Out: A Schoolboy's Tale

  10: I will survive

  ''HI, Alistair.'' My voice shook with excitement. ''Didn't know you could drive. Is it your car?''

  ''I am seventeen, you know,'' he said, ''And it's Mum's. Didn't expect to see you here.''

  ''I'm supporting my friends. What about you? You come to watch the boys too?''

  Giving an irritated twitch, he growled ''What the hell do you mean by that?'' and strode after the runners who were climbing the hill to the starting-line. Faltering, I left Mr Trent tugging on his wellies and followed Ali up the path to this five-bar gate, some muddy fields, a stream and a copse. The other schools, already there, were waiting for the whistle.

  Gary Dunn set off at a cracking pace, Hood just behind him, Crooks a little further back. I watched them reach the middle of the field then heard the juniors start. Bobby Rose, showing a not-so-clean pair of heels, was already leading, with Leo and Broody chasing him.

  ''They need to keep a steady pace,'' grumbled Oggie, ''Not take off like a ferret after a rabbit, otherwise they won't have anything left for the hill.''

  ''There's another one?'' puffed Mr Trent.

  ''Oh, aye,'' said Oggie, ''Nearer the farm.''

  Leaving them talking, I crossed to Alistair.

  ''Crow Grinned,'' I quoted, ''Crying 'this is my Creation,' flying the black flag of himself.'' He just grunted. ''What's the matter with you?'' I said. ''Thought you liked Hughes.''

  Grabbing my elbow tightly, he steered me away from the adults then span me round. Black with anger, he kind of shook me, like said ferret with rabbit, spitting viciously ''What's the matter with you, more like.''

  ''Ow! You're hurting me!'' I cried out, suddenly scared.

  ''You wrote a story about us. Some twisted fantasy about a trip to Scarborough.'' It was not a question. ''Beaky Phillips dug me out of English. Thought I should know. You changed my name to Alison. Alison.'' He laughed abruptly. ''Very subtle, I don't think, Jenny, you stupid little twat.'' I tried to interrupt but he was suddenly raging, fingers digging cruelly into my arm. ''Phillips thinks you've got some kind of crush on me, like you're some kind of homo. He thought I should know. He asked if I was interested in you. Christ Almighty! If I was interested in you. Like I'm some kind of fucking kiddy-fiddler.'' Brutally he flung me away. Staggering backwards, I slumped into a clump of damp nettles.

  ''Well? Is it true? Do you fancy me? Is that it? You fancy me, you little queer? Eh? Do you fancy me, you queer fucking freak?''

  I thought he was going to kick me and scrambled backwards on my bottom. The nettles were stinging like fury. Choking, I stammered ''Don't be stupid. What do you think I am?''

  ''I know what you are,'' he said nastily. ''You're a sick little queer who eyes up other boys in the toilets. So do you fancy me, or what?''

  Tears were building behind my face. The breath literally died in my lungs.

  ''N… no,'' I stuttered, ''Of course I don't. I'm not like that. I just thought…''

  ''You thought wrong,'' he said flatly.

  ''I thought you… you… after the fire… you were going to say something… '' I said, crying now and gasping to breathe, my chest tightening in the vicious clenched fist of an impending asthma attack. The nettles were setting my skin on fire. ''I thought….''

  His face distorted again, a mix of emotions struggling for control, pain, anger, deep sadness, despair, everything I was experiencing myself.

  ''I was telling you to get back to class,'' he said bluntly. ''You're sick, Peters, the way you mince round the school. You disgust me.'' He spat in my face and stalked away.

  For a second, numb with cold, shock and pain, I buried my face in the grass then, sitting up, started crying properly, huge gulping sobs ripped from my soul, each swallowing the other, tears flowing in this utterly endless salt-flood as bleak desperation totally engulfed me. Inevitably the storm-clouds broke, dumping a torrent of freezing rain on my head, plastering my cap to my skull, pounding off the peak over my nose and dripping down the neck of my sodden parka. My heart had just been totally wasted.

