 
### Perpetual Playground

### Copyright 2011 Joe Solomon

### Smashwords Edition

### Licence notes

Thank you for downloading this free ebook. Although it is a free book, it remains the copyrighted property of the author and may not be reproduced, copied and distributed for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book please encourage your friends to download their own copy at Smashwords.com. Thank you for your support.

ISBN 978-1-905633-11-1

Grateful acknowledgement is made for permission to print extracts from Robin Askew's appreciation of Joe Solomon in Venue magazine's 1998 Honours List.

Cover Design and Illustration – Dru Marland drusilla.marland@btopenworld.com

All characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

Contents

1 School

2 Home

3 Homework

4 Bedtime

5 Warning

6 Ted

7 Money

8 Ewan

9 McHugh

10 Apologises

11 Brotherly Help

12 Writes Story

13 Shirley

14 School Again

15 Lillian

16 The Regime

17 Is Helped

18 Cowardice

19 Coping

20 Dennis

21 Park Girls

22 Intellectual Life

23 Paper Girl

24 Rosalind

25 Headmaster

26 Brother

27 Cherry

28 Handicapped

29 Holiday

30 The State

31 Beta Minus

32 Workshop Boys

33 Big Changes

34 Crisis

35 Dr Thomas

36 Tranquil Place

37 Recalling Parents

38 Heart of Problem

39 Happy Afternoon

40 Way Forward

41 Writes Letter

42 Being Sensible

43 First Job

44 Penny

45 Family Talk

46 Story Told

47 Penny and God

48 Tuition Offer

49 Doors Open

50 Psychology

51 More Rapport

52 The Dolls

53 Seeing Rosalind

54 Disturbing News

55 Innermost Problem

56 Something Special

57 Embarrassing Invitation

58 More Surprises

59 Self-Correction

60 Teasing

61 Marc

62 Vocational Guide

63 Notable Occasion

64 Love and Cruelty

65 Opportunities

66 Minding

67 Uncertainties

68 Pyjamas

69 Honesty

70 Retreat

Praise for Joe Solomon

### 1 School

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Martin never joined in the playtime football. He stood, a solemn, bespectacled ten-year-old, in a corner of the boys' playground, the waste paper receptacle to his left, and on his right, the newly-built air raid shelter. Martin's corner, the boys had christened it. The building work had left it messy, strewn with cement. But Martin, positioning his feet with girl-like care, went through his ritual of eating sandwich and apple, then wrapping the core in the little bag before dropping it into the container. "I wish you were all as tidy as Martin," the janitor had said. Chants of Janny's pet and Tidy Martin had come out of that. A flash of poetic inspiration produced Tidy Martin, nothing to fart in. That one made him cry. "I'll tell my mother on you!" Not that he did. He couldn't use that word to her.

"Whatever you do," she had warned him, "Don't get too pally with common boys. I don't want you picking up any bad behaviour."

There was bad behaviour everywhere he looked here. The lavatories were horrible, you didn't dare sit down. There were even pee-fights sometimes. In the school basement, the boys would close the outer door to make it dark, climb up on a pile of benches that were stored there, jump down on each other, fight and yell. If Martin had to pass through, he would do so very quickly, almost clinging to the wall. If two boys had a playground fight, the rest would go "Ou, ou, ou!", jumping up and down in a big circle. The winner would be carried round the playground on their shoulders. No pals here, then. His only pal was Ewan, who lived in the same street, but went to a different school. Martin's mother had said, "Ewan seems to be a nice boy. His mother does a lot for the church."

Though Martin never went near a football, one day a football, kicked off-course, came right up to him in his corner. He looked at it, frowning, uncertain whether he was expected to return it or not to interfere.

"Come on! Ball!" someone yelled.

Martin's kick was lousy, the ball stopped far short of the players.

"Cannie even kick a ball! Hey" – and Fred ran up and kicked it back. "Try again!"

The second attempt was lousier still. "What have you got for feet? Matchsticks?"

"Come on, Martin," laughed Eric, shooting the ball back to him. "You'll get there in the end!"

"Hey, what about the game?" said Ian.

"This is a better game," said Eric.

Hearing this, Martin said, "No! Get the ball yourself."

They were crowding towards his corner. "Ball, Martin!" "Kick the ball, tidy Martin!"

He tried to rush out, but they blocked him. "You let me through!"

Fred made sparring motions. "What are you going to do about it?" Martin stepped back. They jeered, "Cowardy cowardy custard, can't fight for mustard!"

Then came what seemed a huge weight landing on his back, a strangle-grip around his neck. He floundered about and seemed to get turned around. He was being pulled down, felt a knee dig into his back. From the mess of cement in which he lay, he looked up into the delighted smile of Pat. Pat's eyes were shining, his face alight with triumph. Through Martin's whole being there seared a burning shame. Pat was a smaller boy, in a younger class, he would be eight or nine. His socks had slipped down in the struggle, and his bare legs and his mucky bare knees towered over Martin.

There were yells of "Cannie even fight Pat! Super, Pat! Pat fixed him!"

As Martin started to cry, the bell rang to end playtime.

### 2 Home

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There was cement all over the back of his jacket, and some on the seat of his shorts. Mummy and Daddy would go mad! About the jacket especially, which was new. Daddy had made this jacket at his tailor's shop. They would go mad and they would ask questions. How could he tell them that a boy, not in his class, but a younger kid, had done this to him? Then it struck him as he walked home from school that Georgina might be able to clean it off before Mummy got home.

Georgina was their daily maid. Mummy nearly always had afternoon tea in one of her favourite restaurants. He would get a snack from Georgina on his return from school. There seemed to be nothing that Georgina couldn't clean, so she could probably manage the jacket.

The thought of the maid cleaning something for him reminded him of a joke, though it wasn't one he found funny. The boys at school had got to know about the maid not long after he'd started there, he'd been six years old. Mummy had sent him out to the shops one Saturday, with Georgina, to help with carrying small items. In one of the shops, they'd come upon Ian with his mum, and the boys had exchanged, "Hiya." At school on Monday, Ian had said, "Your mum's just like my mum, getting you out with her to carry shopping on Saturdays!"

Martin, not then knowing he shouldn't, had said, "That wasn't my mum. It was Georgina, the maid." The word got around. His earliest torment had been, Martin's got a maid! Martin's got a maid! The great joke came when he'd been sprayed with muddy water from a water-pistol: Never mind, Martin – your maid'll clean it up!

Why, he had wondered, are they being so horrible to me because I've got a maid? I haven't got a maid. She's Mummy's maid. What's wrong with it? I'll have to ask Mummy.

Mummy hadn't been to a restaurant that afternoon. She'd gone to see the doctor about an illness called diabetes. She must have just got home because as he passed through the hall to the kitchen he heard Georgina saying, "I hope it went all right at the doctor's, Mrs Vanskin?"

"No, not really. He wasn't pleased with the urine test. Still too much sugar."

"That's a shame. Did he suggest anything for it?"

"Just the usual – keeping strictly to the diet. He's quite right, of course, but – oh, it did rile me a bit today! A woman of over forty being lectured on what to eat!"

He knew she was on a diet, but wondered what urine and being lectured meant as he opened the door. "Hello, Martin," she said, "how was school today?"

"Oh – there's something I want to tell you about it – but I'll tell you later." He couldn't talk about the maid with the maid there, because you weren't supposed to talk about people in front of them.

"Well, I'm glad it can wait. Right now I want to take it easy, read a book or something. I'll be in the bedroom if either of you want me. But try not to want me for half-an-hour or so."

As soon as the half-hour was up, he knocked on her door. "Come in. Yes, something about school."

"The boys at school are being nasty to me because there's a maid. They come at me in the playground and say Martin's got a maid. Martin's got a maid. What's wrong with having a maid?"

Mummy looked upset and her answer didn't come right away. "There's nothing wrong with it and don't let them put it into your head that there is. But – wait a minute – how do they know there's a maid? You didn't tell them, did you?"

"I told Ian. He saw me with Georgina in a shop and he thought she was my mum. So I told him she's the maid. And then –"

"Oh for heaven's sake! What did it matter if he thought that? What's it to him or to any of them? Oh – well – I suppose you couldn't have known what you were letting yourself in for. You see, although there's nothing wrong with having a maid, some people who don't have them get nasty about those who do. It's called envy. That's why they've made it a playground joke. But they'll soon get tired of it – playground jokes come and go. So I don't suppose it'll last long. But be careful about what you tell them. What happens in this house is no business of theirs."

She'd been right, he now thought, about the joke not lasting long, but there'd been plenty of jokes ever since.

Georgina's half-peeled potato dropped into the sink when she saw the state of Martin. "Good grief! What's that muck all over you?"

"Ce–cement."

"Cement! Good God! What were you doing?"

"Well – there was some cement in the playground and I fell in it."

"What do you mean, fell in it? Are you sure somebody didn't push you in it?"

"Oh no, I just – well, I just slipped. Could you clean it off?"

"I don't know whether to laugh or cry! I've been asked to clean some filthy-dirty things in my time, but never, in all my twenty-five years doing service jobs, cement off a jacket. D'you think I'm a walking dry cleaning shop?"

"Please! If Mummy sees it, she'll –" The words choked off.

"Yes, she will, won't she? I think this will have to go to the cleaners. But let's see what I can do with a sponge and some water."

Her efforts only made the mess ghastlier. "I'll have to leave it. It can't be done this way. I've no time, anyway. I've still to do your tea and jam roll and then there's tatties and liver to get ready for your mum to put on. God, it's soaking wet now as well as filthy. Let's get it up on the clothes-pulley. It'll catch the heat from the stove."

"Oh, Georgina, can't you try a bit more?" he cried in panic as she unwound the pulley rope.

"No! I've no time. You'll have to face the music. If you get a row, you get a row." And the horrible mess rose ceilingwards and dangled down. What a sight for Mummy coming in!

"No good standing gaping," Georgina said. "Sit down and get your tea." This was hurriedly brewed and plonked before him along with the jam roll and a sticky bun.

He could hardly eat for worry – which would be worse: keeping up his lie about how it had happened or telling Mummy that...? He concluded that they were equally worse.

"You'd better eat all that up," Georgina was saying. "Mummy won't like you wasting food. Good sakes, am I supposed to stand over you like a baby? You'll make me late for my stairs."

Cleaning stairways in blocks of flats was her evening job. Her customers were ladies for whom the task was too dirty. Once, he had asked why she had two jobs.

"To make enough money, of course."

"But everybody else only has one. Like Daddy, he only has one."

"Daddy has his own business, hasn't he?"

"Yes; but not just Daddy –"

"Martin, it's not very polite to ask folk about money. I wonder your mother hasn't told you that." She had told him that, but this wasn't fair because he hadn't said a word about money.

He heard Mummy's key at the front door. Taking her coat off in the hall, she called through, "Sorry I'm late, Georgina. I know you wanted to get away sharp." Opening the kitchen door, she went on, "I met old Mrs – The words froze as she caught sight of the jacket. "What in the name of – what the hell – ?" The cheery voice and face were transformed into the tone of rising anger and the glowering frown of the moods he dreaded most.

Seeing her in one of her best dresses, the red one with the black band running down the front, he suddenly remembered how even a spot of milk spilt on a dress would have her tut-tutting and fussily dabbing with her hankie. No wonder she swore when it came to a huge cement stain on a jacket.

"He says he slipped," Georgina concluded her explanation, "but if you ask me, one of those young devils pushed him in it."

"Did they, then?" demanded Mummy. "I want the truth from you, now." She stood over him, wagging her finger.

"Well – you see, the boys were picking on me –"

"Speak up. I can't hear a whisper."

Georgina said, "I'll have to dash off now, if that's all right. I'm sorry if I made the mess worse. I suppose I should have left it, but –"

"Oh yes, that's all right, just go. You did what you could. I should never have let him go to school in it." As Georgina left, mummy looked up at the jacket, and her face changed from anger to what he had come to recognise as fear. She said, "Why I didn't think..." but it was more to herself than to him. Then she said, "Before we go any further, Daddy mustn't know about this. After he made it specially for you. Let's see if it's dry yet." She lowered the pulley, looked at the clock, felt the garment. "It can stay there another ten minutes. Then I'll wrap it up and put it under the laundry pile. I'll have to take it to the cleaners tomorrow. If Daddy says anything about the jacket, say you're keeping it for best. Now then," (sitting down at the table to face him) "tell me what happened."

Haltingly, he described the ball-kicking incident.

"How did the cement come into it?"

"Well, it was lying there because they've just built an air raid shelter in the playground. Does – does that mean the Gerries might bomb the school?"

"Never mind that now! You tell me what happened."

"Well – when I tried to get out of the corner, they all came at me and I finished up in the cement." (He thought, Not a lie.)

"They needn't think they're going to get away with it! Rage was working up again. "How many of them were there?"

"Oh – about ten or so."

"Did you hit any of them back, for God's sake?"

"I couldn't –" He broke into tears. "I couldn't fight ten, Mummy."

"Yes, all right, all right, Martin." She put an arm round his shoulders, and, removing his glasses, dried his eyes with her hankie. "Lucky those didn't get broken. The cowards – ten against one! Did you tell the teacher?"

"No. They – call you tell-tale tit if you tell the teacher."

"Never mind what they call you, we want to have it stopped. You don't owe loyalty to tykes like that. Now then, I want the names of the boys who did it, because tomorrow, I'm seeing the headmaster, with the jacket."

Martin's face went pale as a sheet. In his eyes was a deeply troubled look. She said, with sudden gentleness, "Don't worry about them doing anything to you, because" (gentleness vanishing) "when I've finished with that man **,** and he's finished with them, they won't dare. I'll take it to the Director of Education if I have to, and I'll leave him in no doubt of that tomorrow."

So, in a funny, choked voice, he gave the names for Mummy to write down – Pat's name and the names of all those who had not got him down in the cement. And he could read their thoughts, in advance, very, very clearly. He would be the weakling sneak whom even Pat could get down on the ground, who ran to his mother and the headmaster and said that they had all done it. But he daren't change the story. Was there any way to stay off school?

Wrapping the jacket, Mummy said, "By rights the school should pay for it, or the parents of the little tykes, but by the time you argue about it – could you not have used your brain and seen that you shouldn't wear your best new jacket to school? Have I always got to do your thinking for you?"

"No."

"Well, it looks like it. With a mess like this, they'll charge extra. Goodness knows where the money's to come from! You'll have to make do on your pocket-money from Daddy from now on. No coming to me for extra. And that silly comic of yours can be cancelled. It's time you were reading books, not comics, anyway."

"I do read books. I've got Kidnapped by Robert Louis Stevenson out of the library."

"Then it'll be books only! Then maybe you'll get them finished in time! There was a fine on the last one. How much money is to go draining out of this house because you won't use the brains God gave you, I don't know."

"Mummy, you know the school Ewan goes to, Linenhill? They're not tykes there, because some of the boys were at his birthday party, and they're nice. So I could go to Ewan's school."

"Could you indeed? Could you indeed?" As he gaped, she went on, "That is impossible. Let's hear no more about it."

"But – but – why's it –"

"If I say it's impossible, it's impossible. Don't you cross-question me! Set the table. Daddy'll be in any minute."

In the pantry, as he gathered plates, angry, bewildered thoughts raced through his mind. His older brother, Ted, as a boy, had gone to Linenhill. If it had been possible for Ted, why was it impossible for him? He must look out for a chance to ask Ted next time he came round with his wife, Pearl. How soon would that be, he wondered. Ted was an engineer with the BBC and travelled a lot, never allowed to say where, or when he would be back. It was important work; people in that job didn't get called up for the Forces.

As he laid the pile of plates on the table, Mummy caught sight of the cement on the back of his shorts. "God! Those too! Get them changed double-quick before your father's on us. Oh, get on! I'll finish the table."

But, as he ran through the hall to his bedroom, his father was on him. "Hallo, Martin. Where are you rushing to helter-skelter?"

"Oh – to – to change my trousers."

"Change your trousers? Why?"

"I – I got them dirty."

"Yes, you certainly have. What on earth is that mess?"

"I – well – they rubbed against something dirty – somewhere." (He thought, Not a lie.)

