This Is All (72 page)

He looks puzzled. ‘You don’t like me having friends in?’

‘I’m not saying that.’

‘What, then?’

‘I don’t think Dad would like it, and I feel responsible.’

‘Ah!’ he says. ‘Yes. Well now, I’m sorry. I am. Cal’s all right. He needed somewhere to sack out. Doing him a good turn. He’s not a boyfriend.’

‘That makes it worse.’

‘How?’

‘If you don’t really know him.’

‘O no, I
know
him! I mean I don’t sleep with him. He’s not gay.’

‘I don’t care whether he’s gay or not or whether you sleep with him or not. The point is, I think you should ask first.’

‘You wanted me to bang on your door and wake you up and ask if he could stay the night?’

‘Yes. No.’

Stalemate. I feel foolish.

He laughs, but gently.

‘I’ll put you out of your misery. All right, I’m a lodger, I know that.’

‘I didn’t—’

‘And all right, George and Doris aren’t here. And all right, I should know better than to bring a stranger across the doors when you’re on your own. It was a wrong thing to do, I see that. I thought I was at home—’

‘You are! You are! I didn’t mean—’

‘No no, don’t you fash yourself. I’ll not step over the mark again. I can be unthinking sometimes. You’re right to pull me up. But Cal’s a man who can do with a bit of help. I feel sorry for him, to be honest. Did you see him before he left?’

‘Only for a minute.’

‘Now there’s a bone house to die for, wouldn’t you say? It’s a terrible shame he’s straight.’

‘Speak for yourself.’

He laughs. ‘Ah, but a good thing for you, yes.’

I laugh too.

‘Let’s forget it,’ I say.

‘Give us a hug and it’s a bygone.’

Which I do.

‘Now,’ says Arry, ‘I’m forgiven?’

‘Forgiven.’

‘So play us some more of that pretty music to soothe my head. God knows what we were on last night, but it’s likely I was hit by a meteor.’

>>
Companionship
>>

Changes

September. One more year to go in school. In the time since I began writing my pillow book I’ve changed. Let me count the ways.

Item
The most important, the biggest thing was falling in love with Will and then losing him. I think this is the main cause of all the other changes that have occurred in me. Except for the biological changes, of course, over which I have no control. And the most important fact in my life at the moment is that I’m certain I’m still in love with Will.

Item
When I was fourteen life was very different from the way it is now. I had a specific group of friends who I shared time and news with. I used to love school. Now I feel I’ve
outgrown it. Many of the formalities, many of the rules, annoy me because they seem a waste of time. I don’t belong to a group any more. I’ve lost the openness I used to have with friends. Maybe this is because of my relationship with Edward. Now I know how I can get hurt and am more wary. With Will I lost my sexual virginity. With Edward I lost my emotional virginity. I feel nostalgic for when I was in the first year and cared about everything. I envy the little ones sometimes.

Item
I used to think teachers were cleverer than me. Now I know not all of them are. I’ve become intolerant of those who aren’t, and can be rude to them, which afterwards I resent myself for being and am sorry for.

Item
I used to do school work without thinking too much about it. Now (mainly because of Julie’s teaching) I’m hungry for more serious study than school offers. But I’m afraid I’ll not be good enough. I know I’m not as clever as I used to think I was and would like to be.

Item
I never used to worry about my future. Now I do. I’m afraid of making wrong choices. (Robert Frost’s poem ‘The Road Not Taken’ set for exams. I thought it a bit mundane at first, uninventive, but I’ve remembered it, and now it seems pertinent.) And also I worry that I didn’t make the right choice of subjects to study. I wish I’d taken a science, physics or biology. I wish I understood more about maths. How easily your life becomes programmed before you know what the consequences will be.

Item
I used to be very decisive when I was little. Now I’m often indecisive, but at the same time I’m firmer in my opinions, while knowing I’m still too easily swayed. (A mess, in other words.)

Item
I used to have a girly crush on Julie. Now I don’t. Now I love her as a friend and need her to help me navigate. When I was fifteen, Doris was my reference for truth; now it’s Julie. She’s never let me down and is the example, the model I admire and value more than anyone else.