  Wordlessly clicking open the car door, Mr Trent handed me the Thermos. I sipped the scalding coffee furiously while the rain battered the roof and hissed off the windscreen. Through the distorting film of pooling, coalescing liquid, I saw Alistair slam into the Fiesta and accelerate sharply away, leaving a deep gash in the mud. Sniffing loudly, I swallowed the tears that were about to explode again. My skin like screamed from the nettle-stings.

  Mr Trent said carefully ''Has something happened, Jonathan? Between you and Alistair, I mean? You went down the hill together and…'' He spread his hands on the wheel.

  For a moment I considered telling him everything. He was an adult. I liked him. But then he'd said I was Leo's role-model. He'd surely hate me if he knew the truth.

  ''No,'' I said, ''Nothing. It's fine. Everything's fine.''

  The rain hurled itself against the windscreen, drops splattering to shapeless splashes with the steely determination of Kamikaze pilots attacking an American fleet. Streams threaded their way like chains down the glass. I returned to Doc Ock's flailing tentacles and Spiderman's gymnastic gyrations then like broke down, you know? Like totally? Slumping forward with my face on my arms on the dashboard, I just howled, every cry dragged from me, my whole body shuddering with their force. Mr Trent put his hands on my shoulders and pulled me into his chest where I clung, a shipwreck-survivor clutching a life-belt, and shook like a zillion volts were passing through me. He said nothing, just held me till it had passed.

  ''I'm sorry,'' I mumbled, straightening my clothes. ''I got you all wet.''

  He took a box of Kleenex from the glove compartment. ''Without interfering,'' he said, ''If that's what he caused, he doesn't deserve you.''

  ''I love him,'' I said simply, blowing my nose. ''I love him, and he hates me.''

  He just like patted my arm.

  ''You don't seem shocked,'' I observed after a moment.

  ''Some people are gay,'' he answered, ''Some are straight, and there are millions of others in between. It's the way God's made them.''

  ''But why's he made me this way?'' I blurted. ''If being gay is like this…'' I sniffed loudly. ''I don't want to live like this. I feel so alone. There's no-one like me. Why is it only me who's like this?'' I started crying again. ''I hate myself for being like this. It isn't fair!''

  ''Listen,'' he said, ''They reckon one in ten people are gay. In your school that means there's about eighty of you. It's quite a lot. There's Leo. There'll be others. You'll find them.''

  ''Leo?'' I gaped at him. ''Leo's gay? How do you know?''

  ''I'm his father. In a way I love him even more. He's a very sweet, very special boy. We don't think he's sure yet. He's still quite an innocent.'' Mr Trent gazed through the rain-spattered windscreen. ''But when he needs someone...''

  ''A shoulder to cry on?'' I smiled through my tears.

  ''You can be there for each other.''

  ''But what about Ali? He hates me, and I can't get him out of my head.''

  ''He needs time,'' said Mr Trent. ''I think he loves you but doesn't know how to tell you. Be patient, Jonathan. It'll come right.'' He smiled encouragingly. ''Love finds a way.''

  ''I feel so ashamed,'' I muttered.

  ''Of what?''

  ''Fancying boys.'' My face was burning. ''Wanting… well, boys… you know? 'Cos it's wrong. My mum says it's wrong, everyone says it's wrong.''

  ''It's not wrong for you, Jonathan,'' said Mr Trent. ''You gotta be yourself.''

  The race had finished and the runners were returning. The downpour had eased to a drizzle. Leaving the car, I walked thoughtfully towards the gate.

  Crooks, second behind Stern, was exhausted but satisfied as he approached me with a lazy call that the banana-peel shoes had been fantastic. Then he saw my face.

  ''What the hell happened?'' he demanded. ''You've been crying!'' His luminous green eyes became solemnly funereal. ''What happened?''

  I told him I'd ha
d a fight with Ali Rose.

  ''It looks like he's broken your heart,'' he said, ''And not just broken it but torn it from your chest and stamped on it, the fucker.''

  ''He said some horrible things to me.'' The memory brought that tear-prickle again.