"H–mm. If you looked where you were going sometimes, that mightn't happen. They'll need dry cleaning from the look of them Hurry up, then. You've got my feet to do before tea **."**

This meant taking Daddy's shoes off when he got home from work and briskly rubbing his feet to help what he called his circulation trouble, which made it difficult and tiring for him to walk. Though he took a tram most of the way home, the short journey from the tram stop was long and hard for him.

From time to time, Martin wondered if Daddy wouldn't be better to do what Mummy thought he should do – work less hard. She'd once said over supper "Don't you think you could take things a bit easier? You're sixty-seven, after all. Supposing you didn't open the shop on Saturday mornings and took a day off mid-week?"

"You should know better than that, Sal. The lifeblood of the business is its regular customers. If I had to turn away some of their orders and take longer to do the jobs, I'd soon lose them."

"You know best about that, of course. But for just a day-and-a-half, couldn't the staff keep things ticking over?"

"We need to do better than tick over. They're conscientious, but not fully experienced. I have a sleep on Saturday afternoons and I walk easy distances at other times. So I do take things as easy as the situation allows."

Martin now rushed to change his trousers and get back to the kitchen where he took up his position for the feet-rubbing job, sitting on a low chair, the feet resting on his thighs. Daddy remarked, "I hope your new jacket hasn't rubbed against anything dirty?"

"No," said Mummy, draining potatoes, "he's keeping it for best."

"Sensible boy." Daddy took up the Edinburgh Evening News and ran his eye over the front page. "Grim! There's no stopping the Germans." No one was supposed to touch the paper before Daddy, which had once got Martin into trouble. Wondering what was so special about it, he had quickly skimmed through the pages. Finding he couldn't understand most of it, he had re-folded it, but some loose middle pages fell out as he did so. He failed to put them back in the right order. Daddy didn't notice at first, but then turned a couple of pages and said to himself, "Continued on page 4? Doesn't seem to be – oh!"(as he turned another couple) "why the devil is it – ? Martin, have you been messing about with my paper?"

"No." Nothing more was said about it till after supper, when Martin went off to the front room to do his homework. He'd hardly started before Daddy barged in upon, saying, "I've found out that Mummy didn't touch the News and that it didn't arrive till after Georgina had left. So who else but you could have touched it?"

Martin paled, bit his lip, and said, "The paper-boy... he must have done it."

Daddy said, "No." The scorn he put into that word gave Martin the worst fright he'd ever had. Though he didn't keep up the scorn sound, every word he went on to say added to Martin's shame. "You know that lying is wrong. That lie was more wrong, much more wrong, than interfering with the paper. Supposing I'd believed your story and complained to Wilkinson's about their paper-boy? It wouldn't have worried you that someone else might get into trouble? So long as you aren't found out, that's all that matters, is it?"

All that he could think to say was, "I'm sorry."

"Yes, sorry that it didn't work. I'm very disappointed in you, Martin."

"No, Daddy, I didn't mean –"

"Get on with your homework. I've heard enough of you."

It hadn't been easy to get on with...and now another night with too much to worry about. He thought, I must try to keep my mind on the homework after supper – not think about anything else.

The meal was begun as soon as Daddy's feet had been rubbed and he had settled into his slippers. Mummy asked, "Busy day, Neville?"

"Not too bad. Could be better, could be worse. Have you had a busy day?"

"Oh, the usual. Bit of shopping in town. I got you that wall-map you wanted."

"That's good. Thanks, Sal. By the way, Lorna Ross was in to pick up Allan's suit. She said she'd seen you in the R.B. Hotel tea-room."

"Oh. Really." Martin noticed the quick breath Mummy took, the sudden flush, the pretend-calm voice she had when she was afraid of what Daddy would say next. "I didn't see her."

"She was with some friends and didn't get a chance to come over. Expensive place, I believe?"

"Oh – well! It all depends on what you have. If you weren't careful about what you ordered, it would be. But all I had was tea and a toasted teacake. I couldn't go having cream cakes and things, anyway. There's my diet." She glanced suddenly, uneasily, at Martin. He lowered his eyes to the task of cutting meat.

"Yes," said Daddy thoughtfully. "That's another thing."

Mummy changed the subject. She talked away, but Daddy said little. Martin hoped he wouldn't bring the talk back to tea-rooms. Sometimes on Saturdays and in school holidays, she had taken him to these places. And she always had cakes. He'd been told not to tell Daddy about these teas – "He's a bit of a fad about food, and – well, he wouldn't approve and it's better if he doesn't know."

Martin had picked up enough about Mummy's diet to know that she shouldn't be having cakes. He had puzzled about it, but... well, she did have them... he mustn't tell Daddy.

He had found that this wasn't so easy. It came about as he and Daddy were walking to church on the Sunday after the newspaper row, which was still on his mind. Mummy stayed home, on Georgina's day of rest, to do Sunday dinner. The church was at the end of their street, but it was a slow walk because of Daddy's difficulty. "Cheer up, young man," he said. "You look as if you've got the troubles of the world on your shoulders."

Martin forced a smile. Daddy asked, "Did you have a nice day out with Mummy yesterday?"

"Yes, it was all right."

"Tell me what you did. All the things I was missing. Make me jealous!" This was Daddy in a good mood – Martin felt the great weight of disgrace lifted away.

"Well, we went to Princes Street Gardens. And there was a band playing. Then we went to the pictures."

"Good film?"

"All right. Carmen Miranda was in it. She has flowers and fruit and feathers all over her and she dances in it all. She's a laugh. I didn't understand the rest of it."

"You probably weren't missing much. Go for a cup of tea afterwards?"

Martin, caught between Mummy's instructions and what Daddy had said about lies, didn't know how to answer. Daddy repeated, "Go for some tea somewhere?"

He replied, "Yes, we went for some tea," in a tight, troubled voice.

Daddy looked at him and frowned slightly. Then he said, "Well, it sounds like you had a very nice day. Good!"

Martin couldn't concentrate on the service. Don't tell Daddy was all very well, but what were you to do if Daddy asked you? He hadn't dared lie, but would Mummy come screeching at him for telling? He caught the minister's words: "Jesus always had the right answer." Martin thought, Jesus didn't live in my house and laughed inwardly, despite himself, though you weren't supposed to think things like that.

What if Daddy, another time, were to ask: "And what did you have with your tea?" Or "Did you have cakes?" He worked out an answer which wouldn't be a lie, but would, he hoped, put Daddy off the scent – "I had a couple of cakes." But wouldn't it be like a lie to say it like that? No, he decided, the words aren't a lie.

He'd found something worth knowing – you could sometimes get out of telling a lie by doing things with words.

### 3 Homework

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Martin's thoughts kept wandering off his sums. He was in the front room, which no one else used unless there were visitors. Was there any way to escape school? He dreaded the looks he'd get and no one speaking to him except for sneak being hissed. Pat would give him a cheeky look, there'd be a smile, there'd be that shine in his eyes. There'd be a swagger in his walk.

Martin's thoughts went to what Pat was doing now. He'd be feeling proud of himself, maybe telling other kids how he'd got him down ("He's ten, I'm eight"), down in a pile of cement. And Pat would laugh. "I got my knee in his back and that finished him off!" He'd bring his knee up as he said that, look at it. Whew... it would feel good inside of Pat, looking down at his knees every so often and remembering. Pat... naughty, strong little boy. Martin felt a tingle all through his body, and most of all in the part Mummy always said it wasn't nice to mention. He listened to make sure there were no footsteps, rubbed quickly, then got back to the sums.

I know how to do them, but I keep forgetting what they tell you in the question, he thought, biting his pencil. I suppose I'll have to go to school. If I said I wasn't well, it'd be a lie, and that's wicked. He remembered that Mummy had told Daddy two lies that night – about the jacket and about cakes. Did that mean – Mummy – was – wicked? Oh no, it was wicked to think that, Mummy couldn't be. But then, spending lots of money on cakes she shouldn't have and never telling Daddy... no, no, no, she couldn't be wicked, it was just that she was frightened of Daddy sometimes. He was very strict, and when he got angry, well, it was frightening. Not that Daddy had often hit him, he hardly ever did that, and when he did, it wasn't very sore, but when you got a row from him, you felt – well, like that time with the paper. If he ever found out about the cakes, he would make Mummy feel like that time with the paper.

The sums! The first train is travelling at forty miles an hour, he drummed into himself. If I did say I was ill, they might get the doctor. He'd know I wasn't. Could he make himself ill? If he swallowed something – like that white stuff in the tool cupboard, maybe – or furniture polish – just a wee drop, of course. Well, didn't know how ill he'd get. Falling, somehow, breaking his leg? Difficult – might break his neck and die.

What about running away? In the stories he'd read, boys in trouble often ran away to sea. But the Navy would never take him, and even if they did, the Gerries might blow him to bits. He had no great-aunt, like David Copperfield's, to take him in and send him to a nice new school. He thought desperately of asking Ewan to hide him in his house, smuggle food and drink to him. But Ewan's mother would be sure to find him...

Couldn't he catch a bad cold? That would be the easiest. Oh, yes – yes! There was a way... they'd never know. And if the cold lasted for a week, it would be school holidays, and a good, long escape from the boys, from Pat. Cowardy-cowardy-custard, cowering away from Pat. With a shiver and a frown, he wrenched his thoughts back to the sums, which had to be done in case the idea didn't work.

### 4 Bedtime

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While the bath filled, he waited in the kitchen in his dressing gown. Mummy said, as she always did at bathtime, "Make sure it's not too hot before you get in."

"Yes, Mummy." He was making surer than she knew. Only the cold tap was running.

"Not too much water," said Daddy. "There's a war on. Five inches is supposed to be enough."

"Oh – should I take a ruler?"

"No," Daddy laughed. "You're worse than the Ministry people. You can have a bit more than five inches, but I should think you've got it by now."

"And be quick about it," said Mummy. "I'll be doing your hot milk shortly."

"Oh, Mummy, could I have Bovril instead, please?"

"Bovril? Why do you want Bovril?"

"Well – it's good for you – makes you strong."

"So is milk good for you, for heaven's sake. No, Bovril is not a bedtime drink. Milk is."

He lay flat in the cold water, careful not to whew or puff too loudly. He submerged his head several times. He sneezed twice. Gosh, this was working... Once out, he dried the surface of his hair. It couldn't be dripping wet.

Trust Mummy to feel his hair! "It's wringing wet! I've told you you should always dry your hair thoroughly."

"Er – I'm going to take the towel to my room."

"Why not do it here in front of the fire? Then the heat will do half the work."

So he went through the motions – a good performance, aided by mummy's concentration on the milk and Daddy's on the nine o'clock news on the wireless.

Kneeling at his bedside, Martin said an additional prayer to those asking for Mummy and Daddy to be blessed and sins forgiven.

"Please help me to get this cold – not a very bad one, but enough to keep me away from school. Please make me strong so that I can fight the tykes. If the cold keeps me off school, I'll drink plenty of Bovril all the time and all through the holidays and I'll ask Ted if he'll teach me to box. Please, God, it would be a much nicer world if there were no common tykes in it –" He stopped in horror. You couldn't ask God – that. Even with the Jerries, you prayed for victory over them, but you didn't ask God that. Well, he hadn't really asked it, but he'd thought it, so the thought had got into the prayer and gone up to God. Martin prayed the word never to cancel out the thought. But the thought-prayer kept coming back, needing a cancelling never each time. Then he saw a way out of it. He said, "Please, God, I say never to all the thoughts like that, past, present and future. I don't really mean them. Amen."

In bed he pretended to be asleep until after Mummy had opened the door and had her quick peep before she and Daddy went to bed. Then he crept to the window and, with great care, raised the blind and opened the window as far as it would go. He took off his pyjama jacket and vest, wondered if he should shed his pyjama trousers too, but no, that wasn't a nice thing to do. Then he sat at the window. Good, there was a chilly breeze. It was summer, but the nights could still be cold. It was the last few minutes of daylight. He could pass a wee bit of time by watching for the exact moment when it disappeared.

His window looked out on a little playpark with swings and a few trees and, beyond that, a pitch-and-putt course. The familiar, pleasant view soothed him a bit. Where they lived was known as a nice area. This wasn't as good as a select area, but much better than a rough area. He was glad not to live in one of them – there was enough roughness at school!

The house was one floor up in a block of tenement flats. Most people, in both nice and rough parts of Edinburgh, lived in tenements. The only time he'd seen inside a rough tenement was when Georgina had been sick and Mummy had sent him with a parcel of fruit for her. On asking if he could use the toilet, he'd been directed to a sort of cubbyhole out on the landing which she shared with two other households. "There's no bath in there," he had remarked. "Where do you go if you want to have a bath?"

She'd told him firmly, "A tub full of hot, soapy water is just as good as a bath." He'd never tried one, so he didn't know, but if it was, why did builders bother to put baths in other houses?

Watching the dusk deepen, he thought, the trees get like big shadows in the dark. And you wouldn't know the swings were there if you didn't know. That sounds wrong. A sentence to correct, like what you got at school sometimes. Had a school of his own, sitting there, exercises and all! A stranger in the dark would not see the swings. Aye, but anyone in the dark... Losh, he'd missed the daylight going!

He wished he could put on the light and read while he caught his cold, but he didn't dare in the blackout – even a torch could bring an Air Raids Precautions man knocking on your door. One of them would be passing by sometime. Best if he didn't have his face at the window then, as the man was likely to be a crony of Daddy's. Daddy had been in the A.R.P. till Mummy had made him give it up. It had been the one time when she had given Daddy a row. "It's ridiculous," she had said. "Someone of your age and in your state of health dragging yourself round the block. And I suppose if you saw a light in a top flat, you'd go climbing up the stairs! There's no one, except yourself, who expects it of you. It's bad enough, what's going to happen to the young men in all of this."

The breeze was becoming a wind, rain had started, sprays of it blown through the window. Would the damp on the floor and chair be noticed? Early in the morning, he'd better find a cloth and wipe them. Hyoo, all night shivering and getting wet! Wasn't fair! Ewan didn't have to do this. Ted had never had to do this. The tykes who knew how to fight didn't have to do this. Only he had to do this. And when he asked about going to Ewan's school, he was told to shut up. He whimpered, Why was I born? Why was I born?

He sneezed. Stupid! Left my hankie under the pillow. He dashed to get it, then back to the window. Another sneeze – and another – a fit of sneezing. They might hear, Mummy come fussing in with an aspirin or something. He closed and blinded the window, got into bed. He thought, Gosh, I'm tired! More than tired – exhausted. He slept instantly.

### 5 Warning

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In the morning, he was running a fever. "I'll phone the doctor on the way to the school," said Mummy.

"Will you be telling the headmaster I'm ill?"

"I certainly will. He'll be ill when he's heard me out! Now, you try to doze off. You'll be all right once the doctor's been. He'll know what to do."

He woke up to hear her returning from her trip to the school. He waited for her to come and tell him what had passed, but the bell rang and, when she came in, it was with Dr Orgreave. He had been the family doctor since before Martin was born. He had a pleasant, sort of soothing voice. After pulse and temperature taking he said, "It's nothing too serious, just a slight fever. Now, Martin, I'm going to give you a wee injection in your thigh. You'll feel a bit of a scratch, maybe just a wee bit sore, but not too bad. No, don't stiffen yourself. Try and lie easy."

Martin kept his eyes off the doctor's hands and on his black and grey hair. Might just catch one turning grey!

After his injection, the doctor said, "You were very brave, Martin."

"Brave?"

"Yes. Lots of children don't take it nearly so well, even some who are older than you."

Mummy asked, "Would you like a cup of tea, doctor?"

"That's very nice of you, Mrs Vanskin."

"Can I have one too?" put in Martin.

"What do you say?"

"Oh – please."

"Trust him not to miss a trick," she remarked. "Will it be all right just after the injection?"

"It won't do him any harm,"said the doctor. "Anyway, he deserves one."

As Mummy left for the kitchen, Dr Orgreave, returning equipment to his bag, remarked, "I see you're reading Kidnapped. Enjoy reading, do you?"

"Yes. I've nearly finished it. It's a good job it's shorter than David Copperfield, because I got a fine on that. Mummy was angry."

"You can renew the books if you need more time, you know."

"Yes, I know, but I forgot."

"You forgot? Getting on all right at school?"

A slight pause before Martin said, "I passed the class exam. The big exam'll be coming up next year, the Qualifying Exam. We've just started working for it."

"H–mm. Are you a bit worried about being off, then?"

