War Damage (16 page)

fifteen

C
HARLES HAD BEEN SMOKING
in Upper School common room with Adam Mendelssohn and Oliver Vaughan. These three were already the stars of the sixth form, destined to become distinguished old boys who would bring glory to the school. Even more important in the short term, their parents were already public figures. Their blasé pose and iconoclastic views were therefore tolerated, although to risk smoking was pushing it a bit.

Oliver's talk of girls had irked Charles: saying that messing about with boys was just for kids and boasting about how he'd actually ‘had' some woman. The way Adam had been going on about the atom bomb disturbed him too, yet he didn't know why he felt quite so irritable.

He felt more irritable still when he saw Harry Trevelyan hanging around in the corridor. Christ! It was the last straw. That scene in the art annexe seemed to have happened months ago, an incident he now for some reason found sickening. He eyed the despised ex-object of desire with exasperation.

‘What is it, Trevelyan?'

Trevelyan gazed at him. To his horror Charles saw the boy's eyes were brimming with tears. A scene would be the last straw. ‘Look, I can't talk now – you're not supposed to be up here anyway.'

‘But when – when can I see you, Hallam?'

‘I'm very busy at the moment.'

‘But …'

‘
What
?'

‘We don't – I mean, I never see you any more.'

‘I have a frightful lot of work to do now, Higher Certificate and all that.'

‘But … please—'

‘Look, I have to go now, old chap.' Then: ‘
Jesus
.' For Carnforth was looming towards them along the corridor. When he reached them he looked down at Trevelyan from his great height. ‘What are you doing up here? I'm sure you're aware junior school pupils aren't allowed—'

‘It's my fault – I told him to come and see me up here,' said Charles with self-conscious chivalry.

Carnforth's treacly eyes locked into his. There was a moment's silence in which they seemed suspended in some invisible web of calculation and surmise. Then Carnforth said: ‘Well, get along now, Trevelyan. And don't come up here again.' He watched the boy scamper away along the corridor and turned to Charles. ‘Come to the art room after school, would you? I need to have a word with you.'

‘Is it about the backdrop, sir? It's almost finished, you know.'

‘About four o'clock.'

Carnforth was seated at his desk. Charles dropped his school bag and sank onto the sofa, again remembering his encounter with Trevelyan on that very couch. A faint smile twitched his lips. If only Carnforth knew! The stain was quite noticeable. But his amusement faded. He felt unbearably tense. He was beginning to guess what Carnforth's game was. If he was right, it was unspeakable, obscene, but he had to be careful. He wasn't sure how far he dared go with Carnforth.

‘Very kind of your mother to have everyone back after Mr Buckingham's funeral.'

Charles had thought it mad, in view of the state of the house, and he knew his father had thought so too. His father had been heroic in putting up with the guests who'd swarmed everywhere. The whole thing had been hateful and it was something else to hold against Carnforth that he'd mentioned now, weeks later, an event Charles wanted to forget.

‘You must have been upset by his death.'

So Carnforth had only mentioned the funeral in order to get him to talk about Freddie, but he had no intention of discussing Freddie with this horrible man. Carnforth was staring at him. Charles looked away, his face stiff. ‘Did you want to see me about the scenery? It's nearly finished, though it's been difficult to find time now, more and more prep this term, you see …' The real reason was he no longer needed the art annexe for his trysts with Trevelyan.

‘It was about your extracurricular activities.'

Charles hadn't expected that. ‘Sir?'

‘It's rather a poor idea to fraternise with boys in lower school. You want to stay away from that sort of thing.'

Charles hoped he looked puzzled, but he was beginning to feel alarmed. He looked at the floor.

‘The paths of righteousness, Hallam. It is all too easy to stray from the paths of righteousness.'

The longer the silence lasted the less Charles knew what to say. He wasn't going to own up, but a denial might backfire. Then again, silence could be construed as guilt. The humiliation of being caught out by Carnforth of all people – but it was his own fault; he'd taken the risk, he'd done it on purpose, he'd tempted fate.

‘And I didn't see you at chapel this morning. You've missed chapel before, several times.'

But this was a bad move on Carnforth's part. ‘Mr Tolliday gave me an exemption.' Charles felt sure Tolliday was a fellow atheist.

