bomb-blast casualty who cannot recall his life before the explosion. I
was bloodied and confused. My tears fell and fell, until the dry cushion I wept
on smelt salty and damp again.
Eventually
I found my clothes and wiped my eyes. I retrieved my bicycle from the hedge and
free-wheeled down the hill towards home. The moon was full and high over the
knoll. By the time I got to Cherry Lane I was dry-eyed but desolate.
I
stumbled in through the door. My mother was sitting by the fireplace, staring
at a moth on the lampshade. ‘Hush!’ she said, waving a hand in my direction. ‘I
think it’s a Purple Prober. Very rare, these days.’
I sat
in a chair, unable to speak, still reeling with shock.
Mother
chattered on as though everything was normal. ‘I shall name him Philip. What a
lovely day it’s been! Such a busy time of year in the hedgerows. That nasty Mr
Jackdaw has been causing havoc. I went out there with my feather duster to shoo
him away but I was too late to save the poor robins’ nest. Now they’re angry
with me, as if it was all my fault.’ She looked at me, as though seeing me for
the first time. ‘I wasn’t expecting you home. Is everything all right?’
I tried
to speak, but couldn’t. I felt utterly distraught and the tears welled up again,
spilling on to my cheeks to make way for more.
‘Whatever’s
wrong, poppet?’ She sat up and reached out towards me. I got up, walked over to
her and slumped on the sofa next to her. ‘Darling, darling,’ she said. ‘What’s
happened? Is it Tim?’
She
knew where I had been spending my evenings, and although I had never told her
we were lovers, she’d obviously guessed. I had caught her studying me
curiously, as if she was watching a butterfly emerge from its chrysalis. She
was pleased with me, I felt. I was continuing the good work on which she had
made such an enthusiastic start.
‘It’s
all over,’ I said, through my sobs. ‘He’s going away. He never wants to see me
again. And he said … he said …’ My waterworks display made it hard to
speak. ‘He said he’s not … queer.’
In the
presence of my mother I became a child again, crying and burying my face in her
chest.
‘How
ludicrous. Only a homosexual would make such a claim!’ my mother said, stroking
my head and face, comforting me as if I was a nervous dog at a fireworks
display.
‘But
how could he say something so terrible?’
‘Perhaps
the only way he could deal with his pain was to hurt you worse. Perhaps he has
to tell himself that. Perhaps it’s true.’
‘It
can’t be …‘
‘If
it’s true to him, then it all comes out the same in the wash. He doesn’t want
to love you, even if he does. So he won’t.’ She hugged me tightly.
‘But he
does anyway?’ I was confused.
‘Yes.
But he won’t allow it. It’s like dyeing your hair. In reality I might be an
unfortunate shade of mouse, but to all intents and purposes I’m brunette. It’s
what I want that counts. The rules of nature can be manipulated. Love can be
denied or impersonated. It’s awfully complicated. No wonder Ted Heath’s a
confirmed bachelor.’ We sighed simultaneously. My mother continued, ‘Oh, it
hurts, doesn’t it? But pain is good for you, in a cerebral way. Think of the
poets! Suffering is beautiful, you will come to realize. It lets us know we’re
alive. How else can we be sure? This is a coming-of-age for you, and I’m your
proud mother.’
Her
words made a strange kind of sense to me. I stopped crying and felt a calm
serenity descend on me.
‘You’re
so like me!’ she said, as if my tears had been a cause for celebration. ‘Far
too intense, probably, but at least we experience life, you and I. We don’t do
bland, do we, darling?’
I shook
my head and tried to smile. She had her arm round me and gave me a long,
twenty-second squeeze, so tight I could only manage shallow breaths.
‘Think
of all the people who never feel a millionth of what you’ve felt for Tim.
They’re
was bloodied and confused. My tears fell and fell, until the dry cushion I wept
on smelt salty and damp again.
Eventually
I found my clothes and wiped my eyes. I retrieved my bicycle from the hedge and
free-wheeled down the hill towards home. The moon was full and high over the
knoll. By the time I got to Cherry Lane I was dry-eyed but desolate.
I
stumbled in through the door. My mother was sitting by the fireplace, staring
at a moth on the lampshade. ‘Hush!’ she said, waving a hand in my direction. ‘I
think it’s a Purple Prober. Very rare, these days.’
I sat
in a chair, unable to speak, still reeling with shock.
Mother
chattered on as though everything was normal. ‘I shall name him Philip. What a
lovely day it’s been! Such a busy time of year in the hedgerows. That nasty Mr
Jackdaw has been causing havoc. I went out there with my feather duster to shoo
him away but I was too late to save the poor robins’ nest. Now they’re angry
with me, as if it was all my fault.’ She looked at me, as though seeing me for
the first time. ‘I wasn’t expecting you home. Is everything all right?’
I tried
to speak, but couldn’t. I felt utterly distraught and the tears welled up again,
spilling on to my cheeks to make way for more.
‘Whatever’s
wrong, poppet?’ She sat up and reached out towards me. I got up, walked over to
her and slumped on the sofa next to her. ‘Darling, darling,’ she said. ‘What’s
happened? Is it Tim?’
She
knew where I had been spending my evenings, and although I had never told her
we were lovers, she’d obviously guessed. I had caught her studying me
curiously, as if she was watching a butterfly emerge from its chrysalis. She
was pleased with me, I felt. I was continuing the good work on which she had
made such an enthusiastic start.
‘It’s
all over,’ I said, through my sobs. ‘He’s going away. He never wants to see me
again. And he said … he said …’ My waterworks display made it hard to
speak. ‘He said he’s not … queer.’
In the
presence of my mother I became a child again, crying and burying my face in her
chest.
‘How
ludicrous. Only a homosexual would make such a claim!’ my mother said, stroking
my head and face, comforting me as if I was a nervous dog at a fireworks
display.
‘But
how could he say something so terrible?’
‘Perhaps
the only way he could deal with his pain was to hurt you worse. Perhaps he has
to tell himself that. Perhaps it’s true.’
‘It
can’t be …‘
‘If
it’s true to him, then it all comes out the same in the wash. He doesn’t want
to love you, even if he does. So he won’t.’ She hugged me tightly.
‘But he
does anyway?’ I was confused.
‘Yes.
But he won’t allow it. It’s like dyeing your hair. In reality I might be an
unfortunate shade of mouse, but to all intents and purposes I’m brunette. It’s
what I want that counts. The rules of nature can be manipulated. Love can be
denied or impersonated. It’s awfully complicated. No wonder Ted Heath’s a
confirmed bachelor.’ We sighed simultaneously. My mother continued, ‘Oh, it
hurts, doesn’t it? But pain is good for you, in a cerebral way. Think of the
poets! Suffering is beautiful, you will come to realize. It lets us know we’re
alive. How else can we be sure? This is a coming-of-age for you, and I’m your
proud mother.’
Her
words made a strange kind of sense to me. I stopped crying and felt a calm
serenity descend on me.
‘You’re
so like me!’ she said, as if my tears had been a cause for celebration. ‘Far
too intense, probably, but at least we experience life, you and I. We don’t do
bland, do we, darling?’
I shook
my head and tried to smile. She had her arm round me and gave me a long,
twenty-second squeeze, so tight I could only manage shallow breaths.
‘Think
of all the people who never feel a millionth of what you’ve felt for Tim.
They’re
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