Slight pause again, and Martin stated, "Well, it's only a week to the holidays."

"How do you get on with the other children?"

"We–ell –" Martin found he had to swallow hard.

"Bit rough there sometimes?"

But Mummy bustled in with the tea and talked of other things. When the doctor had gone, she told Martin, "He said it should clear up in a week or two. You've to rest and stay warm. Georgina will be in with a spot of lunch for you soon and a jug of blackcurrant juice. You've to drink plenty of that."

"Oh, could I have Bovril instead – please?"

"Bovril? You seem to have Bovril on the brain. Georgina hasn't got time to keep making Bovril for you. She's got the laundry to do today, and I've still got some shopping to do. With blackcurrant you can have another drink whenever you want. A jug of Bovril would soon go cold."

"What if Bovril was put in the flask? It'd stay hot then, wouldn't it?"

"And have the flask tasting of Bovril for evermore? Ah, you'd complain then, wouldn't you, next time there was a picnic? 'Mummy, Mummy, the tea tastes funny.' No, you'll have blackcurrant and like it. And don't be bothering Georgina for anything unnecessary. She'll be busy."

"All right. Did you see the headmaster?"

Unexpectedly, Mummy's face brightened. "Yes, and he's a very charming man. I was surprised. Gave me a cup of coffee in his office. 'Do have a cup of coffee, Mrs Vanskin,' he said, 'and I'm sure we can get all this sorted out.' I bet he won't be so charming to those little tykes of his. He's too nice a man to have to work in a school like that. Now, I've got to go."

The blackcurrant was nice, but he'd have to find times when the coast was clear to make himself Bovril. Fancy Dr Orgreave calling him brave! That couldn't be right. He was just saying it to soothe me after the injection. He finished his drink and tried to sleep. I'm cowardy-cowardy-custard, cowering under the bedclothes from Pat. All those thoughts about Pat came rushing in. Martin turned over onto his stomach.

He didn't expect Georgina to come in, but she did, in search of stray dirty garments. "Martin, what are you doing?"

"Oh – nothing, – sleeping."

"You weren't sleeping! That's a very naughty thing to do, Martin. And when you're ill, too! Your mummy won't like this." She snatched a shirt from the wardrobe and glared at him as she passed his bed on her way out. "You'd better stop that, do you hear?"

"Georgina tells me she caught you fiddling." Mummy stood very stiffly over the bed. She spoke that word with disgust. "Now that's something you must never do, Martin. It's very wrong to your own body, very dangerous. You want to get better, don't you?"

"Y–ye–"

"You never will if you do that. You'll get much worse. Boys who do that go mad. They finish up in the lunatic asylum. So you see why it must never occur again. I want you to promise me that it won't. It is very wicked."

His voice wouldn't come. His lips shaped, "I promise."

"If either Georgina or I catch you fiddling..." She stood awhile, frowning down at him. Then abruptly she left him on his own. Her unspoken words seemed to loom over him.

He remembered the scraps he had heard about the lunatic asylum. It was where the screwy people went. They talked to themselves. Some thought they were Napoleon. He knew there was, or had been, some kind of second cousin who had gone there, and had sat, all the time, looking at himself in a mirror. Mustn't think about Pat...

Would Daddy be told, and come...?

He picked up Kidnapped, but couldn't take in a word.

There was no row from Daddy, nor did Mummy say more, though, during his period in bed, she or Georgina popped in and out of his room quite a lot. What Daddy did say was, "Keeping your mind active, are you? Not sleeping all the time?"

"Oh, no, I've got things to read."

"Good. Always keep your mind active. And, when you get better, make sure you keep your body active too. An active mind and an active body are very important."

"Yes, Daddy."

Next day, passing the kitchen door on his way to the lavatory, he overheard Mummy say something to Georgina about keeping an eye on him, adding, "His father said if he does that he might as well destroy himself."

### 6 Ted

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Next day, Ted and Pearl called. Pearl tapped on Martin's door, saying, "May we visit the patient?"

Martin cheered up a little."Yes, come in." They made the kind of entrance that he always found a laugh – Pearl, a small woman, in front with a cheery smile, Ted, a lot taller, stooping over her with a mock scowl and blinking over his glasses at Martin. Ted stage whispered to Pearl, "No good giving him sweeties if he's ill. Doctor won't allow that."

"No, I can have sweeties!"

Pearl could make sweeties, you could forget all about rationing when she was round.

"Sweeties when you're ill?" gasped Ted. "Never heard of such a thing! I'd better have them instead."

"Oh stop it, Ted!" said Pearl. "Depriving the poor laddie of sweeties! Here you are, Martin, a bag of chocolatey ones, and don't give him any, for his cheek."

"Why didn't you just marry Martin?"

After some more banter, she left to help Mummy in the kitchen, and Martin said, "Can I ask you something, Ted?"

"You can ask. Whether I will answer is another matter."

"Well, you know you went to Linenhill School? Why didn't I go there?"

Ted looked serious when he heard that. "Have you asked Dad or Mum?"

"Well – Mummy – but – well, she got angry."

"M–mm. Yes. It's a sore subject with her, that. Well – you see, there are two different kinds of school – ones where you pay and ones that are free. You pay at Linenhill. The one you go to is free. Now, Mum and Dad – by the way, don't say we've been talking about it – well, they don't have as much money as they used to have. Dad's business went through a very bad time, the same as lots of small businesses did. It's what's called a depression. There was very little money coming in. So, when the time came for you to go to school, they couldn't afford to send you to Linenhill."

"Oh. But why do you pay at some schools and not at others?"

"That's a long story. Wait till you learn a bit more history. What made you ask about it, Martin?"

"Well, Ewan goes to Linenhill and – oh, does that mean his mum has lots of money?" It was, he thought, getting more puzzling as it went along.

"Mrs McQueen? I don't know. Oh, well now, she may not have. In fact she probably hasn't, because they have a special scheme for fatherless boys. They can go there free."

"Can they? Oh. Is that because the headmaster feels sorry for them?"

"Well, maybe he does, but that's not the point," Ted laughed. (Martin wondered what was funny.) "The point is, where there's no father there's usually no breadwinner, no one going out to work and earning money as Dad does here. So they give them special help. It's a rule that goes back years, nothing to do with the headmaster. Now don't talk about it to Ewan. It might upset him."

"Oh no, I wouldn't do that. I wouldn't upset Ewan."

"So you wanted to go to Linenhill because he does? But you see plenty of him out of school, don't you?"

"Oh, it's not just that, Ted. It's more than that. It's to get away from the kids at Eveley Park. They're common tykes. I get bullied and tormented. They should feel sorry for me, too, at Linenhill!"

"Hold on! Calm down! Feeling sorry for yourself is no sort of answer to that. Or looking for another school. Don't let them bully you. Stand up for yourself. That's the only way to stop that – showing them you can fight back."

"But I can't fight back! They know everything about fighting. Ted, will you give me some boxing lessons in the holidays? Please!"

"Boxing lessons! Martin, for heaven's sake, it's not like sums or spelling, someone giving you a lesson and you know how to do it. You learn by doing it. Crikey, do you think they learned by boxing lessons?"

"I – I don't know."

"Well, I can tell you they didn't. And I didn't. Because there were – 'tykes', as you call them, at Linenhill too. Oh yes, there were and there are. No matter what school you go to, if you let yourself be pushed around, you will be pushed around. The trouble is you're too timid. And it's not only when it comes to fighting. I've noticed it in other ways, too. When you play with Ewan, he's always the boss, isn't he?"

"The boss? How do you mean?"

"I've seen you at that ridiculous game you play with him – what is it, pretending to be trams?"

"Yes – playing at trams."

"He always tells you what number tram to be and 'go over there, that's Tollcross, come up Marchmont Road when I give the signal and we'll meet at the top.' Why can't you decide what tram you want to be?"

"But it's his game."

"It's your game, too, isn't it, if you're playing?"

"No, I mean he invented the game."

"But that doesn't give him the right to order everything that happens in it. If you let him boss you, he'll make a habit of it. If you show him you've a mind of your own, he'll have a lot more respect for you."

Pearl entered with a tray for Martin and told Ted, "Tea's ready. They want you through there with all your news."

Ted left Martin with, "Remember what I've been saying. Get your nourishment down you and let's see you fighting fit next time."

### 7 Money

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After his nourishment, Martin opened Kidnapped, not to read, but to give the appearance that he was keeping to the active mind rule, in case anyone came to check. He brooded. Plenty to brood about, and it all swarmed in together – Mummy on fiddling, Daddy on destroying oneself, Ted on fighting, Ted on money. The first three soon became too frightening to think about, so he tried to puzzle out the fourth.

So they were poor! He had never dreamed that. He had thought you couldn't be poor if you had a maid. None of their friends and neighbours had one. Ewan had once asked, "Who's that other lady who lives in your house? Is she your auntie?"

"No," he had replied, feeling it was safe to tell Ewan, and impossible to conceal, anyway. "That's Georgina. She's the maid. She doesn't live in the house. She comes to help my mum."

Ewan's eyes had popped with surprise. "Gosh! Your mum and dad must be rich, then. Only rich folk have maids."

The only people Martin knew who did have a maid were Uncle Frank and Auntie Teresa. Mummy had taken him for holidays at her brother's house outside Aberdeen. The maid there wasn't like Georgina – she lived in and she had a uniform. The house was different, too. Its hall was really a big room, with armchairs, a carpet and an enormous hearth and mantelpiece. What a big house for only two people and a maid to live in, he thought, for his aunt and uncle had no children. Like Daddy, Uncle Frank ran his own business – a furniture factory – but, unlike Daddy, he drove to work in a car. It was a grand-looking one, with lots of room inside. Martin enjoyed the way he could sink right down in the back seat. At the end of the holiday, his aunt and uncle would each thrust a ten-shilling note into his pocket. He had been taught to say "No, thank you" if anyone offered money – if they insisted, he could take it, but he had to say this first. Uncle Frank and Auntie Teresa always had a laugh at the "No thank you's".

Martin had once asked Mummy, on the train home, "Couldn't Daddy get a car, like Uncle Frank, to save him the walk to the tram stop?" She'd looked at him sharply, but then suddenly smiled as she said, "He certainly couldn't get one like Uncle Frank's! They're very well off, you see, Martin. They can afford things like that."

He had therefore concluded that Ewan was only half-right – Mummy and Daddy were richer than all the folk without maids, though not nearly so rich as folk like Uncle Frank and Auntie Teresa. But that hadn't worried him, because he could almost always get everything he wanted. Like extra pocket money – though Daddy went on about earning it and making it last the whole week, it was usually easy to get more from Mummy if he and Ewan were going to the pictures or on the tram to the beach at Portobello. She would only refuse if she needed money for some special expense. It was things like that which made her frightened of Daddy.

Martin had first realised this when Daddy had given her money for a dress, and, a day or so later, she'd told Daddy there were lots of difficulties about size and she would need another four pounds for the right one. "Another four pounds, Sal?" There had been a funny silence, then he'd said gruffly, "We'll talk about it later."

Martin had reckoned that all this couldn't be because money was short, it was because Daddy was very strict about it. And he had picked up some glimmering idea of why his parents thought about money in different ways. Sometimes, when she was in a good mood, Mummy told him stories about her childhood. There had been not one, but three, maids in the family home. The maids, she said, never gave her a chance to learn much about cooking and housework. "Whenever I went into the kitchen and asked to watch or help, they'd say, 'Oh, don't worry your head about that, Miss Sally. Just you sit down there and I'll make you a nice cup of tea.' In those days," she'd explained a bit sadly, "Mum and Dad would have thought I'd never need to know about these things, there'd always be maids."

What Mummy did learn about were the piano, drawing, painting and elocution. When this word was explained to him, Martin said, "Oh, I get that at school. You know, when I have to learn poetry off by heart."

She had smiled and said, "Well, that's not quite elocution. Elocution's where you recite at a party, more like acting. Yes, there's something I can show you." She went and found a book – an old, old book, brown leather cover, and, in gold letters: Recitations for Young Ladies. Martin skimmed through it eagerly. "We don't get any of these at school."

"No," Mummy laughed, "I don't suppose you do. I can still recite a good many of them. No," (blocking his return of the book to her) "by heart." And he had got a performance all to himself! He wished he could have seen her at those parties.

Then, in a way, he did. It was at the wedding reception for Ted and Pearl. Daddy asked Mummy to do a recitation. She had said, "Oh no I can't!", but he said, "Please, Sal. You must." She did the one that Martin liked best: The Woman and the Law. The woman ran away from her cruel husband and married a much nicer man, which you weren't really allowed to do ("I said I was widow when really a wife"), so she was in the dock on trial. As she told the court of her sufferings, 'the lip of the coward was cruelly curled', but it was all right in the end, when 'the hand of the gaoler slipped down from the lock' on the judge declaring: "When thirty swift minutes have sped, you are free." Everyone clapped Mummy (Martin was so excited he cheered), and Daddy looked very proud of her.

Daddy hardly ever talked about his childhood. He might now and again speak of something from his schooldays that made you laugh, but you never got whole scenes you could picture. Martin learned more about Daddy's past from what Mummy said – that he was a very fine man who had worked his way out of poverty. He had been fifteen when his father died, and he had had to keep the wolf from the door by selling things in street markets. But he had struggled to learn his craft and build up a business. Success had brought an invitation to join a businessmen's club that was partly social and partly charitable. "It was also," said Mummy, "good for making contacts, but he made more contacts than he bargained for, because he met my father there, and then met me. We met at a Christmas ball they put on. And then it was more than my father bargained for when we fell in love and got engaged!"

"Why? Didn't he want you to?"

"Well – well, that's another story for another time."

And now Martin thought how worried Daddy must have been when, after he had built up the business, bad times had come back. That was why there was so much fuss over extra expenses. All the same... there had always been a maid. So.... they had enough money for a maid... didn't have enough money to send him to Linenhill. Funny, that. Suppose, he thought, they stopped having Georgina, and Mummy did all the housework herself – she can cook now – she does it on Sundays and she managed a whole week when Georgina was ill. She wouldn't have as much time to go to the restaurants and spend money there. So there'd be a lot of money saved – and then – then. . . But he didn't know how much would be saved. And didn't know how much Linenhill would charge. Didn't know how to find out, either, because it was one of her rules that it wasn't nice to ask about money. Ted had said Linenhill would be no better than Eveley Park, but Martin didn't believe that. Ewan and the boys he had met at the party were nothing like the boys at Eveley Park.

I wish I knew what the sums of money were, he thought. Suits her fine that it isn't nice to ask about money! Then he gasped in horror at the badness of that thought. Mummy hated him being with the common tykes at Eveley Park. She wouldn't keep him there if she could get him away. And wasn't it bad of him, too, to feel jealous of Ewan? Ewan had never had a father since he was a baby, couldn't remember his father. Martin closed his eyes, prayed to be forgiven, and thanked God that he had both father and mother. But a thought came into the prayer, about how he could go straight to Linenhill, no bother, supposing Daddy died. A quick, rushing thought, and there had been a please in the thought. In a terrible, sweating panic, he poured out never's for God to hear, past-present-and-future never-never-never's.

When he settled for the night, eyes wide open beneath the bedclothes, he put words together to describe himself. A wicked, weakling, coward sneak, so wicked that he had prayed for his own father's death to get him away from Pat.

### 8 Ewan

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Ewan poked the ground with a branch that had fallen off a tree. He told Martin, "Your tram can't go on till the points have been repaired. What you have to do is say to the passengers 'I'm sorry, there will be a ten minute delay because the points are being repaired'."

"No! My tram's going on."

"It can't. There's no power in the tramlines."

"I'm going on."

"You can't. You've got to wait here ten minutes."

"I won't wait at all! Don't you boss me!"

"You've got to!"

Martin pushed Ewan off his points and hit him about his face. Ewan didn't hit Martin. He took it for a moment and then stepped back. Martin saw, to his horror, that Ewan was fighting back tears. "I'm not going to play with you any more!" Ewan cried. "Don't you ever speak to me again. You're not my friend any more." He threw down the branch and ran off home. Martin looked down at the branch, realising he had no friends now.

Mummy had seen all this from the window. She greeted Martin with, "What was that about with Ewan? Why were you hitting him?"

"He was bossing me."

"What do you mean, he was bossing you?"