Item
I seem to have less energy than I used to have and don’t know why. Doris says it’s ‘growing pains’, a passing phase. If so, it seems to be taking a long time passing. Julie says you always feel like that when you’re ‘coming to the end of an important phase of life and before you’ve started on the next’.

Item
I’ve learned that I’m attractive to men (well, some) and that I can cause them and myself great hurt. I’m susceptible to advances, but know men’s weaknesses more clearly. I’ve learned to be careful, if not suspicious of ‘romance’.

Item
I thought I knew a lot about sex when I was fifteen. But it was only theory. Since then, with Will and Edward I’ve learned a lot about sex in practice, and I know I have more to learn. I know I like it. But I’ve also learned that I don’t want sex only for itself. I miss it very much with Will. Often when I feel depressed, I think this is the reason. I wish I knew what to do about being in love with someone I can’t have.

Item
I find life more and more difficult to understand, and this worries me. Julie: ‘The more you learn, the more ignorant you know you are.’

Item
Two years ago, I knew what I believed and didn’t care. Now I don’t know what I believe and do care.

Item
My body is almost adult. It’s the shape I know it’ll be for many years. My opinion about it, whether it’s attractive or not and which parts of me are and which aren’t, changes with my mood. Will made me feel beautiful and desirable. Edward made me feel sexy. Since I broke from Edward and lost Will, I’ve felt less beautiful and no longer desirable. This upsets me. I feel I’m in a kind of hibernation while my body does whatever it has to do. I want to be wanted again by someone I want. What I mean is, I want to be Truly Loved. This has become more important to me than doing well at school. I believe this is the most important thing in life: to Love and be Loved.

Item
Two years ago, I was happy with the life I had, at home
and school. I relied on Dad and Doris and never thought anything about it. Now I want to be out in the world, but at the same time I don’t want to be out in the world. I want to be independent, but on my own terms, not on anyone else’s. I don’t know how to achieve this.

Item
Two years ago I took Dad and Doris for granted. Then I rather fell out with them and even went through a time of disliking them. I learned that they are like everybody else, i.e., only human. They make mistakes and aren’t infallible. This made me sad. But now I feel better about them. I don’t take them for granted, I know they do their best for me, I’m grateful for what they do. But I don’t feel attached to them any longer, I don’t feel part of them, the way I used to. They’re busy with their own life together. I want to be busy with mine. Sometimes I feel bad about this, sometimes I feel it’s natural and the way I should be. How else can I become independent?

Item
My taste in food, drink, clothes, underwear, make-up, hairstyle, composers, writers, paintings, movies, tv programmes, have all changed and continue to do so. Sometimes they change so quickly I worry that I’m fickle.

Item
I behave differently with different people, which, looking back, I used to do as a child without thinking about it, but now I’m calculating, and wonder if I’m a hypocrite and manipulative.

Item
I often look at adults and think: I don’t want to become like that. And also: When I’m their age I won’t behave like that / say those things / look like that. I fear I might become too critical of other people and myself. People who are always criticising are not admirable. But my opinions seem valid. So what to do?

Item
I used to be flippant and jokey and funny. I’m not now. I think I’ve become too serious. I’m glad of Arry as a friend. He makes me laugh, which helps me to be funny, which makes him laugh, which helps me again. At the moment, he’s
my good companion. I never have to strain at anything when I’m with him. We accept each other as we are, make no demands, and give to each other and take from each other as and when we want to.

Item
What hasn’t changed but has grown stronger are: my love of poetry and writing it, my love of reading, and my love of music and playing the piano.

Companionship

A sweaty summer night. I’m lying naked on my bed, window wide open, no air moving, can’t sleep, thoughts of Will, memories, occupying my mind.

Three taps on the wall between my room and Arry’s, our signal if one of us wants to see the other. I switch on my bedside light. One o’clock. I heard him come in about an hour ago. I tap three times in reply and pull the sheet over me.

He’s wearing a white T-shirt that hangs loose on his skinny body, and tight blue Y-fronts. Any girl would be glad of his legs. His face is a picture of misery.

Trouble? I ask. Si, he says. He’s ditched you? He nods. Smiles to ward off tears. I know the feeling.

