s and Leslie’s.

  She looked hard at me. ‘Are you sure it’s John you’ll be staying with?’

  ‘Of course!’ It was dreadful! My face would certainly tell her I was lying.

  ‘We’ve scarcely seen you all week. This house has turned into the Macrae Hotel, I reckon.’ She smiled. ‘I hadn’t realised you and Louise were so close.’

  ‘Louise!’

  ‘Oh. It isn’t her, then?’ I didn’t answer. ‘Of course it’s Louise! You can’t pull the wool over my eyes!’ She laughed. ‘She’s a nice girl. I’m glad. But. . . I don’t want you getting yourself into a situation where you’ll both end up doing something you’ll regret. And staying out all night. . . could . . .’

  I had a sudden wild impulse to tell her the truth, but I quickly repressed it. I stared at her, and said, eventually, ‘I’m seventeen. Not a kid any longer.’ I left the room, and hurried out of the house, in case the conversation became even more embarrassing. Later, Paul and I laughed about it; but my laughter covered up sadness. A gay existence meant lie after lie would have to be told, particularly to my parents. The gulf between me and them suddenly seemed a vast chasm. I’d have to be two people, one for home, one for away. It was tragic. Hateful and wicked! I began to feel as I had when I first realised — there was something loathsome about me.

  Friday: tomorrow Paul would be going back to London. I couldn’t bear the thought of it
. Nothing had been said about seeing each other again; he hadn’t suggested I came and stayed with him. I didn’t even know his address and phone number. ‘I wish I could come with you,’ I said.

  ‘It isn’t possible.’

  ‘Why not? What’s to hold me in Bude? I haven’t got a job. Maybe I could get one in London. Paul. . . please. . . why not?’ He shook his head. ‘It wouldn’t do.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Do you really think it would work? You told me yourself you were the same age as one of my sixth-formers. Pupil and teacher living together. . . that would involve some careful planning, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘I’m not your pupil.’

  ‘But I’m the first person you’ve ever fallen for, the first you’ve had any real sex with. . . the first. . . everything! To run away from home, to live with me, it would be. . . disastrous! You need much more experience, much more life, before you can make decisions like that. If you met me again in a few years’ time, it might be very different.’

  ‘You sod.’

  ‘Yes, it sounds like that, doesn’t it! But you know, deep down, I’m right.’ I did know it, yes, but I didn’t want it spelled out. ‘You’re sweet, Ewan, and fun. . . and beautiful. As a person, I mean, not just a body. I can’t say “I love you.” I couldn’t say it to anyone, after only a week. Though I could be more than half in love.’ Later, over coffee with Jay and Del in the kitchen, when they were discussing what time they ought to leave in the morning, I said again, ‘I want to come with you.’

  There was a long silence, then Jay said, rather sharply, ‘You haven’t told him. That’s not nice, Paul. I don’t like you for that.’

  ‘Told me what?’