"We were playing at trams and he said my tram couldn't go on. He'd no right to make himself the boss."

"That's no reason to hit him. He didn't hit you, did he? You did all the hitting, I saw you."

Martin didn't know the answer to that.

"That's no way to go on! And with your pal as well! No way to go on."

### 9 McHugh

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"It's daft," Martin thought, "worrying about a cancelled comic when I've so many big troubles." But if there was one thing Martin loved, it was stories. He had been reading for much of the school holiday, when he was not taking walks on his own – having forfeited Ewan's company – or playing two golf-balls against each other on a pitch-and-putt course. Usually a story would become his world while he was reading it. This hadn't been working so well lately, but with a really good story, he could get out of his own world for at least a few pages.

He would have used some of his pocket-money to buy the comic over the counter, but the shops had none that were not ordered. He would miss the end of The Hostage Boys, held at gunpoint by ruthless bandits, with Six-Gun Ted unable to rescue them because he'd been framed, and the sheriff and his posse had him bound hand and foot, and Mummy went stalking into Wilkinson's to cancel The Beano.

Martin saw Dave McHugh sitting on the low wall outside his house, reading that very Beano. Dave knew Ewan slightly, and Martin even more slightly. Martin ventured, "Could I have a look at your Beano, please? When you've finished."

Dave was a large, overweight boy. He looked with hard eyes at Martin and said, "Buy your own Beano. Your father's rolling in money from his dirty little tailor's shop and not fighting in the war!"

Martin threw himself on Dave, who was taken by surprise and fell backwards off the wall and into the garden. Martin found himself standing over Dave and tearing the comic to shreds. He hadn't been aware of bounding over this private wall, but he must have done. A window shot open and Mrs McHugh shrieked, "What's going on there?"

"He's stolen my Beano and torn it to pieces!"

"You get out of there at once, you little ruffian! Your parents will hear of this."

He struggled to find words to answer. He was so choked he could barely voice the one word "Wicked" as he pointed to Dave.

"It's you that's wicked, you little devil!" cried Mrs McHugh. "If you don't clear off, I'll tear you to pieces."

He did so, brimming with anger and in a haze of tears. Had Dave never seen that Daddy could hardly walk down the street, never mind fight in the war? And "rolling in money"! Of all the lies... well, Dave might know there was a maid... didn't matter, it was wicked! Then came the thought that it wasn't nearly so wicked as praying for Daddy to die. He tried to put that out of his head.

What was he to do? Mrs McHugh would be telling Mummy and Daddy that he'd stolen Dave's comic and torn it to pieces. Well... but if he told them why... but maybe she had just been saying she would tell them, or she might cool down and not bother. He turned down a quiet side street, and kept walking in quiet side streets for the rest of the afternoon. And nothing to read, he thought. I'm not a very clever thief! He managed a half-smile, but tears weren't far off.

When he thought of asking someone the time, he found it was close on teatime. He'd be late for setting the table and doing Daddy's feet if he didn't hurry.

"Never mind all that just now," said Daddy. "Mrs McHugh has just been here. What happened with you and her boy?"

"Well – I asked him if I could have a look at his comic – I said 'please' – and – and he said, 'Buy your own comic' – and – he was nasty."

"I told you it would be him," put in Mummy. "The woman saw him, after all."

Daddy said, "Yes. I had thought at first that it couldn't be you, that she was mistaken. Yes, go on, Martin."

"He was nasty, Daddy," said Martin, voice stifled, eyes not meeting Daddy's.

"Nasty in what way?"

Martin was silent.

"You mean it was nasty of him not to let you see his comic?"

"That's all it'll be!" Mummy interjected. "This is the second time he's hit someone for no good reason. He attacked Ewan because he thought he was bossing him. Ewan! Ewan wouldn't harm a fly!"

"Attacked Ewan, did you? Well, let's deal with that later. So, with Dave, he wouldn't let you see his comic, you lost your temper, and you just went for him?"

"It wasn't just that. He – he –" Martin gulped and said again, "He was nasty."

"Well – but nasty in what way? I've already asked you."

Martin's head hung down.

"Now, listen to me carefully, Martin. I can see that you thought it nasty when he answered you the way he did. All right, he was nasty, he was selfish. But it was his comic. His property, Martin. If he didn't want to let you see it, that was up to him. It's something you don't like, but you can't do anything about it. You're not a stupid boy. You're quite intelligent – not the brightest of the bright, but not stupid by any means. Intelligent people deal with things in intelligent ways. They don't lash out with their fists. Now, before you have your tea, go down to the McHughs' and say you're sorry."

"But, Daddy –"

"Down there and say you're sorry!"

"But, Daddy, I can't. Not to that –"

Mummy burst out, "Don't you answer your father back! You'd better curb that temper of yours or you'll be growing up into a keelie. No son of ours is going to be that."

"All right, I'll go."

"And I will be checking," said Daddy, "that you actually get there."

"Oh, Daddy, I wouldn't play a trick like that!"

"I've warned you!" cried Mummy.

But Daddy said, "No, I don't believe you would. No one likes saying they're sorry, Martin, but no one's always right and never has to."

### 10 Apologises

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"Excuse me, Mrs McHugh, I'm very sorry for what I did."

"That's all right, Martin." She said it quickly, in a hoity-toity voice, and closed the door in his face.

She's a nasty, stuck-up piece of work just like her son, he thought. Still, it's a good job she came to the window when she did or – I don't know – oh, I don't know. The only good thing about all this is that he hadn't let Dave get away with it. I went for him, he reflected, even though he's bigger than me, and I managed to knock him off the wall. Maybe I'm not such a weakling, then. That was a thought! Yes, but the way Dave had been sat on the wall, feet off the ground, and then taken by surprise – well, of course he'd fall over. And, if his mother hadn't come to the window, he'd have likely got up and battered him. No, Martin concluded, that doesn't make me any kind of a fighter.

The set-to with Ewan didn't, either. Ewan had been too upset to fight back – all of a sudden, someone he'd thought was a friend had turned on him. That was bad! Martin felt like crying again. If he apologised for hitting Dave, shouldn't he apologise to Ewan? Well – but there was all the bossing. Supposing he said, I'm sorry I hit you, but you shouldn't have bossed me? Ach, you couldn't say things like that! And it was better being bossed than having no friends at all. Then, supposing Dave and Ewan got talking about him... Ewan would find out that Dave had got an apology but he hadn't. Martin saw that that would hurt Ewan a lot. That decided it. I'll wait till I see him, though, he thought. I'm not knocking on any more doors.

What if Ewan didn't take his apology, he wondered, even said something nasty or wicked? Well, that wouldn't be like Ewan, but then this might have made him angry. Martin decided the thing to do was to turn and walk away the minute Ewan said anything like that, if he did.

He saw Ewan setting out on some shopping for his mother. Martin, heart thumping, went up to him and stood with one foot turned outwards, ready for walking away. "Ewan, excuse me. I'm very sorry I hit you. I'm very sorry."

To his huge relief, Ewan said, "That's all right. We'll forget about that. We were both silly." To his huge bewilderment, Ewan then said, "Would you like to be a reporter? I'm looking for reporters."

What was a reporter, again? He'd seen the word, but... oh, he'd have to ask. "What's a reporter?"

"A reporter's someone who goes around everywhere and finds out all the news that's happening. He asks questions and writes down everything they say in his reporter's notebook. Then he takes it all to his newspaper. That's how all the news gets into the newspaper. You'd get lots of interesting stories that way, if you'd like to do it."

Martin had never thought about how the news got into the newspaper, but, now that he did, this seemed to make sense, except... "But, Ewan, the News has got all its reporters. It's only grown-ups who do that."

"Not the News. I'm starting a newspaper. I'll be the editor. He's the one who puts all the news the reporters give him into the newspaper. He fits it all in and gives it all headlines. The paper will be called the Weekly Searchlight and it'll have all the news that happens in this neighbourhood and there might be some that happens outside it, as long as it happens to someone from the neighbourhood. You'd get a reporter's notebook." Ewan dug out of his pocket a thick pad imprinted with those very words. "I can't pay my reporters, because I haven't got the money, but they'll all get free reporter's notebooks." He held the book out to Martin.

"But wait a minute, Ewan. How are you going to make the newspaper?"

"Write everything down on big sheets of paper and clip them together."

Martin wondered if Ewan wasn't being daft, but it wouldn't do to say so, at this of all times. He took the notebook, said "Thanks" and, turning it around from hand to hand, asked, "What kind of news is it I'm supposed to get?"

"Oh, anything you like. The reporters decide what news to get. The editor doesn't boss them."

Martin swallowed hard. "But – but could you give me some idea? I've never been a reporter before."

"Well – anything that's interesting. Like, say, there's an exhibition in the Meadows, like the one the Air Force had, or if there's a concert put on in aid of refugees. Of course, you might get bigger stories – if someone gets run over, or there's a fire, or a murder. Things like that don't happen round here very often, but if they do, a reporter rushes along with his notebook and finds everything out."

"If there was an air raid, that would do, too, wouldn't it? We've not had one here, but we might."

"Oh, an air raid would do fine. But you wouldn't go round with your notebook while it was on. You'd wait till the all-clear sounded. But it doesn't have to be any of these things. It's up to you."

"Well – I'll try and find something."

"Thanks, Martin. And mind and let me know when you need a new notebook."

### 11 Brotherly Help

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"Ted, could you tell me a wee bit about the work you do when you're away?I know it's supposed to be secret, but could you tell me any bits that aren't secret?" They were in the solitude of the front room on a rainy afternoon. Ted was trying to teach Martin chess, but Martin wasn't concentrating well.

"My work, all of a sudden? Well, you already know it's about operating radio stations. If I told you any more, it would either be too technical or too secret. Or both! What made you bring that up?"

Martin explained that he was looking for interesting news for the newspaper which Ewan was going to start.

"H–mm – well – oh, I'm sure you can find interesting news nearer home if you really look for it. You'll be trying to interview the head of the Secret Service next! By the way, I hear you fell out with Ewan for a while."

"Yes," Martin said tightly. A telling-off from Ted about that would be the last straw! "But that's all over now. We're friends again." (No thanks to you! he thought.)

"I never said you should hit him, you know."

"I know you didn't," Martin admitted reluctantly.

"I told you to stand up for yourself, but fighting isn't always the way to do that."

"I know that now. I deal with things in intelligent ways now."

"Not with this game of chess you don't! Mind you, I'm glad you've got less timid. There was a to-do with the McHugh boy, too, wasn't there?"

"Yes," sighed Martin, thinking, They must talk about nothing else but me when I'm not there!

"But you mustn't go from being timid to the very opposite extreme. If you strike the first blow, you put yourself in the wrong. But – anyway – you're pals with Ewan again?"

"Yes."

"And playing newspapers now instead of trams?" Ted said that in a funny sort of way. Martin felt uneasy. Ted went on, "Not much exercise in games like that, is there? Do you ever play football?"

"I'm not much good at football."

"Well, no wonder if you hardly ever try! Do you play any ball games at all with him?"

"We go round the pitch-and-putt sometimes. Ewan's not much good at ball games either. He prefers make-believe games."

"You don't have any other pals, do you?"

"Well – no."

"Time you had. I've nothing against Ewan, he's a nice lad, but he does live in a bit of a dream world, with all his make-believe games. Now don't tell him I said so. If he wants to live in a dream world, that's none of my business, but it's not healthy for you to spend so much time in his dream world. Don't look so worried, Martin. A bit of make-believe is all right, but you need other pals as well as him. Why don't you join the Cubs? There's a troop at the church. It'd be easy to join."

Martin was in a stunned silence. "Well?" asked Ted. "Why not?"

"It's a – it's a bit hard talking to boys I don't know very well."

"Well, it always will be if you never do it, Martin. You see, there you go again. No good at football, because you've never really tried to play. No good at talking to boys you don't know, because you won't try. Now, once you do try, you'll be surprised at how easy it is. You must learn to mix with people, you know. What about the boys at school? You said they bully and torment you, but not all of them, surely? Aren't there some you could make friends with?"

"No! They're all common. Mummy says they're common."

Ted said slowly, "Mum doesn't actually know them, does she?"

"No – no – but I do. They are common. They're dirty and they use –"

"I know all that, or I can guess it. But you –" He paused. It looked as if he didn't know what to say next. Then, in a slow, careful way, he went on, "That's Mum's way of putting it – and – well, I know what she means. But she doesn't have to be with them for six hours every day, five days a week. You do, and if you do, it doesn't help to think of them as common. You see, it isn't really a very useful word." He paused again. "This is between ourselves – don't repeat it to Mum, because – well, she doesn't see it that way. There are different ways of seeing it. All right, some people don't have nice manners, they're rough. But there may be reasons for that. Life may not have been very easy for them. Now – those boys at school – I can see you get picked on. It's because you won't talk to them or play with them and so they think you're stuck-up and naturally they –"

"I'm not stuck-up!" (What was Ted saying? That's what the McHugh's were...)

"I know, but the point is they think you are. Mixing with them is just as important as fighting back if you have to defend yourself. And if you do have a fight, after it's over, win or lose, shake hands with the other boy, make it clear there isn't any grudge. So that's the attitude you should go back to school with, and then you'll find life a lot easier. You look as if you don't believe me, though."

"Well –" How could he tell Ted he was scared stiff of fights, that even Pat could get him down?

"You'll find I'm right, Martin. It's stopped raining, it's too nice to sit in over chess. Is there a ball somewhere we can kick around?"

"Oh, I'm not sure where there is one."

"Go and have a look, then. That bears out what I was saying before. Who but you could fail to know where to find a football? Oh well, Ewan perhaps!"

Was Martin glad to see the back of Ted that day! Ask him for something to write about, and not only did you not get it, but you had to put up with a whole afternoon of moans and fault-finding, things said against Ewan, as well as things you couldn't understand and things that frightened you. Ewan's paper wasn't dream world, it would be a real paper with real news. And why should Ted mock at people who didn't like football? And I'm not interested in the Cubs, he brooded. And the boys at school are common.

The last time he had taken Ted's advice, a lot of good it had done! And if it was so right, why did he put in so much "Don't tell Mum this" and "Don't tell Ewan that"? Him and his secret advice and his secret work! It was the last time he would ask Ted for anything! I hope his next job is miles and miles away and takes years!

### 12 Writes Story

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A week passed and Martin's reporter's notebook was still blank. Exhibitions, concerts and suchlike didn't seem to be happening, and big disasters continued to keep out of the neighbourhood. The only disasters around here, he decided, are the ones that happen to me. Can't put them in the paper, though. The only one he would have liked to put there was what Dave McHugh had said, and then everybody would know how wicked and stupid he was. But that would mean his mum storming round again, and Daddy learning the whole story. He mused about Dave. I wonder if he'll rush to join the Army the minute he's old enough. "Here I come, Army, you've got a hero now, the Gerries have had it!" Martin smiled. Gosh, suppose they put him in charge of calling people up! And, in a peal of laughter, he knew what to write.

Sergeant David, in a huge, chauffeur-driven Rolls Royce with a huge Union Jack on its bonnet, drove up and down the country rounding up folk who were dodging the Army. He was so wicked and stupid that he thought even cripples were putting it on, so he bundled them all into the Rolls and took them to the barracks.

There was a legless beggar in the gutter, with pennies in a hat beside him. "You're rolling in money," cried Sergeant David, "and not fighting in the war."

"But, sir," the beggar pointed out, "I have no legs."

"The Army will give you wooden ones," snapped Sergeant David. "Come along with me!"

There were so many complaints that Sergeant David was summoned to the General for wasting petrol and giving the Army a bad name. "You've made a hash of this job," said the General, "so I'm sending you away to fight the Jerries."

And Sergeant David begged, "Oh no, help! I've got a very bad cold! I've got a terrible pain in my back!"

Martin gave it the title A Nasty, Stuck-up Piece of Work and took it straight to Ewan. Ewan was in the room which his mother called his den and he called his office. It was also his bedroom, though you could hardly see the bed, or the floor, for sheets of paper, school books and jotters, and a reserve pile of reporter's notebooks, as well as bottles of ink and bottles of fizzy drinks.

"You've made up a story? But a newspaper's supposed to have true stories, not made-up ones."

"You could have a made-up one, too. They do in the Sunday Post. Have a look at it, anyway."