  ''Fuck him,'' said Crooks angrily. Then, more calmly, he laid a mud-spattered hand on my arm. ''Look, Jonny… it's OK, you know, to be… well…you know… like, different… yeah?''

  I shook his hand off like it was the hand of a leper.

  ''Well, I'm not, all right? I'm not…'' Tears sprang back into my eyes. ''Not… like that.''

  He watched my struggle sympathetically then said ''When you want to talk, J, I'm here, OK? I don't care what you are. You're still my friend.''

  That made me cry again. I loved Mikey. If only I could tell him. Could I tell him? Of course I couldn't tell him. There was nothing to tell. I'd rather roast and eat my own tongue with garden peas and a nice Merlot than admit I was gay. God Almighty. Imagine what they'd say. Someone would shoot me.

  The juniors were back. Leo, who'd finished fifth, was forlornly wringing muddy water from his blue-gold vest with grim determination while his father wrapped him in a blanket. He'd made a superhuman effort and needed to massage Ralgex into his calves. Bobby Rose, having won, was doing this stupid dance, crowing like a cock on the roof of the henhouse where all his lady-hens are waiting, legs akimbo, for the Great Hen-House Gang-Bang, before he noticed his brother's car had gone.

  ''Where's Ali?'' he shouted. ''I want him to see me get my medal.''

  ''He left,'' I said tiredly.

  Bobby, about my height, a little heavier, with shaggy brown hair and eyes like hard grey pebbles, confronted me angrily.

  ''What did you say to him, Peters, you poof?''

  ''Nothing.''

  ''Listen.'' Pushing his face close to mine, he hissed at me. ''My brother's going out of his mind because of you. He tortures himself because of you. Your miserable fucking existence is screwing him up so do him a favour and get out of his life.''

  Pip and Leo, drained and wet, slumped against each other in the back with Hood. I travelled in the front, deeply unhappy. Mr Trent turned on the radio for the football commentary but no-one was really interested in Villa against Sunderland.

  ''Villa are magic,'' Brudenall quipped. ''Watch them vanish from the First Division.''

  Manchester City and Queen's Park Rangers had both sacked their managers in midweek. Both were losing, City at Liverpool. Newcastle and Leeds had, obviously and inevitably, sacked their managers about three minutes into the new season. In the mournful silence, Mr Trent switched to Radio 1. Don McClean's voice sang my story: 'I thought that I was over you, but it's true, so true, I love you even more than I did before, but, darling, what can I do? For you don't love me, and I'll always be crying over you, crying over you…' Fuck it.

  It was a terrible journey, especially as it was dark, the rain was heavy, the stuffy car reeked of wintergreen and I had to struggle really hard not to burst into tears. The Volvo crawled back into the gloomy storm-drenched suburbs like a predator, engine raucously growling, yellow eyes groping for the road ahead, for the next bedraggled bend. Despite Mr Trent's sympathetic encouragement, this had become the worst day of my life.

  When they dropped me at my house, Leo said in this tiny, pathetic voice that he would wash the socks and return them on Monday. I said OK then thanked Mr Trent.

  ''It'll work itself out, you'll see,'' he answered.

  If only I could believe him.

  Leaving my wet, muddy trainers on the doormat, I popped my head into the kitchen to say I was home. Dad, in a soft ash-grey shirt and navy blue cardigan, was at the table with a bulb catalogue and his Littlewoods pools coupon while Mum, in a soft apricot sweater and jeans and her London Underground apron, was preparing a Delia Smith tomato sauce to go with our cod fillets. James Alexander Gordon was reading the football scores. Middlesbrough had thrashed Norwich 6-1 and Leeds, second from bottom, had drawn 1-1. Dad was pleased.

  ''You look like a drowned rat,'' said Mum. ''How's your chest?''

  ''OK,'' I said tiredly. ''I'm going upstairs.''

  ''But what about dinner?'' asked Dad, glancing up from the home-wins and the no-score draws. ''You must want something after all that rain.''

  I didn't know which would be worse, forcing Cod Provençal down my throat or listening to the folks discussing where to plant the wildflower garden.