‘I see,' said Carnforth. He paused. ‘He doesn't object to your neglecting your spiritual life? I shall have to speak to him about that.'

The feeling of humiliation faded, because now Carnforth was being ridiculous. He was on the lowest rung of the hierarchy; as a part-time art teacher he had hardly more influence than the porters. Tolliday wouldn't dream of taking any notice of him. But Carnforth tried another approach.

‘Your mother's been worried about you, you know, especially since Mr Buckingham died.'

Charles swallowed as he felt his face go hot right round to his ears. How dare Carnforth mention her! What did Carnforth know about what she felt about anything? The frightful thought that she might have discussed him with Carnforth almost choked him. But – it was impossible; she couldn't have betrayed him. The man had invented it.

Carnforth sighed. ‘Your mother is a wonderful woman, you know, Hallam, a great artist. You wouldn't want to upset her, I know.'

Charles continued to look at the floor.

‘A few words of advice. You may feel that because you're the most brilliant boy in your year, possibly in the school, you can get away with things other boys … there's a rather lax atmosphere, I feel, at present. If only for your mother's sake, Hallam – or perhaps I may call you Charles as I'm getting to know you and your family better – try to steer a steady course. The temptation to sin is always very powerful.'

Charles could feel Carnforth staring at him. The silence was thick and sticky with what was unsaid. Finally: ‘Your spiritual development, the spiritual development of all of you boys is important to me, you know. There is insufficient emphasis on that side of life, one feels, in the school at present.'

The silence was like glue. Charles was stuck in it.

‘Prayer, Charles, it does help, believe me.'

Now Charles wanted to laugh. He bit his lip. Finally he said, hoping it sounded insolent: ‘I'll remember that, sir.' He had to get away. He was about to stand up when Carnforth added:

‘And it's a very great pity you spend so much time with a Jew.'

‘
What
?'

‘A vulgar boy – his father's some kind of theatrical impresario, I believe. You don't want to waste your time with that sort of riff-raff.'

Now Charles did stand up. He was too shaken to protest, but he made himself look Carnforth in the eye. ‘Is that all, sir?'

He'd won; Carnforth looked slightly flummoxed. Then he rallied. ‘Yes, that's all – for now. But remember what I said. You wouldn't want to let your mother down. If things went any further …' The sentence hung unfinished in the air.

As if that were not enough, as he reached the door Carnforth spoke again. ‘Remember me to your mother, won't you.' His voice was horrible: suddenly ingratiating, oily and sly.

Charles couldn't stop himself. He slammed the door. If things went any further! The threat was absurd, of course, and yet … it had gone home. He was scared now. No one would take any notice of Carnforth, and yet … he was rattled.

And those fat fingers all over his private life, his private thoughts, the slimy prick. The very thought of Trevelyan, of Freddie, of everything revolted him now. Carnforth knew somehow about Trevelyan … the stain … or was he spying on him … but what he'd said about Adam … that was unexpected, shocking …

Oliver had waited for him by the back gate, so they could travel together. He took one look at Charles's face and said: ‘What's the matter?'

Charles just shook his head. As they came out onto the main road he muttered: ‘Carnforth is unspeakable.'

‘But what did he say?'

‘Nothing. He's so slimy. He's like a
slug
.' He strode along as if that would rid him of his rage. ‘He's sucking up to my mother – I don't know why. He makes my flesh crawl.' But Carnforth was a fool. If he was after her, he should have tried to charm her son, instead of which … ‘He hinted about sex—'

‘
What
? Is he queer?'

‘I thought he might be, but now I don't. He knew about Trevelyan, though. The whole thing is … Ugh! I don't want to think about it.'

‘Well, you know what I think about that.' They reached the bus stop. Oliver looked at his friend. ‘He's really got under your skin – I don't see why you're so angry. He's just a pathetic old beak.'

‘He isn't. He's worse than pathetic. He said something horrible about Adam. He hates Jews.'

‘Oh—' Oliver, taken completely by surprise, had no idea what to say. Jews weren't highly thought of in his own family, but some were all right, and it wasn't done to go round
talking
about it.

