Ian
or Dad (rarely) it was full of older men, all wrinkly and hairy,
showing off their hangy-down bits without any shame. I found it all
a bit alarming; for some reason this made Ian and Dad laugh. But on
this day it was empty – to start with.
I got my
stuff from the short grey locker I’d squeezed it all into, piling
it all up in my arms like I’m on Crackerjack ; my shoes balancing on
the very top, like the cabbages they give to the contestants who
get a question wrong. As my feet splashed in dribbles of water
along the way back, I wondered if I’d got a verruca yet. It was a
good distraction from what I feared was coming: Justin getting a
look at both my whatsit and Della’s towel, and laughing at me for
both.
I found a
corner and dropped my stuff on a wooden bench, which was a bit wet
from other swimmers, but my arms were about to give way – Crackerjack! – and I
would have dropped it all anyway. My dry purple y-fronts fell on
the floor, getting completely soaked, so it would look like I’d wet
myself when I put them on. Justin was right beside me, but he
didn’t say anything. I could hear him – the slap of his wet trunks
as they hit the floor and a shuffling sound, as he dried himself
off with a towel. I put the Minnie Mouse towel around me, making
sure that most of Minnie was actually facing away to the corner,
which meant tucking it in at the back. Then I tried to take my
trunks down without the towel slipping off, which wasn’t that easy,
and I kept having to tuck it back in. I could hear Justin finishing
off – the smack of his pants as he flicked the elastic at his
waist, then pulling on his trousers and t-shirt – but he still
hadn’t said anything. Not even any pointless conversation, which
wasn’t like him.
Eventually,
there was a voice. It wasn’t Justin’s though. It came from the
other end of the changing area. I knew it well and it made my skin
goose-pimple, like it was suddenly colder, even though it wasn’t.
And the pain was there in the small of my back again, going thud. The voice was
unmistakeable to me.
‘What you fucking looking
at?’ it was Roy Fallick.
I didn’t dare turn;
didn’t dare. And I just wanted my parka back - curse Auntie Stella
and her washing and interfering.
‘What you fucking looking
at?’
This was an accusation
thrown at Justin on a regular basis. I waited for his response,
wondering if for once he might remain silent. He didn’t.
‘I’m looking at some fat
ugly cunt with a dick that looks like a brussel sprout, you
flid!’
‘Fuck off,
queer,’ Roy replied and I was expecting more – a thump – thud! – but what Justin
said seemed to shut him up and put him off. For a bit, at least. It
would come later, though.
Roy took himself and his
small vegetable off to see if a cubicle was free yet, I guess. In
any case, we didn’t see him at the pool again that day.
We were silent again for
a bit. Finishing off. Combing hair. Justin slapping on gel. Rolling
up our wet stuff in our towels. Checking we had
everything.
‘Thanks
then,’ he said eventually, in a way that meant the opposite. Why
did people do that? It was a Della special, that: ‘Oh, that’s just
brilliant.’ ‘Aren’t you the clever one?’ ‘Yeah, that’s really gonna
make a difference, that.’ And now Justin had started doing
it. Thanks then. But I hadn’t done anything, so I didn’t reply. You probably need to stop staring at
people, is what I had wanted to
say, cos they clearly don’t like
it, but I didn’t. I would only have got
some snappy comment back. Keeping quiet didn’t stop him making
another remark, however.
‘So,’ he said, as we were
about to leave, narrowing his eyes a bit, like he was pissed off,
‘what’s with the Minnie Mouse towel?’
On the way out, I bought
us both a Texan Bar from the machine near the exit and Justin
seemed to warm up again.
‘What shall we do now?’
he asked, ripping open the wrapper, as we went down the steps
or Dad (rarely) it was full of older men, all wrinkly and hairy,
showing off their hangy-down bits without any shame. I found it all
a bit alarming; for some reason this made Ian and Dad laugh. But on
this day it was empty – to start with.
I got my
stuff from the short grey locker I’d squeezed it all into, piling
it all up in my arms like I’m on Crackerjack ; my shoes balancing on
the very top, like the cabbages they give to the contestants who
get a question wrong. As my feet splashed in dribbles of water
along the way back, I wondered if I’d got a verruca yet. It was a
good distraction from what I feared was coming: Justin getting a
look at both my whatsit and Della’s towel, and laughing at me for
both.
I found a
corner and dropped my stuff on a wooden bench, which was a bit wet
from other swimmers, but my arms were about to give way – Crackerjack! – and I
would have dropped it all anyway. My dry purple y-fronts fell on
the floor, getting completely soaked, so it would look like I’d wet
myself when I put them on. Justin was right beside me, but he
didn’t say anything. I could hear him – the slap of his wet trunks
as they hit the floor and a shuffling sound, as he dried himself
off with a towel. I put the Minnie Mouse towel around me, making
sure that most of Minnie was actually facing away to the corner,
which meant tucking it in at the back. Then I tried to take my
trunks down without the towel slipping off, which wasn’t that easy,
and I kept having to tuck it back in. I could hear Justin finishing
off – the smack of his pants as he flicked the elastic at his
waist, then pulling on his trousers and t-shirt – but he still
hadn’t said anything. Not even any pointless conversation, which
wasn’t like him.
Eventually,
there was a voice. It wasn’t Justin’s though. It came from the
other end of the changing area. I knew it well and it made my skin
goose-pimple, like it was suddenly colder, even though it wasn’t.
And the pain was there in the small of my back again, going thud. The voice was
unmistakeable to me.
‘What you fucking looking
at?’ it was Roy Fallick.
I didn’t dare turn;
didn’t dare. And I just wanted my parka back - curse Auntie Stella
and her washing and interfering.
‘What you fucking looking
at?’
This was an accusation
thrown at Justin on a regular basis. I waited for his response,
wondering if for once he might remain silent. He didn’t.
‘I’m looking at some fat
ugly cunt with a dick that looks like a brussel sprout, you
flid!’
‘Fuck off,
queer,’ Roy replied and I was expecting more – a thump – thud! – but what Justin
said seemed to shut him up and put him off. For a bit, at least. It
would come later, though.
Roy took himself and his
small vegetable off to see if a cubicle was free yet, I guess. In
any case, we didn’t see him at the pool again that day.
We were silent again for
a bit. Finishing off. Combing hair. Justin slapping on gel. Rolling
up our wet stuff in our towels. Checking we had
everything.
‘Thanks
then,’ he said eventually, in a way that meant the opposite. Why
did people do that? It was a Della special, that: ‘Oh, that’s just
brilliant.’ ‘Aren’t you the clever one?’ ‘Yeah, that’s really gonna
make a difference, that.’ And now Justin had started doing
it. Thanks then. But I hadn’t done anything, so I didn’t reply. You probably need to stop staring at
people, is what I had wanted to
say, cos they clearly don’t like
it, but I didn’t. I would only have got
some snappy comment back. Keeping quiet didn’t stop him making
another remark, however.
‘So,’ he said, as we were
about to leave, narrowing his eyes a bit, like he was pissed off,
‘what’s with the Minnie Mouse towel?’
On the way out, I bought
us both a Texan Bar from the machine near the exit and Justin
seemed to warm up again.
‘What shall we do now?’
he asked, ripping open the wrapper, as we went down the steps
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