‘Can I ask a favour?’ he says.

‘Sure.’

‘Can I lie down beside you?’

He usually sits in my reading chair.

‘I’m tired,’ he says. ‘Want to stretch out. But don’t want to be alone.’

I know. I know.

I shift over to ‘my side of the bed’, the left side. Will always lay on the right. Which worked well, because he was right-handed and I’m left, so the hands we used for caressing were free.

Arry lies down on the sheet, his hands behind his head.

‘Want to talk about it?’ I ask.

‘Nothing to say. The usual story.’

‘Which is?’

‘Boredom.’

‘He’s bored with you?’

‘And me with him, to tell the truth. Can’t stand the gay scene, you see. Flaunting it. Just not me. Si adores it.’

‘Why go with him then?’

‘Lust. Which is blind and always ends in tears.’

‘So you’re not sorry, not really.’

‘No more than a kid who’s lost his lollipop.’

‘And because he ditched you before you ditched him?’

‘A lesson I never seem to learn.’

‘The one who leaves is the one who smiles. The one who’s left is the one who cries.’

He waits before going on. ‘You know what?’

‘What?’

‘When push comes to shove, I don’t care that much about sex. I like it, don’t get me wrong, yes, I do. Very much. I’d not want to be without it.’

‘But?’

He turns on his side to face me, head propped on hand. ‘You had some good times with Will, some very good times?’

‘I was just thinking about them.’

‘Which were the best? Which were the happiest? I mean, not the details, I’m not prying. But in general. If it’s not overstepping the mark to ask.’

‘No, it’s okay. Well, some of them were in this room, on this bed. Afterwards. You know?’

‘Doing what?’

‘Nothing much. Holding each other. Talking.’

‘What about?’

‘Anything. Trees, music, books, school, the meaning of life, ideas, parents, friends, us.’ I laugh. ‘Especially us!’

‘And was it the talk that made those times so happy?’

‘Yes. No, not on its own. Everything. All of it.’

‘Being together?’

‘Yes. Being together. That’s what I liked. Just us together. And after sex Will was always relaxed, just himself. And always so, you know …’

‘Loving.’

‘Tender.’

‘That’s what I mean. Tender. I’ve never had that.’

I’m shocked. ‘Never? Not with anyone?’

‘Not even when I was a kid. Except with Will once or twice. And these last few weeks with you.’

I don’t know what to say. Try to joke. ‘And we’ve never even had sex!’

He doesn’t smile and says, ‘Sex without the other, without
that
, doesn’t really matter. It’s just quenching an appetite. And it’s like junk food. Doesn’t last for long. Doesn’t really satisfy. Doesn’t feed you for more than a few minutes. Then you want some more. And the more you have, the more you want, and before long you end up an addict, a sex junky, and you don’t care where you get it or who from or what kind.’

It’s painful to hear him talk like this. And makes me uneasy.

I ask, ‘Is that what you are, a sex junky?’

He breathes out heavily. ‘Was.’

‘But you stopped?’

‘Did.’

‘Did?’

‘Yes.’

‘Past tense?’

‘Will once said the arboretum was my drying-out clinic where I was kicking the habit. And the trees, he said, were my care workers. I looked after the trees and they looked after me. With a little help from a few friends.’

‘Who were?’

‘Will, for one. And a couple of the older women volunteers. I told you, I inspire mothering in women of a certain age.’

‘I get it. You went to work at the arboretum to keep away from temptation. You were in recovery. But they turned you out, and now you’re on your own again, and the temptation is too strong, and you’re getting hooked again.’

‘The best way to deal with temptation is to give in to it, didn’t you say?’

‘No. Oscar Wilde said it.’

‘Right. And Oscar liked teasing with a joke.’

‘Saying one thing and maybe meaning the opposite? It’s called ironic ambiguity.’

‘Is it now! No wonder I’ve always tagged you a smart colleen.’

‘And you needn’t come the begorras with me, Mister McLaren, because I’m not taken in for a second.’

‘Ah now,’ he says, camping the Irish, ‘but aren’t you the wily one, you are indeed!’

We chuckle. I turn on my side, to face him. He has beautiful skin, and a lovely sharp-featured face.