At Hampstead underground they took the tube. The train was unusually crowded. Charles hung on to a strap and swayed with the motion of the train. He felt as though the other passengers were staring at him, that his rage and revulsion were plain for all to see. He didn't understand it himself, but he felt close to tears. Carnforth's fingers poking into his private life; hinting at those private desires – that had sullied, had turned those dark, secret impulses, forbidden and therefore so compelling, into something nauseating, because Carnforth had torn off the skin, had exposed him.

He knew he had to calm himself down, so when he came out into the gritty dusk at Camden Town he walked very slowly up Parkway.

East 89th Street in the sun … he was walking alongside Lally past the lofty apartment blocks and towards Central Park in the heavy sunlight; an American soldier whistling his way past; Lally's grown-up sister in her flowered dress and hat like a halo …

He missed Lally. He felt even worse now.

He began to see what Carnforth's purpose might be. To cover it up with that slick veneer of religious hypocrisy … when he was all the while trying to get his claws into his mother … now that Freddie was out of the way …

Two dark-clad men sat with his parents in the drawing room. Charles was startled to see his father home so early. It must be serious then.

‘This is my son, Charles,' said his father. ‘Charles – Detective Chief Inspector Plumer and Detective Sergeant Murray.'

As he sat down, for some reason a memory flashed up of the time Freddie had brought Regine. Freddie's last visit. He'd see Regine tomorrow. He'd definitely visit her again. He'd talk to her about Freddie. She'd understand.

sixteen

I
N THE BEDROOM HE SAID
: ‘Am I supposed to undress you?' Regine turned her back to him. ‘Perhaps you could undo the buttons. They're very fiddly.'

Charles let fall his own clothes with easy grace. She thought of a snake casting its skin, but that must be slower than the boy's quick yet fluid movements.

She'd known this was going to happen the minute she'd opened the door.

There he was, suddenly, on the doorstep again, and again the langour of his youth,
écrasé
with melancholy and the burden of being admired, entranced her. The time before – when the policeman had interrupted them – how infuriating that had been, she'd wanted to scream with impatience – it was Freddie he'd wanted to talk about, but he'd kept up his blasé attitude. For a moment she'd thought the mask was going to slip, his hand with the cigarette was shaking. And then their hands had touched when she was looking at him and he hadn't moved his away, but it might have been accidental, you couldn't tell what he was thinking.

Today there was something about him – something hard and desperate.

‘Freddie said you should always try everything once …' Managing to be both oblique and crudely direct, hardly flattering, clumsy – but she so desperately wanted him –

Sergei had helped her get over the crippling shame instilled at the convent, but there remained a sense of defiance in lying back on the deep blue eiderdown, which, she knew, set off her white skin. But when he lay down beside her the contrast dismayed her; between his body, the bloom on his skin and his thighs that were like soft marble, and hers,
usé
, with a red mark where her girdle had been.

He put his hand to her head. ‘It's such an incredible colour, your hair. Freddie always said you were like a Titian.'

So Freddie was in the room with them, then.

‘Freddie liked to think of people as works of art.'

She brought her lips to his. He was not aroused. His mouth, even his skin, were soft, like a girl's. She'd thought he might have started shaving, but his face felt childishly smooth. His whole body was in a way girlish, slender, pale, almost hairless, and there was no sense of raw, male desire. She put his hand on her breast and moved her own down his body. His eyes were shut as they kissed, kissed and gradually as she worked her hand his cock began to swell, but she knew it was going to be difficult. She laboured. It wasn't really getting anywhere until she thought of turning over. That was when he made a stifled sound and moved his body over hers. Finally it began to be all right and her flood of hungry longing came like a sob as he was suddenly piston-like and got the rhythm of it and the creaking of the bed and his silent intensity … she thought of the rocking horse in her childhood going back and forward, back and forward …

It was over too quickly for her and he fell back beside her, his eyes shut, silently cast away. After a little while she leaned up on one elbow and looked at him, brushing aside the dark hair that fell over his face. He opened his eyes and smiled.

‘You're beautiful,' he said, but he could have been admiring a painting, a Titian indeed … and he was a thousand miles away, in some place where she couldn't reach him, her longing for him unsatisfied. She wanted to ask him why, but it was better not to ask questions.