  ''I'm not hungry,'' I said. My hands really stung from the nettles.

  ''Basil Brush in a minute.'' Dad tried again. ''Boom Boom, Mr Jonathan. And The Generation Game. Oooh, shut that door, Everard.'' He flapped his wrist camply. Fuck's sake. My dad was about as camp as Warlord's 'Union Jack' Jackson.

  Sitting on my bed in damp, mud-caked jeans, I listened to the first movement of Tchaikovsky's 'Pathétique', to those brass chords swelling through the strings, and just like stared at the yellow carpet with my head in my hands. In the space of a few hours, my world had totally crashed around my head. I had come out to a friend's father, learned that that friend might also be gay, and thought Michael Crooks and Bobby Rose had guessed too. But worse, the boy I loved so desperately totally hated me, despised me as a 'little queer', and was disgusted by me. Miserably I ran a bath, lacing the cascading, steaming water with jasmine and tea-tree Radox so a huge mattress of foam built up on the surface. I dropped all my clothes and my sopping cap on the cork tiles and eased myself under the suds with a loud 'Youch!' It was bloody hot. My feet were already pink as pot-boiled lobsters.

  Totally exhausted, I took off my cross and sank down so the hot water lapped over my stomach and chest. What a fucking awful day. And it had started so brightly with Leo and Broody making me laugh so much. But what the hell had I told Mr Trent? And why? How'd I been so pathetic? I'd cried like a bloody little girl who'd dropped her ice-cream. I glared at the yellow duck bobbing under the taps. I was 15, for Christ's sake. I shouldn't be crying at all. Let alone crying over another boy. Being gay was a fucking misery. My teachers and Newsbeat's agony-uncles were damn right. This was no life. I had to change. Smearing shampoo into my hair, I considered Claire. Maybe she was just the wrong girl. Maybe I should go after someone else, someone with massive jugs and a fanny like a toilet seat who'd shag my brains out, like this fat bird of Collie's. Forget meaningful relationships and chaste kissing. Mindless fucking sex. That's what I needed. Mindless fucking.

  I soaped myself with Imperial Leather, thinking maybe Broody could introduce me to someone who went like a barn door in a hurricane. I'd have to do it doggy-style or she'd snap me in half. Woah. Grip her hips and push it in. Woah again. Like a stick of rock. Shut your eyes and drift away.

  But then if she was really experienced… Seymour's cock was enormous. I'd seen it once in PE. It was about six inches long and like really really thick? And that was when it was soft! Arnold too was hung like a bloody horse. Lewis's swung when he walked. He was the tallest boy in the class at 6' 4. It was so unfair. My three and three-quarters would hardly touch the sides. I slapped the bathwater angrily. I was such a fucking shrimp. No muscles, no hips, no body-hair, just fucking spider-legs under my arms, size 5 feet, 4 inch cock…5 foot 4 and 6 stones of bones. No wonder girls ignored me. Even queers ignored me and Rosie Rose actively hated me. Jesus. Jonathan Peters was such a fucking loser he'd never get laid. By anyone. Not even a rubber duck. But then there was... Claire… Andy… Leo… Pip… uhhh

  I gazed round the bathroom. It was mostly pale yellow tiles with this brown cork-tile floor. It had a frosted window facing over the back garden, a deep yellow tub, a low-rise toilet and a pedestal wash-basin. The shower-head I used to wash my hair was attached by a silver hose. A yellow shower-curtain hung limply above the tub.