Ewan read a few words and started chuckling. When he got to the end, he was shaking with laughter. "It's a good story! I suppose we could have one made-up story if the rest are all true. How did you think of it all?"

Martin told of the row with Dave, though nothing of what had happened afterwards. He added, "I'm not in the habit of hitting people, though. Really I'm not. I usually deal with things in intelligent ways."

"Oh – well – yes, but he went too far, saying all that. He is stuck-up, 'cos I asked him if he'd like to be a reporter, and he said he'd better things to do than play stupid games. Well, I'm glad now – we don't want people like that on the paper. It's hard to get reporters round here. I've only got three besides you. Two don't live in the neighbourhood, they're boys from my school. But you know Shirley Frame?"

"I know her a bit."

"Well, she's going to be the women's reporter. Things like recipes and fashion and all that."

Martin pondered. "Ewan, if a lot of people are supposed to be reading this paper, how are you going to get enough papers made? Real newspapers have printing-presses."

"Oh, I don't need them, because one paper a week will be enough. To start with, anyway. I'll pass it round among folk I know, then, if they like it, they'll tell others. The price will be one penny, but they can give more if they like. Then there'll be money to buy more paper and ink and things. I think they'd give more when they read your story. Martin, could you do a story for the next one, too – and all of them?"

"Well – I don't know if I could think of anything. This one sort of came to me."

"I bet you will. Would you like some lemonade?"

"No thanks. I'll be wanted back home in a minute."

On the way home, Martin wondered if his story would ever find its way to Dave. It was nice to think of the shock he'd get. Supposing he came and bashed him, though? He probably wanted to anyway. Well, I'll just have to take that risk, Martin decided. And get some punches back at him if I can. I know one thing. I'm not going to shake his hand after it!

It had been a lovely time, writing the story and showing it to Ewan. Martin sighed as he approached his house. I wish life was all writing stories and showing them to people, and not all these other things.

### 13 Shirley

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Martin drank Bovril whenever he could and he looked out for chances to carry heavy shopping bags, or to move furniture for Georgina when she was cleaning. At bedtime, he would examine his arm muscles and scan his whole body to see if more hairs were growing. After a while, the muscles seemed a wee bit bigger and harder, and there were maybe a few more hairs, but it was disappointing really.

Nothing like the hairs on Shirley's arms! He was playing one evening with Ewan, Shirley and a friend of hers called Moira. Shirley's cardigan sleeves were rolled up. Martin thought, Fancy all those hairs on a girl's arms! They were playing at concerts, the girls were the performers, the boys the audience. He and Ewan sat at the foot of some steps below the outer door of a tenement. The pavement in front was the stage.

Moira sang a couple of songs and then Shirley said, "We're going to do a sketch." She took Moira aside and whispered to her. In the sketch, Moira asked Shirley who she had been out with "I've been out with the butcher's boy," Shirley answered. "The butcher's boy taught me a lot of things."

"What did he teach you?"

Shirley put one hand on Ewan's back and bent him forward. With her other hand, she thumped his back and she said, "This is what the butcher's boy taught me to do!" She gave him a few more thumps and she kept saying, "This is what the butcher's boy taught me to do! And this is what the butcher's boy taught me to do!"

Martin wondered if he would also get it. Ewan wasn't resisting, but should he? His eyes rested on the hairs on her arms... Before he could put his thoughts together, she was doing it to him. Just the same as she had done to Ewan. She had him bent down in front of her bare legs and knees. Her legs had hairs of strength, too, though not as much as on her arms. When she'd finished, he looked up and caught the smile on her face, the shine in her eyes.

The rest of the concert was ordinary songs and jokes. Then there was some ordinary talk about how the Weekly Searchlight was coming along. Ewan seemed no different from usual, but Martin, all the time he was talking with the others, was thinking about the way Shirley had bashed them – he gave it that word, though he knew it wasn't the right one. He'd never before thought of girls fighting. He kept looking at her arms, legs and knees.

Undressing that night, he didn't feel like examining his muscles and hairs. He tried to think whether he had been scared to resist her. And what would have happened if he had? Maybe she would have pulled him off the step and got him flat on the ground, looking up at her legs and knees.

He decided not to bother with his prayers. As he got into bed, he remembered the whispering before the sketch. She'd been planning it, making sure Moira said the right things. Naughty Shirley! And he remembered the way she'd smiled. Pleased with herself, proud of her strength! He didn't think the butcher's boy was real, but if he were and had seen what she'd done, he'd praise Shirley, and Shirley would smile at the butcher's boy...

He was bursting to do the wicked thing that led to the lunatic asylum. He'd controlled it ever since that day, so maybe just this once... Oh, he had to!

### 14 School Again

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The first day of the new term wasn't nearly as bad as Martin had feared. Though some boys shunned him, there were others who talked to him as if they wanted to make up for what had happened, but without mentioning it.

Next day, Eric and Archie came into his corner of the playground and showed him cigarette cards. "If anyone in your house smokes," said Eric, "there'll likely be some cards in the packet."

"Oh yes – my mum does a bit and there are some."

"We can maybe swap with you if you bring them," said Archie.

"O.K., I'll ask her for them. She only throws them out."

Then they asked if he would like a game of tig. Some others joined in. And Martin spent no more playtimes in the corner.

He thought, They're not really common when you get to know them. Well – some of the others are. The less I have to do with them, the better. But then it struck him that the less he had to do with Dave McHugh, the better, and Mummy would never call him common. He puzzled over it, but didn't get far with it just then because of other worries.

Pat giving him cheek was one. Things like, Here comes tidy Martin or imitating his walk. Martin decided that the intelligent way to deal with that was to ignore it. Pat was having a lot of wrestles with boys in his class. He always won. Every day, in the playground when school had finished, he would unstrap his schoolbag from his back, fling it down, and start on someone. Then his knees would be on the other boy's chest. Pat would get up, smiling, re-strap his schoolbag and walk away with a swagger. Martin would take in all he could of it from the corner of his eye as he passed, or from quick glances back. He thought about trying to push Pat off the chest he was kneeling on. Well – wasn't his fight... or was he scared...? He'd picture it all at bedtime. If he could, he would keep himself from doing the wicked thing, but it was often too much for him.

Whenever he saw Shirley, he looked at her legs and knees and at her arms if they were bare. Once, he, Shirley, Ewan and the two Linenhill boys who were Weekly Searchlight reporters were sitting on a seat in the play park. One of the boys remarked that it was his eleventh birthday. In a flash, Shirley had his back bent down, giving him thumps – "One. Two. Three..." – a real strong one at eleven. She was full of glee and laughter as she did it. The boy took it as a joke, and said, "Just break my back while you're at it!" Her arms were covered. Martin looked at her legs and knees.

At bedtime, he thought of the way she'd jumped at her chance, and how she'd loved doing it. She must have been saying to herself, "Butcher's boy! Butcher's boy!" It was no good even trying to hold himself back.

He was getting very worried indeed. Once, in the den with Ewan, who was measuring up columns for the newspaper, he had a struggle with himself and asked, "You mind the time we were playing at concerts, and Shirley gave us that – the thumping she did? Did – did you feel anything?"

"Oh, yes, a bit, but it wasn't really very hard, was it?"

"No," said Martin. Ewan went on making pencil marks. Martin couldn't face getting himself all keyed up again.

He tried to pray about it, but praying was getting worse and worse. Thoughts about people dying always burst in. I'm so wicked I can't even pray. And he'd huddle under the bedclothes, sobbing, hating himself, frightened.

If he got sums wrong or took a while to understand something, he wondered if it were a sign of his brain starting to crumble, the start of going mad. But he decided it couldn't be as bad as that – not yet, anyway – because he was managing most of his lessons. What was more, Ewan told him that the Searchlight readers were enjoying his stories, and Ewan's mother told him he was gifted that way and should keep it up **.** Mummy and Daddy were less complimentary. They said the things that happened in the stories were ridiculous and it was time he come down to earth. But Ewan said, "They're in a minority!"

Martin tried hard to drive out thoughts of Pat and Shirley by concentrating on writing and reading. But there was a scene in Oliver Twist which didn't help, the one where Mrs Bumble gave Mr Bumble a bashing. He read it over a few times, then he took it to Mummy and said, "Could you read this from here to here, because I want to ask you something about it?"

"Oh dear, you would choose when I'm in the middle of writing a letter. All right, then, let's have a look." She skimmed through it rapidly. "Oh, is it the word 'prerogative'? That means – oh, how can I put it? –"

"I looked that up in the dictionary. It means a right or privilege belonging to a particular person or group."

"Well – yes. Well, the dictionary's right of course. You don't need to check what it says with me."

"No, it's – it's not that. It's the rest of it."

"But the rest of it's perfectly clear, isn't it?"

"But does it – does it worry you when you read that?"

"No. Why should it worry me?" She handed back the book and lifted up her pen.

"Well – Mrs Bumble wins against Mr Bumble."

"Mr Bumble thoroughly deserved it. Goodness gracious, it's only a made-up story, Martin."

He couldn't think what to say next and took the book away.

He always took a quick look at Pat's knees when he saw his, and thought that they must have been on the chest of every boy in his class. Soon, the sight of any boy kneeling on another's chest brought the feeling on.

Once, Martin, Eric and Archie were in the park near the school, sitting on newly-mown grass. Eric started fooling about and thrust grass down the others' necks. Martin jumped on top of him and knelt on his chest. Archie scooped a big handful of grass and stuck it down Eric's neck. Eric cried, "I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" through a spasm of giggles. Martin released him and thought, I've done it to somebody now and, briefly, as he laughed and joked with them, all that worry left him. But then he thought, It's not the same if he's down on the ground already. That's not winning anything.

Next time Pat gave cheek, Martin pounced and got him down on his back, reckoning it was about time too, even though it wasn't winning anything to do that to a smaller boy. "You bugger!" screamed Pat. "I'll get my big brother to you. He'll murder you!" And, as Martin walked off, Pat kept shouting, "He'll murder you!"

Not fair! Martin thought. I didn't do anything wrong. He prayed, I know I'll not win, but, please, help me to hold my own.

The worst part of it was not knowing how and when it would happen, for Pat's brother, Jim, didn't go to Eveley Park School. Soon after the term had started, he'd won a scholarship to one of the fee-paying schools. Martin hadn't been given the chance, despite a letter to his parents from his headmaster recommending that he should go in for it. Mummy had been pleased, but Daddy had said, "There's a means test involved, as well as the exam. I don't like that."

"What's a means test?" Martin had asked.

Daddy opened out the pages of a funny-looking booklet that had come with the letter, and said, "This is a means test – lots and lots of questions about how much money you've got."

This astonished Martin. "But it's not nice to ask about money, is it?"

"Exactly."

Jim appeared the day after the to-do with Pat. He blocked Martin's path in a quiet street on his way home from school. Jim was slightly bigger than Martin. "Why did you knock my wee brother down?"

"I didn't knock him down. I sort of swung him down. He gave me cheek. He's always giving cheek. He's given me lots of cheek before and I've not done anything. And when I got him down, it was on clean ground, not in a pile of cement like what he did to me!"

"Listen, pal, do you want a fight?"

"Yes, if you do." Martin was very frightened, but hoped it wouldn't show.

"You won't get me down like you got Pat down." Martin took off his glasses and put them in their case.

Jim said slowly, "I know he does give a lot of cheek. But I can't let someone knock my wee brother down."

"I didn't knock him down, I tell you."

As they squared up to each other, Jim asked, "In real or in fun?"

After a moment's bewilderment, Martin said, "It's up to you. It's you that wants a fight."

Jim seemed to be finding this difficult. He said at last, "Well, as you didn't really knock him down – in fun."

Martin thought, "Whe-eew, thank goodness!"

They did a bit of half-hearted sparring till Jim said, "You might as well get your glasses on. We're not hitting faces. You don't know much about boxing, do you?"

"No, not much."

"When you get your guard up, it should be – see – like this. If that had been in real, you'd have been knocked out right at the start."

"Have you knocked people out?"

Jim told him he had knocked hundreds of people out. Martin looked at the fists Jim was demonstrating with. And, on parting, he shook hands with Jim to get the thrill of touching a hand that had knocked people out.

He thought over it all at bedtime. He'd been brave and dead scared at the same time... funny how you could be both. But he had stood up for himself. What a narrow escape, though! He pictured Jim's fist knocking him out. It brought the wicked feeling on, and though he managed to hold out against it this time, he knew nothing much had changed.

### 15 Lillian

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Sometimes, going to or from school, Martin would meet up with a girl who was in the class above his. She lived in his street and her name was Lillian. She liked to wear bright-coloured frocks and bright red ribbons. She was very clever. She showed him how to shape birds, bowler hats, lots of different things, from bits of paper. And she explained decimals, which he was finding difficult, better than the teacher did. They got into the habit of meeting up. He felt pleased that such a clever girl should want to talk to him every day.

One day, she had a bottle of lemonade to share with him, and said, "Let's go in here to drink it." She opened the outer door to a tenement stair. "It'll be nice and cool in here."

Inside, she put her back against the door. "Undo your fly, Martin," she said.

He was utterly stunned. "No." He breathed it rather than said it.

"I'll hit you with the bottle if you don't," Lillian said in a sure, firm voice.

He unbuttoned his fly, then quavered, "Do – you want –?"

"Yes." She gave the tip of his penis a quick, light touch with one finger. "You can button it up now."

"Is – that – all?"

She said, "Yes."

Outside, she walked quickly away from him. He had a feeling of a terrible thing having happened to him.

No one could get a word out of him for the rest of the day.

Next day, at his breakfast, which was after Daddy had left for work, he told Mummy he was not going to school. He refused for a long time to give any reason. Mummy was angry at first, but, suddenly, she paused, and asked, "Did something happen at school that's upset you?"

He didn't answer.

She said gently, "It'll be much better if you tell me. You'll feel much better if you do."

Painfully, he got the story out.

She said, "Well, Martin, things like that do sometimes happen. You need to be careful who you pal up with. Couldn't you have pushed her aside or something?"

"Well – she had the bottle – and I was so –"

"Yes, I know it wasn't easy for you."

That night, Daddy went round and saw Lillian's parents. When he returned, he said, "We had a good talk about it. There shouldn't be my more trouble. I think you should go to school as normal tomorrow."

The surprising thing was that Lillian was not at school for a while. When she came back, the bright-coloured frocks and the ribbons were no more, and it was she who seemed terrified of being anywhere near him.

Before long, it went out of conscious memory.

### 16 The Regime

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The wicked bedtime feelings continued. For long periods, he avoided fiddling, for fear of going mad – till he felt he'd go mad if he didn't.

He seemed to be forever washing his hands. If he touched an object or a part of his clothing that he had last touched when his hands had been dirty from the lavatory, they had to be washed again. He tried to keep night-time trips to the bathroom noiseless, but it wasn't long before Daddy asked about them.

He did this in the front room, where Martin was about to start homework. When Martin explained that somehow his hands were always getting dirty, Daddy asked, "Martin, are you still abusing yourself?"

"Abu– you mean –"

"I mean playing with your private parts."

There was a pause, and then Martin said, "No", guilt for the lie flooding him.

"Martin, if you are, it's very important that you tell me. I know that you might not find it easy to tell me. It is a difficult thing to talk about. But I'm asking because I want to help you deal with it. And I can't help you if you don't tell me."

So Martin told him and said he was very sorry to have lied. Daddy didn't go on about the lie, nor did he ask about the feelings which brought the self-abuse on. What he did was to draw up there and then what he called a regime. All of Martin's time was to be taken up by healthy activities. He must make sure that a good deal of time was spent on physical exercises and games. There were to be cold baths night and morning. And, every night before bedtime, he was to climb the Blackford Hill, unless it was pouring rain, when he had to exercise for half-an-hour instead.

For a while, Martin told himself that he was enjoying this healthy life. But there were things that upset him. He became aware that the undersheet of his bed was getting checked for stains. If he happened to be longer than usual in the lavatory, Mummy or Daddy or Georgina would call, "Going to be long, Martin?" Once, he saw two boys wrestling in the grass on the Blackford Hill – a ding-dong fight, first one on top, then the other. Martin quivered all over and, when he came down, went into the wood and did the wicked thing in the undergrowth.

The hand-washing stopped, but another problem came. If he were in a public toilet, with anyone else nearby, the pee wouldn't come.