He lay on his back and looked at the ceiling. ‘The detectives came to see us yesterday.'

She gazed at him, besotted and also disappointed in him for not having satisfied her, yet then again tender, imagining how she would show him, teach him the ways … How could she be so mad about a sixteen-year-old boy? Why was he so unhappy? She searched desperately for the right words, the key to unlock him.

‘What did they say?'

‘Oh …' And suddenly he sat up and rolled out of the bed. He had his back to her as he pulled on his clothes. ‘They asked my father a lot about Freddie. Trying to insinuate they didn't get on. I think it rather upset my mother. And then she began to say things about Freddie, things that weren't really true. I mean she was criticising him … it was all …' He sat down suddenly on the little chair near the dressing table and put his head in his hands. He was sobbing.

‘Oh
sweetie
…' She pulled on her robe and stood awkwardly, close to him. She put a hand on his shoulder.

He swallowed, stopped crying, sniffed, wiped his face with his shirtsleeve. He looked up at her. ‘I'm sorry. I must be going.'

‘You can't go like this. I'll – I'll make you a cup of tea.'

He sat there, drooping. Suddenly he was little more than a child. The transformation was shocking. Their intimacy was ebbing away, had never existed.

In the hall he couldn't look at her. A sheet of glass had slipped between them. His pallor was like cream cheese. His blazer didn't fit well.

Suddenly he said: ‘How well do you know Arthur Carnforth?'

‘
Arthur
?'

‘He teaches at my school. But you knew that, didn't you. Part time. And he … for some reason he's decided to take an interest in me. Or perhaps it's my mother. You've known him for a long time, haven't you?'

‘He used to be my husband's friend. I hardly know him at all. And we never see him.'

‘He and Freddie were friends too, once, a long time ago. But they quarrelled. Freddie told me Arthur was evil in some way.'

‘Evil?' It was a strong word. But then, as everyone knew, fascism was evil. Which made Muriel's belief quite sinister.

‘I must go,' said Charles rather desperately. ‘I don't want any tea.' He wrenched open the front door as if he couldn't wait to get away from her.

Cato, who had been sleeping, woke and came eagerly to greet her. ‘Cato, leave me alone.' She pushed him away, went into the library and shut the door. He barked shrilly in the corridor. Now she was crying too.

Father and son faced each other at the kitchen table. John Hallam helped himself to carrots and pushed the dish towards Charles. There was cod, and vegetable marrow in white sauce, which Charles hated. ‘It's like eating deliquescent slugs,' he said; the squishy texture nauseated him. On the other hand he liked the word ‘deliquescent'.

‘Eat it and be grateful,' said his father. ‘Displaced persons are starving all over Europe.' Then: ‘Why is your mother always out these days?' The attempt at jocularity sounded close to despair. Charles couldn't think of anything to say.

‘How're you getting along at school?'

‘Okay.'

‘Okay! Must you use these Americanisms all the time? Okay! I haven't a clue! I couldn't care less! I can't stand all that slang – why can't you speak the King's English.'

‘Sorry, Dad. It's just what everyone says.' Charles knew it wasn't really about ‘okay'. He ate, hardly noticing the food. The afternoon had left him with a feeling almost of nausea, it was all mixed up with Carnforth and Freddie …

‘Is she bored? There's not much for her to do now, apart from supervising the building works … though I suppose that's pretty much a full-time job and I'm not sure her mind's really on it.'

Charles thought it was unfair to leave it all to his mother.

John Hallam's knife rang against his plate. ‘When I was out in the desert I used to think there'd be nothing better than all of us being at home together again – just think, we were in three different continents. And it seemed then – well, if one could just get through to the end of the war things would resolve themselves, things would get better, a fresh start.' He lapsed into silence. He put his knife and fork together neatly.

Charles did not want to have to pity his father, but his forlorn expression was unbearable. He did not know what to say.

… New York. He wished he were back there. The longing was so strong it became a physical pain. He remembered the sunny surface across which he'd skated; feelings shut away in a box ‘not wanted for the duration of the voyage' – the label on one of Mrs Denton-Bradshaw's trunks. ‘Everything was different in the war,' was all he could think of to say.