  My toiletries were arranged in this chipped Queen's Silver Jubilee mug on the window-sill. I didn't have much. I was a boy, after all, so just the yellow toothbrush, a yellow flannel, Lynx Dark Temptation (Mum would have got roll-on Old Sp
ice because aerosols kill dolphins or something but Old Spice is sooo like for crumblies, yeah?) and a bottle of Clearasil. Stuff like shampoo (Herbal Essence), toothpaste (Colgate), mouthwash (Listerine) and soap was collectively owned. In addition to a blue toothbrush, Dad had this cheap Gillette Blue II razor and a Tesco spray-can of shaving foam. Mum's stuff, on the other hand, could have stocked a small pharmacy. Face-packs, cotton-buds, liquids, lacquers, lotions and potions, tweezers for eyebrows, wax-strips for leg-hair and armpits and, thankfully concealed in a cupboard, the tampons she bought in Sainsbury's, in full view of everyone, and made me like shrivel up with embarrassment, you know? Fucking hell. No wonder I was so gay, surrounded by all this women's stuff, bras in the laundry basket, tampons, that kind of squirmy stuff. I mean, once I'd found these Durex Featherlite condoms? I mean, mega-yikes, right? I mean, my folks like… doing… well, It, you know? Still makes me shudder. Should be banned when you're old and wrinkly, right? I mean, like over 25, yeah? Otherwise it's just sick.

  ''You are gay.'' I stared into the coal-dark eyes reflected in the bathroom mirror. ''You're a queer, a bender, a shirt-lifting pervert. You're a homo, a fairy, a faggot, a woofter, a poof, a mincing, limp-wristed, a cock-sucking, shit-stabbing, fudge-packing, boy-bumming queen.''

  Fucking hell. There are so many abusive words for boys who fancy other boys.

  And now I was angry, I mean, like so fucking angry my asthma came back like some vice crushing my chest while the wind-chimes clanked morosely in my semi-dark bedroom. As I dragged Ventolin from my inhaler, I replayed the scene with Ali over and over in my head. I could scarcely believe he'd said these vicious, spiteful things to me. 'A little queer,' he'd called me. What a cunt. He clearly hated my guts but I didn't cry any more. I was spent with crying.

  I replaced my crucifix, put on my dressing-gown, this cheerful yellow towelling job, and went downstairs. I could hear Dad laughing at something on The Generation Game as I lashed into the pounding Presto of the Moonlight Sonata and hammered my rage, sorrow and frustration out through the keyboard. As I reached the last bars, I became aware of my father standing in the doorway with a mug of hot chocolate and two slices of Cheddar cheese melted on toast, my crisis comfort-food. I blinked back some tears at his thoughtfulness.

  ''What's the matter, son?'' he said softly, putting the mug and plate on the coffee table behind the piano stool.

  ''Nothing,'' I said.

  ''You look wiped out.'' He settled himself in the red armchair Ali had sat in. ''You look as though you've been crying. Has something happened?''

  Swallowing hard, I looked at this big, gentle bear with the loyal Labrador eyes, shook my head and hid my face in the hot chocolate. He wouldn't understand.

  He waited a few moments then tried again. ''You would tell us if anything was wrong, wouldn't you?''

  ''Sure,'' I said. ''Of course I would.''

  ''I mean, if you were ill or being bullied or… anything… you know?'' He sounded really anxious. ''I mean, we're your parents and we love you very much. We'd do anything to see you happy, you know? Good job, nice family, nice house, you know? You're our only child. You're very precious to us. Sharing your life has been an endless joy for both me and your mother. You winning that scholarship was the proudest day of my life, and I'm still proud of you, of everything you do. So don't do anything silly, will you, son? Eh?''

  Cripes. I'd never heard my father speak for so long.

  ''I had a fight with Ali.'' A headache was beginning and I felt kind of shivery.

  He seemed genuinely startled. ''Ross? Ali Ross? That Sixth Former who was in the play with you?''

  ''Rose,'' I said, ''He's called Rose, Alistair Rose.''

  ''I thought you were friends with him.''

  ''Me too. Seems I misunderstood.''

  Now Mum appeared, pissed off 'cos I'd left my muddy trainers on the mat, a tidemark in the bath and my sodden, dirty clothes on my bedroom floor rather than putting them straight into the washing machine. Who did the penguins in Antarctica think was going to do it? The Clothes Fairy?

  ''And where are your socks? You haven't lost your socks. Honestly, Jonathan, you really are the limit.''

  ''I lent them to Leo Trent,'' I said tiredly, huddling deep inside my dressing-gown.