He became a bundle of nerves, but didn't dare show it at home. There was no one anywhere he could talk to about his troubles. It terrified him to be so alone with them. Then he remembered that there was someone. Dr Orgreave had been kind and friendly that time he'd had the fever. He should see the doctor, anyway, if he couldn't pee when he needed to.

He made up his mind to go to the surgery, on his own, without telling anyone. He'd talk first about – urine, he'd better call it.

### 17 Is Helped

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What Dr Orgreave said amazed him. A lot of people had that difficulty in public toilets. Coming to the doctor about it had been very sensible, but he shouldn't worry – keeping the urine in was uncomfortable, but the bladder could hold it safely.

He was told that the correct word for what he called self-abuse was masturbation and that it was harmless. It couldn't possibly lead to madness.

Martin gaped. "But Mummy and Daddy said it does and that it's a terrible thing to do."

"They're wrong, Martin. They're mistaken. You see, there's a lot of misunderstanding and ignorance about it, old-fashioned ideas which we now know are false. But many people besides your parents – people who in other ways are sensible – still cling on to all these old myths and fears. But they're all nonsense."

Martin's relief was so overpowering that tears came.

The doctor put a hand under Martin's chin and said, "You've been through a really bad time, haven't you?"

"Yes, I have."

"I think I ought to have a word with your parents about it, don't you?"

"Well – maybe they'd be angry at me coming without telling them."

"No, I don't think they would. It's got to be sorted out." He went on, as he wrote some notes, "You've had all these worries building up for quite some time, then?"

"Yes, quite a long time."

"You've become quite ill with them, from the look of you. And, till you came to see me, you kept them all to yourself? There was no one you felt you could talk to about them?"

"Well – no – not really."

"That always makes troubles seem worse than they are. And though I've cut them down to size for you, I think that after all you've been through, it might help if you saw another doctor who knows more about the kind of problems you've been having than I do. It's not that I think there's much wrong with you, but you'd feel a lot better if you had a good talk with someone like that. I'll write to your parents tonight and call round in a day or two. Then we'll see if it can be arranged."

Some ten days later, Mummy told Martin at breakfast, "There's a letter from this Child Guidance place. They want to see us there on Thursday at quarter-past-four." It was usually Daddy who went through the letters, but a lot had changed in those ten days. Dr Orgreave had been shocked to discover how ill he was getting and had told him he must rest in bed for a period. Mummy and Pearl now took turns to go to the shop to deal with customers and paperwork, while Daddy's tailoring was spread among the staff of three.

A troubled time, a sadness all through the house. But his parents now spoke in a kindlier way to him. Mummy had said, "The doctor's going to arrange for you to see someone about the things that have been worrying you lately. I'm glad about that. I'm sure it'll help you." Daddy would thank him for doing extra shopping or bringing tea and biscuits to the bedroom.

The regime had been brought to an end, but in a funny sort of way. They'd said things like, "It's a bit chilly for the Blackford Hill tonight" or "Daddy's having an early bath, he said you don't need to bother going in for your cold one." They never said they'd been all wrong about masturbation. He got angry sometimes, thinking of that. He'd gone through... gone through terror... and, now, not a word... When Daddy had made him apologise to the McHughs, he'd said, "No one likes saying they're sorry, Martin, but no one's always right and never has to." Martin had thought about reminding Daddy of that and then saying, "You were wrong about masturbation." But upsetting Daddy when he was ill! That would be wicked! There had already been all those wicked prayers.

He'd thought hard about the wicked prayers. God was good and so He wouldn't have made Daddy ill because of those prayers, even if they had been real ones, deliberate ones, ones he had really meant. Realising that was a great relief. All the same, it had been wicked to pray them. God not answering them didn't change that. So he had prayed to be forgiven and not to be wicked again, and for Daddy to get better, adding, And that is all I'm praying, nothing else to be counted. Amen.

Martin asked, "They want to see both of us on Thursday?"

"Yes. You've to see the doctor and I've to see the social worker."

"What's a social worker?"

"Well – a social worker is someone who –" It seemed like Mummy was having a job to explain. "Social workers assist doctors sometimes. They work with families. They deal with – with anything that's not medical."

Martin decided he would look it up in the dictionary later.

Mummy said, "If I meet you from school on Thursday, that's the best plan. I hope things'll be easier for you when you've seen this doctor." She looked at the letter again. Her face was sad. Then she looked at him. "Martin, I don't want you to feel that if something's bothering you or frightening you in future, you can't talk to Daddy or me about it. I'm – I'm not saying you were wrong to go and see Dr Orgreave instead of talking to us. It wasn't your fault. It was – well, how things turned out. And it's good that you're going to have this other doctor to talk to, but I don't want you to feel that you can't talk to us as well. I know we don't know all the things that doctors know and that we got some things wrong – but what I mean is, if a kid can't go to his parents when he's worried, then who can he go to?" She frowned, as if seeing that there was an obvious answer he could make.

But he felt comforted and wanted to comfort her. "I'd always go to you and Daddy. It's just that I got so frightened that –"

"It wasn't your fault, Martin." She hugged him. "Now, practical arrangements. You know that bakery shop on the main road near your school – the one that has a wee cafe? We can have a quick cup of tea there and then go and see them. Now, Martin –" She paused. "One other thing." Something else she was having a job with, whatever it was. "Can you do something for me when we're in the café? When the waitress comes and serves us, can you say to me, 'You said to remind you about cakes'."

"Yes. You said to remind you about cakes."

"That's it. I don't want to have any, you see – with my diet – but, seeing cakes there, I could just forget. You can have one if you like, no problem there. What with your father being ill and Child Guidance seeing you, we've got enough to be going on with."

Martin had several Thursday afternoons with Dr Pulliford, and Mummy saw the social worker just that one time. "A very nice, understanding lady," she told Martin. "We had a very good talk."

"What did you talk about?" He knew from the dictionary that it must have been personal, social and relationship problems.

"Well – it was a general talk, really. About the family background. I told her about Daddy being ill – and then, about my diabetes, of course. Things like that. I expect she'll pass it on to the doctor to give him a better idea of – well –"

"The family background?"

"Yes, that's it. The family background."

Dr Pulliford didn't look young exactly, but nor did he look middle-aged exactly, which, in Martin's estimation, put him in his late thirties. He had a quiet, friendly way of talking, which made you stop feeling nervous. Martin thought it would be nice to have him as a dad. He didn't mean it wasn't nice having his own dad, of course.

The doctor said a lot of helpful things. The urine difficulty, and also bad thoughts coming into prayers, were more likely to happen the more Martin worried about them happening. "It's like having a poem to recite, and you worry in advance about forgetting the lines. Have you ever done that?"

"Yes, sometimes. It makes it worse."

"Yes, it does. And that's because you worry yourself into forgetting them. And those wicked prayers – they're not really wicked and they're not really prayers. We all get bad thoughts going through our heads at times. We might suddenly wish that someone who's upset us would die, even when it's someone we really love. We can't help the thought coming and, of course, we don't mean it."

And that was the end of those two difficulties. Mummy remarked, "You seem a lot cheerier, Martin. A lot better in yourself. Dr Pulliford must be doing you good."

"Yes," agreed Daddy. "Child Guidance has turned out to be a very good idea."

### 18 Cowardice

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At the next session, though finding it hard to talk about at first, Martin gradually explained how Pat, and Jim, and boys kneeling on others' chests, excited him. He thought he'd better say a bit about Shirley, too, but he didn't say he'd been scared to resist.

"Has anyone," Dr Pulliford asked, "ever told you anything about these feelings of excitement, apart from putting you in a panic about masturbation?"

"No."

"Well, we all have them in one form or another. They're called sexual feelings. As you grow older, you'll find girls, and then women, more exciting than males." He went on to describe how this produced babies.

Martin nodded to show he understood.

"But you look as if there's still something about it which frightens you."

"Well –" Martin paused, eyeing the floor. "I'm not very strong, you see."

"What makes you think you're not very strong?"

"Well – I'm no good at fighting. Even Pat got me down. Other boys are good at fighting and wrestling. I'm – no good at it."

"I see. So have you lost every fight and every wrestle you've ever had?"

Martin explained why the ones he hadn't lost still couldn't be counted as winning anything.

"Well, I wonder now. You see, it seems to me that you've usually managed to hold your own. Wouldn't you think so, Martin?"

"Well – yes, I suppose so." But Martin was thinking, Holding your own isn't the same as winning.

"But in spite of holding your own, all your sexual feelings are about someone beating you in a fight or wrestle or someone winning a wrestle which you see. And you get your thrill from thinking how much better at fighting they are than you. So – really – you're despising yourself, aren't you?"

"Yes. Yes, I am. That's – that's bad, isn't it?"

"Well, it does seem to prey on your mind a lot. Now, when you were describing it, you told me quite a lot about boys, but not much about girls. Would you like to tell me a bit more about Shirley?"

"Like what?"

"You told me what she did to you. Tell me what you felt about it."

"Well – I felt excited. And then –" Martin described what she had done to the Linenhill boy, the eleven thumps for his eleventh birthday.

Dr Pulliford asked more about Shirley.

Martin gave short, guarded answers.

At the next session, the doctor again tried to draw him out on Shirley, and then asked about the girls at his school. Martin explained that the boys didn't have much to do with them, so he didn't know them very well. "Tell me about any you do know," said the doctor.

"I don't really know any of them."

"What about the ones who are not in your class? The girls in the class above you, for instance?"

"Oh, we hardly ever have anything to do with them."

"No? There was never any girl besides Shirley that you got to know well?"

Martin shook his head.

"Has there ever been any kind of incident with any girl besides Shirley?"

"No. Just Shirley." Martin shifted about in his chair a little impatiently. The questions were getting sillier and sillier!

Next time, it wasn't a chair, it was a couch. He was to lie back, relax and answer questions. It was very important that he should give the first answer that came into his head. At least the questions weren't about girls this time! It was a real mix of questions, no point in most of them. And then – "What's the most frightening thing that's ever happened to you?"

"When Mummy said I'd finish up in the lunatic asylum if I didn't stop fiddling."

"What else that was very, very frightening?"

"Daddy giving me a row for reading his paper. Well, for lying about it." He told what had happened.

"Yes, he was a bit hard on you, wasn't he? Right, Martin, I think we'll stop the questions. Now, let me explain something to you. When one doctor refers someone – as we call it – to another doctor, the first doctor naturally writes to the new doctor to tell him a bit about the person. Not a lot, just the main things which have come to his attention. Nearly all that I know about you is what you yourself have told me. In the kind of work I do, that's much more useful. Nevertheless, there is a certain amount in Dr Orgreave's notes. Before he wrote to me, he saw your parents. They told him of something that happened to you which upset and frightened you very badly indeed. They mentioned it because they thought it might be important, and they were right about that." The doctor moved his chair closer to the couch and spoke very gently. "This was an incident with a girl a bit older than yourself, a most unpleasant thing that happened in a tenement stair."

It came back as a picture: the tenement stair, Lillian, the bottle, the fly unbuttoned. "Lillian." He gulped over her name. "I'd forgotten."

"Yes, I could tell that you'd forgotten. It's a very unhappy thing to remember, isn't it?"

Martin was silent as the shame of it all came back.

"It was a horrible, frightening thing to happen to you. Any boy that anything like that happened to would feel terrible about it. I'm sorry I had to bring it up the way I did. I tried to get you to remember for yourself. That would have been much better, but you were obviously not going to. You may find you'll feel better if you talk about it. Tell me what you remember of what happened."

"Well – she said the stair would be a nice cool place to go and drink the bottle of lemonade. Then, the minute we got in, she said she'd hit me with it if I didn't undo my fly. And – and I just – did what she – I'd forgotten about it! What did you bring it up for, if I'd forgotten?" He was shouting and weeping now. "It's over! I'd forgotten about it."

"The things we forget aren't always over. There are some kinds of things we all forget just because they're so painful. But they're in the back of our minds all the time. And if they're just left like that, to carry on hurting us, they can in the end make us terribly unhappy. That's why it's better to bring them out and talk about them, even though it isn't easy."

Martin, comforted a little by the sound of the voice, said, "Yes – well – I'm sorry I shouted."

"Martin, I don't mind you shouting. Any time you feel like shouting at me, just you do it. So – do you see now why I'd like you to tell me all about Lillian?"

Martin told it, ending, "It was terrible, letting her do it. She did just what she liked. I didn't fight, I just let her. I was a terrible coward."

"You weren't a terrible coward when that boy McHugh said those wicked things about your father, and you went for him. Nor when Jim was standing in your way, demanding a fight. Both of them boys who were bigger than you, and Jim, from what you told me, a real bruiser."

"Well – no – but that was different."

"Yes, it was, of course. But can you see the ways in which it was different?"

"Well, Lillian had a bottle."

"Yes, that's one very important difference. She had a weapon, a pretty vicious weapon if she'd chosen to use it. Any other differences?"

Martin thought. "Well, she got me more frightened. I was very frightened with Jim, but – she was a lot more frightening than Jim – not just the bottle – her."

"I'm sure she was. And, when you think about it, she was bound to be, wasn't she? You knew what to expect when you saw Jim in your way. But Lillian – she'd been friendly to you, helped you with arithmetic, had been like a grown-up in some ways. Then, in the tenement, all that suddenly changes, she's completely different, threatening you with a bottle, saying things that just stun you. I think you must have been far too stunned, far too shaken, to think about resisting. And you know, Martin, anyone would go to pieces in a situation like that – faced with a totally unexpected threat. So –" The doctor paused. "– do you still think you were a terrible coward?"

"Well – maybe I wasn't really."

"You don't sound very sure. I think we should leave it there for now and return to it next week. It's been a long session and quite a heavy one for you. But we've made a start on tackling the real problems. I'd say this has been the best session we've had."

Well, it's not what I'd say! Martin thought as he walked home. And he didn't feel better for talking about it. He felt much worse. Lillian had done just what she wanted in that tenement stair – that was the real truth. All that stuff about the McHugh boy and Jim had nothing to do with it. Imagine either of them letting her get away with that! Or any boy... except... except... He was just saying all that to make me feel better. That's what doctors do. They say any kind of thing to make you feel better.

At bedtime, he tried to pray about it. Once, at a children's service, the minister had said that praying was talking to God, and there was nothing – nothing at all – you couldn't talk to God about. But those horrible memories? The terrible cowardice? It couldn't be done. Just couldn't be done.

At his next session, the first thing Martin said was, "How long do I have to keep coming here?"

"You're not too happy about coming here, then?"

"Well – it's helped me – it's helped me with some things, but – it's really awful having all that stuff about Lillian brought up."

"Yes, I do understand that. But hasn't it been of some help? You remember that what you called your terrible cowardice was beginning to look like nothing of the sort?"

Martin didn't answer. Dr Pulliford went on, "But it's still hurting, isn't it? That means there is more to it, that we do need to look at it some more, even though you'll find some of it very painful. It's a bit like going to the dentist, you know. You see, you could have a very bad, rotting tooth, which at the moment is not giving you any pain. So, at the moment, you'd be more comfortable just leaving it rather than having the dentist remove it. But, all the time, it's getting worse and poisoning your system. So, in the end, it's going to be more painful than if you had it extracted in time. Now, I'm sure you wouldn't want to let that tooth do so much damage, and I don't think you really want to let those worries go untreated, either."

"But if I don't want to come here, do I have to?"

"You're frightened about coming here, aren't you? I don't want it to be frightening for you, that's the last thing I want. What is it – what is it really – that's frightening you?"

"It's not – not exactly frightening me. It's just – well, I told you – it's horrible, it makes me feel worse."

"But, Martin, in these sessions, you can be helped through all that." Dr Pulliford went on to explain that this kind of treatment had been designed for that purpose. It made Martin feel very uncomfortable, he tried not to listen. He replied, "But do I have to come if I don't want to?"

"No. I wouldn't want to compel you. Going strictly by the law, it might be possible, but you couldn't be helped that way. I can only help you if we work together and you are willing to be helped."

At last – the straight answer Martin needed. He said that he didn't want to come back. The doctor tried to draw him out on it, but Martin stuck to that one point. In the end, the doctor said, "Well, if that's your decision. I'll write to your parents and explain that treatment has ceased at your wish, but that they – or you – can always contact me if there should be – if it is thought that I could be of help."