‘It certainly was,' agreed his father grimly.

Charles collected the two lonely plates and placed them on the draining board. Madge had left an apple pie for pudding.

‘Still, one must look on the bright side.' John Hallam pushed his bowl away, the apple pie only half eaten. He looked out of the window at the derelict garden. ‘I saw an old chap today – well, he wasn't that old, forty-five, looked more like seventy – stomach cancer – so far gone, far too late to do anything. I suppose people like him, the great unwashed, they had a rough deal before the war – now the pendulum's swung the other way –' He was talking to himself rather than to Charles.

They heard the key turn in the lock; the front door opened.

‘I'm sorry I'm late, dear. I went to the movies with Regine Milner.' There was a glittery feeling about her. ‘
The Fallen Idol
. It was
marvellous
. The boy acted so beautifully.'

‘You seem very friendly with the Milners these days.' John Hallam pushed his chair back. ‘I have work to do.'

In Madge's absence Charles cleared away the dishes. All the time he was thinking about his mother's lie. She couldn't have been at the movies with Regine, because Regine had been in bed with him.

He opened the French windows that gave onto the ledge beside the canal and leaned against the lintel. His mother went out onto the ledge itself and lit a cigarette. Its red coal glowed intermittently in the dark.

‘The evenings are drawing in,' she said.

It was difficult to see, but he was almost sure tears glittered in her eyes. Something was even more wrong than usual.

‘How was school today?' She threw it out casually.

He shrugged. ‘Fine.'

‘You know – I was thinking about Freddie this morning. You must miss him; he was always so fond of you.'

It was so much more complicated than that. He said nothing, merely continued to stare down at the treacly water.

‘Did you ever think he was – too fond of you?'

‘How could he be
too
fond of me?' Charles managed to sound puzzled. ‘He was like an uncle to me,' he added, hoping that would shut her up.

His mother turned to look at him. ‘Yes … of course …' Her voice trailed off.

Charles shut his eyes for a second. He wanted to get away before this all became even more difficult, but remained rooted to the spot.

‘I saw Mr Carnforth the other day. He seemed a little worried that you – that things at school – you might be finding it all a bit difficult this year. Now that you're studying for the Higher School Certificate.' She said it as if in quotations, as if it were an incomprehensible foreign phrase.

‘Really?' Charles managed a drawl. ‘Where on earth did you see Carnforth?'

‘
Mr
Carnforth, darling! We just ran into each other.'

‘It's always odd, isn't it, coincidences like that,' said Charles dreamily. ‘One always feels it was
meant
, somehow.'

‘I invited him to dinner next week. Wednesday, you won't forget, will you.'

‘Doesn't matter if I do, I'm always here, aren't I.' This time he couldn't prevent some of the antagonism coming through.

‘Oh, darling, you don't mind, do you. I thought it might be rather helpful for you.'

‘I've told you before, he's an
art
teacher. How on earth could he help me with my work?'

‘I just thought … your father's so busy and preoccupied … and there are things you could talk over … problems …'

A chilly breeze licked the surface of the canal. The overgrown bushes on the far side rustled and sighed. ‘It's cold. I'm going in,' said Charles.

She followed him upstairs. By the drawing-room door she turned: ‘Stay and talk to me, Charles. Tell me what you've been doing.' She sat down on her sofa and switched on the wireless.

‘I had tea with Regine.' He eyed his mother, wondering, as if from a great distance, how she would react. Her eyes opened wide. She didn't say anything.

‘Look, Mama, I've got loads of prep to do. I must get on.'

‘You're not angry with me, Charles?' Her timid smile was unbearable, a knife in his heart.

‘Of course not. Why should I be?'

‘I only thought—'

‘I've got
loads
of prep to do, Mama …' He turned away and climbed the rickety ladder to the upper floors.

In his room it was impossible to settle. He had to talk to someone: Oliver, it could only be Oliver. He couldn't use the telephone, it was in his father's study, so he crept down the ladder again, past the drawing-room door – closed, for once, he could hear the Home Service droning away – and out up the hill to the phone box on the corner.

‘I did it.'