  ''I mean the other one. One of your grey school ones. Any idea where it might be?''

  I was puzzled. How could I lose one sock between my bedroom, the bathroom and the washing machine? Maybe the machine ate it. Wrong answer, as the penguins learned.

  ''I'll have to sew name-tags in again,'' she grumbled. ''Bloody kid. And those pyjamas you put in the laundry are in a right state. What the hell have you been doing in them?'' I said nothing. ''You seem wiped out,'' she continued unsympathetically. ''Didn't you sleep?''

  ''Not much,'' I admitted. ''I've got a lot on my mind.''

  ''Well,'' she said briskly, ''If you need to talk, you know we're here for you.''

  ''OK,'' I began cautiously, ''There's someone in my class I think is… well, homosexual.''

  ''Ridiculous,'' said Mum dismissively.

  ''Who?'' Dad said anxiously.

  Me, I didn't say. I think I'm this screaming queen.

  ''Andrew Paulus.''

  ''Rubbish,'' snorted Mum. ''Andrew isn't gay. My God, just because he sings in the choir and has curly hair. What will you think up next? I suppose Mark said so, did he? Or Philip Maxton?'' Shaking her head, she added ''This is not some novel, Jonathan. This is real life. Boys of your age aren't homosexual in real life.''

  ''Jonny,'' Dad said, ''You should tell Mr Hutchinson if you think there's a queer in the class. I mean, you do swimming and PE and stuff, don't you? Better safe than sorry, eh?'' Now he understood. ''No wonder you've been so moody, worrying about some queer in your class. I mean, it's just not natural, is it?''

  ''No, Dad,'' I said miserably, ''It isn't.''

  I felt like someone had shot me.

  As I brushed my teeth, Simon and Garfunkel's song eased into my mind: ''I am a rock, I am an island, I have my books and my poetry to protect me, safe within my womb, here within my room, I touch no-one and no-one touches me, if I never loved I never would have cried…'' Damn right. I had to move on from Ali Rose. He was such a fucking twat.

  I could still scarcely believe I'd told Mr Trent. And Michael knew too.

  But hell… so what? Neither seemed to give a shit.

  After Juliet Bravo, as I slipped under my duvet with Pickles and The War of the Worlds, where I was to learn about the anatomy of the sixteen-tentacled Martian from the narrator hiding in a ruined house with a curate, I felt utterly wrung out but strangely liberated. I thought I might still be gay – I'd fantasized about Mikey and Paulus and now Leo, Shelters and Broody Minor, but at least I was over that twat Rose. It'd been traumatic but, and here I touched the gold cross on my chest, I felt happier. I could manage this, I knew it now. I could handle it. I had a Cross to bear, as it were, and I would bear it cheerfully. After all, I was a rock, I was an island, and tomorrow I was gonna go to church with Mum and thank God for saving me. Hell, I'd dress in my best clothes, the brown cords and russet sweater, sit dutifully with Mum, smile and be polite to her stupid friends, go up for communion, even raise my hands to Heaven and ' get down' with the woolly-hatted dudes for 'Kumbaya', 'I'm so happy' and 'Jesus is my Fwiend.' Man, I'd even be nice to Holly, though I knew she'd ask me to the youth-group:

  'We don't see enough of you, Jonathan,' she'd say this woolly-headed nitwit. 'There'll be games and songs and then we'll discuss the sermon, share our burdens in the group, because you know what they say, Jonathan? A burden shared is a burden halved.'

  'You're all right, Hols,' I'd answer, 'I've got a piano lesson this afternoon.'

  'You don't know what you're missing,' she'd tease owlishly.

  I do know what I'm missing, and that's why I'm missing it, I wouldn't reply, and if the 'queer fellow' was there, that stoop-shouldered, lank-haired mumbling child poisoner in the grubby beige mac, I
would smile, say hello and shake his hand and revel in the flurry of fear that would ripple round the clap-happy hypocrites in their Sunday best.

  But he wasn't, 'cos Holly told me the church committee had asked him to leave. Apparently he was unsettling the mothers.