Martin, though he should have felt glad, felt sort of strange. He said, "Thanks for all the help you did give."

"I'd be happy to give more."

It was Dr Pulliford who broke the long silence. "Well, let's hope for the best."

### 19 Coping

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As his schooldays passed, Martin saw no reason to regret quitting Dr Pulliford. At Ward Secondary School, he was among the brighter boys and girls, though not the very brightest, and he was never bullied. He was still shy, but got friendly with a few boys, mostly, like himself, quiet and no good at games, but fun to talk to once the ice had been broken.

Outside school, he kept up his friendship with Ewan. The Weekly Searchlight had given way to a monthly South Side Journal, which was much more literary. Martin wrote poems as well as stories now. Ewan tried his hand at a detective serial, whose thickening plot spanned many months. Martin was almost sure that a character loading odd-shaped parcels onto a yacht by night had been murdered much earlier, and almost asked to see the back-numbers, but he didn't want to make Ewan feel foolish. Ewan was developing a terrific sense of humour, especially when he told funny stories about the Linenhill teachers and mimicked them. The two of them went through a craze for non-stop punning, then one for talking in rhyme. In these ways, they had many long, nonsensical, happy summer evening walks.

At home, it was much less happy. His father was never able to work again. He died when Martin was thirteen. Numbly, Martin got caught up in all the strangeness of funeral preparations. He wasn't grief-stricken, as Mum was. At the end of the funeral, the minister consoled her and told Martin he was being very brave. Feeling guilty, he resolved to be a good son to her and a good man, like Dad.

Under the will, the shop was sold and a trust fund set up, controlled by Dad's solicitor. Mr McGill decided that Georgina, the maid, could no longer be afforded. He easily overruled Mum's protests. She had become less formidable as she had grown more ill. Her resolutions about diet had never lasted. She now tired very quickly and she was frequently in hospital.

Martin at such times would stay with Pearl and Ted. In the early days, this meant with Pearl only, as Ted was away on his secret work. "In hospital again" sighed Martin, as, at the start of one such period, he and Pearl sat down to tea. "She'd only been out three weeks. That's – that's not good, is it?"

"Well – yes and no. It is a setback, certainly. But diabetes is the sort of condition that needs to be checked on regularly – monitoring, as they call it. They've caught the setback in time and what they do is to stabilise it. So when she's in, it's better that she should be in, if you see what I mean. With diabetes, that sort of thing has to be lived with."

Martin took in the reassuring sound of monitoring, stabilising and living with. He nodded, and tucked in to his tea. Pearl was a much better cook than Mum. She seemed to like having him there, to enjoy being motherly. Always, midway through his homework, she'd bring him a cup of coffee. Anything like that at home, he had to make for himself!

But towards the end of the war, with Ted again in residence, it didn't always feel so cosy. It all depended on what kind of mood he was in. In a good mood, he would share jokes and could even make maths (Martin's weakest subject) something like comprehensible. In a bad mood, he'd find things to moan about. His favourite moan was that Martin didn't socialise enough. This was a new word for all that stuff about football and making new friends. "Even if you don't like playing football, you should at least know something about it. Football is one of the main things that people talk about, and if you can't join in, you're going to feel very out of it."

"There's boys I know at school who never talk about football."

"The boys you know are not typical. When you leave school and meet up with people at parties or going for a drink in a pub, a lot of the talk will be about football."

"I won't go to those parties or those pubs!"

"That remark proves my point!"

No winning with Ted – you came out with what you thought was a good answer, only to be crushed! It even happened over the one and only time he did play football (sort of). Out walking one damp day, he and a couple of untypical boys had chanced upon a deflated and abandoned football, and kicked it about for a laugh. They'd kicked up more mud than ball, and Ted greeted him with, "Your shoes are filthy! What on earth have you been doing?"

Martin, in a burst of laughter, said, "Playing football!"

"That's not funny or clever, Martin. It's just cheeky and childish."

Once, when Ted seemed to be in a good mood, Martin showed him the school magazine, with two poems and one story of his in it. "Yes," said Ted, "well done." But, skimming through the magazine, he went on, "H–mm, they obviously have a good choice of clubs and societies at Ward. Have you joined any?"

"No," said Martin, thinking, Here goes!

"You'd think there'd be something out of this lot that's up your street. Debating Society – Chess Club – Scripture Union..." Martin broke into the continuing recital with, "I don't really fancy any of them particularly."

"Why not try out one or two and see at first-hand whether you fancy them? If you don't, you don't have to go back, and if you do, you'll be glad you did try. So – what is there to lose?"

"Only one thing he can lose," declared Pearl, "and that's his shyness."

Martin thought, Oh-h – not you too!

A few days later, he told them at breakfast, "I'll be a bit late home today, because I've joined the Dramatic Society. There's a rehearsal after school."

Pearl said, "Oh! I'll keep your tea hot for you, then."

Ted said, "I hope it goes well. I'm sure it will. I'm very glad to hear that."

Casually, Martin said, "I've joined because I like the teacher who runs it."

### 20 Dennis

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Miss Shand taught English. She was a grey-haired, frail-looking lady, but she put more life into lessons than many of the younger teachers. With Shakespeare's plays, she didn't make you memorise long speeches – she'd get the class to act out scenes, then you'd do the scene again, but reading a different part. You might be asked how it had felt to play Shylock straight after playing Antonio. It would lead on to a class discussion. On the few occasions when other teachers had held discussions, Martin had said little or nothing, but Miss Shand's blew away some of that shyness. He liked her also for the nice things she said about his essays and school magazine pieces.

He was a bit disappointed to find that, in the Dramatic Society, you stuck to one part only. "You've got just the right voice and appearance for the reverend gentleman," she told him. The reverend gentleman was one of several village gentry hoodwinked by the village rogue, whom they all despised as stupid. For that part, Dennis was just right. He had a broad accent, fast delivery and mischievous smile. Martin and Dennis drew a lot of fun out of their big scene. Martin's problem was to avoid going out of character by laughing.

Dennis, a first-year pupil, was the youngest boy in the cast and the only one who still wore shorts. He was taller than Martin. At one rehearsal, he ad-libbed in a whisper, "Daft auld idiot!" It fitted in so well that Martin did laugh that time. "Martin!" called Miss Shand. "The last thing he would do is laugh."

At the next rehearsal, Dennis changed his movements during one speech, edging closer to Martin. He couldn't have realised how close he'd got, because his shoulder pushed Martin slightly. "No, Dennis!" Miss Shand broke in. "You're getting it all wrong. He'd never adopt a menacing air. He's always outwardly respectful, especially to the minister. There's a hint of mockery, but only a hint."

The following week, they did the scene where a number of characters searched a cellar with torches. There weren't enough torches to supply all of them. Nor was there enough darkness, so Miss Shand moved away to pull down some window-blinds. Dennis laid claim to Martin's torch. They had a tugging-match, which Dennis won. He said, "You should have won 'cos you're second-year and I'm first-year." He had a hot, flushed look. He stared hard at Martin and repeated those words.

Martin realised, as he went through rehearsal motions, that the ad-libbing and the push must have been done to taunt him. And then... Dennis, first chance he got, had shown him. Martin had been trying to ignore the thought that quite a few short-trousered, first-year boys were bigger than he. He could ignore it no longer. He didn't go straight back to the tea Pearl was keeping hot for him. He had a key to the house which was deserted while Mummy was in hospital. He went there and masturbated. Didn't have to be dead quiet about it there. He could voice muffled shouts of NAUGHTY Dennis!

It made him late starting homework. But it was out of his system and his brain was clear. He resolved to make a better job of the homework than he would have if the upset had never happened. It took him till nearly midnight and he felt exhausted. But he went to bed knowing that he had achieved it.

There was one great help that had come from his past medical treatment – knowing that masturbation was safe. For, from time to time, there were upsets. Masturbation got them out of the way, and then he would put all his energy into the real things, the good things, those that really mattered. Some of his best stories and poems, as well as school essays, were done at just such times.

With some upsets, he had to repeat the procedure more often than he would have liked. Dennis was now on his best behaviour, but Martin thought, It's 'cos you've done what you wanted to do. He imagined Dennis's knees on his chest at the end of a wrestle.

Miss Shand said, "Dennis, you realise you can't wear shorts on the night?"

"Yes, Miss. I'll be in longs by then."

One of the girls joked, "You're a big boy now."

"I know I am!"

Martin considered whether to try to grab the torch off him when next they'd rehearse that scene. It scared him, and he thought, I'm scared of you! I'm second-year, you're first-year and I'm scared of you! But the situation didn't arise, because Miss Shand brought a small trunk crammed with all the missing props.

It had to be carried from her car to the rehearsal room on the top floor. The plan was for Martin and another Dramatic Society boy in his class to take time off an unsupervised study period to do this, the other members being engaged in normal class-work. It turned out that the other boy was off school. Miss Shand said, "Oh, we'd better wait till half-past-three and get some more help."

"Well – I can maybe manage it." Though it took quite an effort, he got the trunk out of the car-boot.

"Let me help you, then. Shall we try one end each?"

When they came to the last flight of stairs she was breathless and exhausted. He was puffing, but he said, "You have a rest, Miss. I'll try it on my own – it's just one more now."

"Be careful, Martin. The stairs are very steep here." He plodded on and was beginning to stagger just as he reached the top.

"Thanks very much indeed," she said. "You've been extremely helpful. You're a lot stronger than you look."

"Not really, Miss. If there'd been another flight, I'd be buckling at the knees."

### 21 Park Girls

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Martin was still small by the age of fifteen and occasional upsets continued through the second and third years at school. Some were caused by girls. Three girls' school pupils, about his own age, were fooling round in a park where he was doing some lunchtime revision. Two were pushing at each other on the grass where they sat, then one got the other flat on her back, and lay, face downwards, on top of her. The third girl tried in vain to roll her off. Then the girl on top brought up her knees and knelt on her victim's chest. Martin glimpsed thick, bare thighs uncovered by the movement of the skirt. The third girl didn't try anything now. The girl underneath cried, "Stop it! Stop it!" angrily. But the winner stayed kneeling on her. Martin thought about going over and saying, "Get off! Leave her alone!" But she'd take no heed of him – might say, "Mind your own business"...or "What are you going to do about it?" Could he overpower her, if it came to that? He set off towards them, still undecided and scared. He'd look ridiculous, butting in like that. She didn't seem to be hurting the other girl. He walked by, as if just passing that way, but kept looking back to see all he could of a girl kneeling on someone's chest. Then he made a bee-line for the empty house. He couldn't wait till after school.

Arriving late at Miss Shand's English class, he apologetically attributed it to "something I needed to attend to in the house." She wasn't strict about isolated lapses and didn't demand details. The girl was still on his mind. For that very reason, he felt specially determined to make the best of the late-started essay.

It earned a reasonably good mark. It was nice to think that it was higher than those gained by several pupils who had had the whole period in which to write their essays. Miss Shand's otherwise favourable written comments included: "Handwriting even more atrocious than usual! See me."

"See me" was an invitation to an end-of-class ticking-off. This he knew from other pupils – he'd never had one. He thought, "Had to come sooner or later, I suppose. It is pretty awful handwriting." He'd been making spasmodic attempts to improve it, especially in work for Miss Shand. But then would come upsets, rushed writing, improvement never sustained. It was one of his lesser worries – what you wrote mattered more than how you wrote. And the teachers, for all they complained, did manage to read it.

She said, "You know, I can see you failing exams just because the examiners won't be able to read your writing. An external examiner, with hundreds of scripts to get through, won't have the patience of a teacher, I can assure you. You must work on it. Tomorrow, I want a large sheet of paper from you, composed of legible handwriting. You look very shaken. I hope it's because you're taking me seriously, and not just because of the extra work?"

"No – it's not – I am. What do you want me to write, Miss?"

"Anything. Lines from Shakespeare, if you like. It doesn't matter – it can be a mammoth grocery list. The point is, I want it legible."

He did, indeed, take her seriously. It would be awful to fail – to fail for such a ridiculous reason. The writing would have to be improved – and stay improved – upsets or no upsets. The upsets would become a major problem otherwise. And if they can make me late for a class, he thought, that's pretty bad, too. Supposing it hadn't been just a class? What if it had been an exam? He told himself that he would never have risked it in that case. But if, all through the exam, thoughts of the girl had kept coming at him?

Did there have to be upsets? Did he have to get upset? So a girl was stronger than another girl – so what? So a boy who happened to be younger than he also happened to be stronger – so what? Why on earth should it matter to an intelligent person? If he had the intelligence to pass exams, why should unintelligent things stop him? Next time it happened, he resolved, he would say "So what?" and get straight on with his work.

That cheered him up – even though lines from Shakespeare or a mammoth grocery list awaited him. What boring suggestions! And, when he settled to the task, he thought, If I must do it, I'll write her a story.

### 22 Intellectual Life

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It was one of his sillier stories. A millionaire had to pay a ransom to gangsters who were holding his wife, or become a widower very prematurely. Their instructions were for his secretary to deposit an envelope stuffed with money in a certain spot. But the outwardly charming but inwardly ruthless Miss Throgmorton reckoned she could use the money, and also use a marriage to her boss. Her plot succeeded, and she even charmed him into giving the secretary's job to her younger sister, who was just like herself. Then the gang seized the second wife...

Miss Shand said after school, "The handwriting's very much better, but I'd like a few more pieces from you to make sure that you keep it up. Now about your story – I've got mixed feelings. You certainly have a flair for story-telling. I could see that in your school magazine efforts, too. Do you make a sort of hobby of it?"

"Yes, Miss." He told her of Ewan, of how the South Side Journal had come out of the Weekly Searchlight.

"It evidently means a lot to you. However, if you want to take it seriously, the stories should be more probable and the characters more like real human beings. You've got some good comic touches with the Throgmorton sisters and the gullible millionaire, but would someone so gullible ever become a millionaire? Your approach seems to have been 'Let's have some comic things happening' and then you invented some people to make them happen. A much better approach is 'Let's have some people – what kinds of people are they and what kinds of things would they do?' If you did write a story in that way, I'd be very interested to see it. I don't mean I expect it as your next handwriting exercise. I don't set double impositions! But you might feel like trying it sometime."

"Yes, I would like to, Miss – and thanks very much."

He did make it his next handwriting exercise. She said, "I take it The Tale of the Dirty Shoes is based on your own experience. It's all the better for that. You know about the quirks of an older brother, whereas I doubt if you encounter many millionaires, gangsters or arch-villainesses on the road between home and school!"

After two more writing-in-more-senses-than-one exercises, he asked, "How many more are you thinking of giving me, Miss?"

"Why do you ask?"

"Well, I was thinking of trying a serial story, and if I knew how many –"

"Martin! You're the only pupil I've ever known who has wanted additional homework to continue! As far as legibility is concerned, I think it's served its purpose. But if you want to experiment with a longer story, you're welcome to try. It doesn't have to be a serial and you can do it at your own pace."

In the next fortnight, nearly every spare moment was devoted to the experiment. She called it a promising piece of work, but indicated several weak points in construction. He re-read it and thought, Yes, I see what she means. It could be made much shorter and tighter.

Ewan said, "Gosh, Martin, you're lucky to have a teacher like that! I wish I had someone like her for English at Linenhill." They were in Ewan's bedroom-cum-office-cum-den, where editorial clutter had multiplied over the years. There, sitting on a hastily cleared segment of bed and warmed by a small electric fire mounted on a large recumbent dictionary, they were whiling away a snowy afternoon in the Christmas holidays. "Mr Sadler," Ewan went on, "always sets lines from Shakespeare as punishment exercises. He'd never dream of giving anyone a choice. If you'd handed him a story of your own instead – 'These lines are not any that I recognise from Shakespeare, Vanskin, or have you discovered a long-lost manuscript?'"

Martin, keen to prompt more of Ewan's mimicry, said, "No, I'm afraid not, Sir. I just thought one of my stories might make an interesting change."

"Indeed? A change, yes, but interesting – well, that's a matter of opinion. I'm sure that in your opinion your stories are much more interesting than Shakespeare, but unfortunately for you, I do not share that opinion, Vanskin, and you will therefore bring me two-hundred lines from Shakespeare."

That launched them into a spate of hilarities on the quirks of teachers, always an unfailing source of fun, and, to Martin, it felt happier than ever this time. He had to raise his head to see Ewan's smile, because Ewan was a head taller. And Ewan's knees, beneath the corduroys, rose high above his. It struck Martin that, if they were to wrestle, Ewan would have him flat on his back almost instantly. It wouldn't be like Ewan to do that, of course, so it would never happen, but he went on imagining... the weight of Ewan's knees on his chest as he looked up into the kind of smile Ewan was smiling now. And they'd share the fun of it, same as they shared all other fun, because of the way they liked each other.

In some alarm, he strove to confine his thoughts to their normal fun, but, coming to the point of a joke, he put his hand for a moment on Ewan's knee, and felt such excitement that it frightened him. "I'd better be getting back," he said abruptly. "I've got a lot to do."

"But you're on holiday!"

"Well – but there's that story to tighten up – while it's fresh in my mind."

"Dedication! Hey, Martin, I'd love to see it when you've finished. And it'd be great to have it for the Journal. Would you like me to put it in?"

"Yes – yes – thanks." Martin lifted his coat off the doorknob on which it hung. He didn't want to linger, but remembered that there was something about the story he ought to point out. "It might be a bit long for the Journal. I'm going to cut it, but it'll still be rather long. Would you like to do it as a serial? I think – oh, what? – two or three instalments."

"We could do it that way – or we could just put it all in as a long complete story."

"Well, when you've read it, you can decide how you want to do it." Martin started putting on his coat.

"How I want to do it? But it's your story. It's how you want to do it that counts."

"But you're the editor."

"Yes, but I'd rather go by what you prefer. I know they say 'Editor's decision is final', but it's a bit different when the writers are all friends of his! And, anyway, last time I tried bossing you, I got a bashing! Mind that time, Martin?"

Martin couldn't immediately speak. Ewan said, "Didn't mean to embarrass you. It was years ago when we were daft kids!"

Martin spoke the words that were clamouring to come out – "If I tried it now, you'd have me flat on my back and your knees on my chest in half-a-minute!"

Ewan looked startled, but then laughed, "I'm not so sure about that: you're stronger than you look. You're the wiry type. I'm weaker than I look. I'm a long, lanky strip of skin and bone!"

"You're stronger than me!"

"Stronger than I, I think you mean, Vanskin. Do a further fifty lines of Shakespeare."

"Would you like to test it out, Ewan? Just for fun. Have a wrestle?"

"Have a wrestle? What – you mean now? I thought you were in a hurry?"

"Well – a quick one."

"I don't know if they're timeable! You'll be at a slight disadvantage, wrapped up in your coat."

"Oh – yes – well –"

"Hey, wait a minute, though. We can't do it in here. You can hardly move without knocking something flying, never mind wrestle. And if we went in the hall or somewhere, Mum would think I was fighting you. There'd be an interrogation! And I'm not going out in the snow to do it! It'd be a bit dangerous out there, anyway – getting slippery. Crikey, imagine the two of us in the Royal Infirmary over Christmas, with broken legs! All through you and your wrestling!" He ran his hand through Martin's hair as he laughed the idea away.

Martin, feeling distinctly foolish, said, "Yes, not an ideal way to spend Christmas." He pushed back hair tousled over his forehead. Just a bit naughty of Ewan to do that to him! He wouldn't tidy it any more, he'd leave it like that! "I'll be getting along, then," he said. "I'll see you when I've done the story."

The empty house was just down the street. It had been a while since he'd needed to get upsets out of his system. Couldn't be helped, though. Not that it did get it out of his system. It troubled him that he had thought about Ewan in that way. Ewan had never been part of all that morbid stuff; he belonged to the good side of life. And why had "So what?" been forgotten? This was someone of his own age, after all, not a younger boy, not a girl... so Ewan happened to be stronger and would win a wrestle if there was a wrestle, which was something he had never shown any signs of interest in. So what, then? But it would be so nice if it happened! Ewan hadn't actually said "No." It was just that the time and place had been all wrong. Martin realised that he could have asked him to come to the empty house for a wrestle. Well – no – that would have sounded weird. Could be done another time, though – in a more natural way, maybe inviting him in for a cup of coffee, repaying hospitality. And, over coffee, there'd be their usual joking, banter, Ewan's mimicry, looking up to see Ewan's smile. Ewan might say, "Hey, it's great to have the place all to ourselves!" He could reply, "Yes! Your mum's not here, my mum's not here, there's no one to interrogate us! Do you fancy giving me a hiding at wrestling?" And then would come the loveliest thing that had ever happened to him.

But Ewan wouldn't fancy it, Martin reflected, as he left the house and walked out into the cold. He'd probably laugh the idea away again. No harm in asking, though... except that he'd already made quite a fool of himself... he'd look ridiculous, bringing it up again. He debated it all the way to Ted's house. The idea seemed unthinkably absurd one minute, and a perfectly passable piece of fun the next. He couldn't make up his mind.

It worried him intermittently for the rest of the school holidays. Work on the story helped to take his mind off it. He found it advisable to visualise Miss Shand, rather than Ewan, as the reader. Then he took the manuscript to Ewan, they had quite a literary discussion, and the thoughts about wrestling receded. But they came back after he had left Ewan.

He was glad enough to return to school and find himself very busy. There would be important exams in a few months, with the bogey of maths needing special attention. Some time had to be found for story writing, too. So he now saw Ewan only occasionally. Ewan was equally busy, so they were in the same situation. It was at this time that Mummy came out of hospital, and that put an end to those troublesome imaginings about a place all to themselves.

His fourth-year class was 4A5 – promotion from the B classes, though it was far down from the cream of pupils in Al and A2, who were, he supposed, good at everything, including maths. He reckoned that, but for maths, he could have made it to at least A3. But that was a minor regret when set against the joy of finding that he would continue under Miss Shand for English.

The volume of schoolwork reduced his output of stories for her, but the after-school discussions on them were more encouraging than ever. She said that his technique was developing quite well, but he ought now to be thinking about having something to say. The most satisfying writers, she told him, were those who combined a good story with some sort of philosophy of life, not preached, but running through their work. "Not that I'd expect a philosophy of life from a sixteen-year-old – in fact I'd be highly suspicious if one were claimed! But you are at the stage when you should begin to do some serious reading and thinking."

So – a busier than ever life. Study, writing, serious reading and thinking. It was hard to fit it all in sometimes. Time was no longer wasted on upsets, though – it was all well-spent.

### 23 Paper Girl

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"First three only!" the tram-conductor commanded. Martin was something like ninth in the queue, and it might be ages till the next Number Five trundled along. He had gone into town straight from school to do an errand for Mummy, who had thought that would be good timing. Except for it being the start of the rush-hour! he now thought. Might be quicker to walk home. He was about to abandon the queue, when his attention was caught by a charming little scene on the opposite pavement. The newsvendor's daughters were dancing. He presumed they were her daughters – two little girls, aged about eight and ten, and the older one who looked maybe fourteen. The newsvendor was a stout, trousered woman with long unkempt hair, and sat on a stool at a little card-table which served as her counter. The big girl was showing the others how to pirouette. The pupils' efforts kept breaking down, amid fits of giggles, but that agile, fair-haired kid did hers beautifully. Martin liked looking at her graceful bare legs. And, when the hem of the shabby frock billowed up, he saw her knees.

The woman rose, took a shopping-bag from beneath her table, and said something to the oldest girl. Then the mother left them, and the girl took over the stool, the table and the papers. The little girls went on dancing, but Big Sister now had the cares of business.

Two boys had just passed by her pitch, when one looked back and cried, "Hey, that's Angela! Selling papers!" They were about her age and not at all shabby. They went and spoke to her. Even from across the road, Martin could see that she looked embarrassed. The boys were laughing a lot. Suddenly they took it upon themselves to shout, "Py–per, py–per! Read all about it! Py–per, Sir?" They tried to grab some papers for thrusting at passers-by, but Angela was too quick for them and placed her elbows firmly on the pile. The boys were not short of alternative methods. They invented crazy news items for folk to read all about. They tried to coax people up to the table.

Really nasty, that, Martin thought. Putting people off buying. Pity no one's ticking them off. He realised that that included him. The boys were about his own size, and not particularly sturdy.

But then, neither was he. He'd have no chance whatever if it came to a fight with both. Well, need it come to that? Talking to them might be enough... if he did it kind of firmly and made them feel foolish. While he was weighing up this plan, events overtook it. The girl stood up and shouted, "Give over, will you!" The little girls each took a paper with which to hit the boys. One boy feigned terror and ran off a little way, but the other wrested the paper off one of them, rolled it up, and leaped about, making fencing motions. He aimed one at Angela as she walked up to him, but she twisted the outstretched arm behind him. He cried out in pain. The paper dropped onto the pavement. Three times into his buttock banged Angela's knee. He seemed to sag. His friend stayed at distance. Angela released her prey with a push that sent him hurtling. He lost his balance and finished up on the ground at his pal's feet. She yelled, "Get lost!" Their compliance was prompt.

Angela picked up and straightened the paper. She smoothed her frock

Martin's eyes went from her legs and her frock to her face. She looked tense and angry. One of her sisters cried, "Angela bashed him!" and then Angela smiled as she settled herself on the stool. Martin gazed at the bare legs beneath the table. Suddenly, she put her hand under her frock and onto the knee she had just been using. To his intense irritation, a tram came and stopped and blocked his view. When it moved off, he saw that her hand had left her knee. Business was good again. In between sales she talked and laughed with the other two.

He wanted to speak to her. He need only to buy a paper to do that. And should he say... something... to praise her? Something to bring on that smile, to make her want to feel her knee. He was scared. Even if it was just buying the paper, he was scared. And now the number five was coming. The urge to buy the paper was making explosions in his mind, but something transfixed him in the queue and he boarded the tram as though no choice existed.

Masturbation didn't get it out of his system. He wondered whether the newsvendor used that pitch regularly. Though he had never much noticed newsvendors, he seemed to think that they stuck to the same spots. Angela seemed well used to selling papers, so she must be often left in charge. He could yet buy a paper from her. For he still wanted to speak to her. Why had he been so scared? Just to speak to her! Wasn't as if... The thought that she could probably bash him was both worrying and exciting. He dared himself to behave as those boys had. But nothing could be more ridiculous! Such behaviour was both childish and nasty. And there were nice things he could say to her. He could tell her that her dancing had transformed the boredom of waiting in the tram queue. Go on to say that he had been shocked by that pair of juvenile delinquents and pleased to see how she'd sorted them out.

She answered in monosyllables – "Yes" and "Oh?" His speech was much interrupted, for, though there was no sign of the mother or the sisters, there were plenty of customers. He had to keep standing aside. He stood where he could best see her legs. She began to look oddly at him, but he had to go on talking.

Excitement was coming into his voice. There came in an outpour, "I liked how you got your knee into him! I liked that!"

Angela said, "Cheerio, then." She gave all her attention to counting out someone's change.

"Cheerio," he said lamely, and disappeared into the crowd.

He puzzled over her "Cheerio". It had sounded friendly, but in a funny way. It was as if she'd been addressing a very young child. Then it dawned. She'd been addressing someone she thought was screwy.

The shock of that realisation hung over him for the rest of the day. He saw that he had been screwy. Seeking out a complete stranger... talking in that way... what on earth could have come over him? The answer was that he'd got so excited, same as he had about the girl in the park. The upsets over girls were particularly bad... when they did things like that with their bare knees. And he had got screwy about this girl's knees. He suddenly recalled something Dr Pulliford had said: "As you grow older, you'll find girls, and then women, more exciting than males." That seemed to be taking place – but not in the way in which other boys of his age sometimes talked of it, all about pinups and tits and things they'd like to do, nothing about girls being strong, girls winning fights. But those boys were not weaklings. So... was this what happened to weaklings?

It was a thought so frightening that he attempted to pray, even though, once past childhood, he had never found any help or comfort in religion – it didn't seem to be about his particular upsets. He had abandoned the saviour message of Christianity as a superstitious myth, but hadn't ruled out the possibility of God, had heard of people with troubles horrifyingly worse than his who had been helped by faith.

But, when he now tried to pray about the problems of being a weakling, he felt that it was not something to put into a prayer. He couldn't think why. It just felt impossible.

### 24 Rosalind

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He remained deeply depressed over the next couple of days and could hardly think about his schoolwork. Then, remembering that he had done good work at bad times in the past, he forced himself to concentrate. Interest in his work began to return. With some tasks, the interest came to absorb his mind. One was an essay which earned praise from his history master. As the Christmas holidays approached and homework eased off, he resumed his serious reading and thinking. Fabian and Labour Party writers were making an impression. He wrote a political story.

Miss Shand said, "Did you write this straight after reading a political tract?" An unnervingly accurate diagnosis! "I agree with the message – I'm a veteran Party member, in fact. But combining politics and story telling can be tricky. If you'd read Walter Greenwood's Love On The Dole first, it might have proved a more creative influence."

So there couldn't have been a nicer start to the holidays than the arrival of a book token from Uncle Frank and Auntie Teresa. Its value, reflecting their free-spending ways, could get Love On The Dole with a book or two over! This called for fine judgments, both literary and arithmetical, in his browse around the bookshop. By mid-afternoon, he had, in three paper bags, his final choice of three books and two magazines. There was a sign which said "Coffee Lounge Downstairs". He fancied a coffee after all his mental exertions. But he was near the tail end of his pocket-money. How expensive were coffee lounges? He decided to peep inside and see how expensive it looked.

It didn't look luxurious. Had a drab, musty air about it, and no customers. But table lamps with red, velvety shades and gold tassels suggested that impecunious schoolboys were not the expected clientele. There was a waitress behind a counter. Seeing the hesitant figure at the door, she called, "Can I help you, sir?" It was a friendly, cheerful voice. Feeling somewhat trapped, Martin walked slowly towards the counter. He thought she looked younger than waitresses usually did. There were three high stools there, presumably for customers who didn't like lounging. And, at one end, a menu was chalked on a little blackboard.

"I'll just have a look at the menu," he said, trying to sound casual. "Pot of coffee, two-and-sixpence," he read out. "Can you get a cup of coffee?"

"Well, we don't serve cups of coffee – really – but I could do you a cup. A shilling, I suppose."

"Oh – well – thanks very much." Embarrassing! Thank goodness no one else was there! He put his paper bags on the counter while he took the coin from his pocket. The waitress placed a cup of black coffee, a jug of milk and a sugar-bowl on a silver tray. She was tallish, a bit awkward in her movements. She had mousy brown hair which looked rather unruly beneath the starched headpiece of the uniform. She lifted the tray and asked, "Where are you going to sit?"

"It's all right, I'll take it. I can manage." But, with the bags as well, he found he couldn't easily.

"I'll take the tray and you take the bags," she said.

"I'll just sit here," he replied, mounting a stool. "Save the bother."

"Are you sure? It's much more comfortable at the tables."

It certainly would be, he thought, but he could hardly change his mind now. "It's all right. There's the shilling. Thanks very much."

"Thank you very much." She put it in the till and wrote in a little cash book. She had, he realised, been very helpful all through his difficulty. Many waitresses would probably have said. "I'm sorry, sir; we don't do cups of coffee."

She smiled and asked, "Have you been spending all your money on books and not much left for coffee?"

"Well, I had – that would make a good excuse, but actually I had a book token."

"Did you? Lucky you!"

"Yes, I suppose so. But the not-much-left bit is correct!"

"Oh well – never mind – you'll be able to have a good read over Christmas. Oh–" She seemed suddenly embarrassed. "That wasn't meant to be funny."

He looked at her more closely. "It's all right. I know it wasn't."

"I expect your mum and dad will let you have more for Christmas, won't they?"

"Yes – er – my mum probably will. It's just my mum, actually. My father's dead."

"Oh! I'm sorry!"

She was off in a dither again. He wished he hadn't spelt the situation out literally. "That's all right. You weren't to know. Yes, he died three years ago."

"Oh." She retreated into a little open pantry and applied herself to adjusting the volume of gas beneath a kettle. "Gosh," he thought, "she gets herself all upset when there's no need to!" He again felt he should come to her aid and remarked chattily, "Very quiet in here today, isn't it?"

She came back to the counter. "Yes. It varies a lot. It could fill up any minute or it could just stay like this all afternoon."

"Do you like working here?"

"Yes. It's not too bad. I'm only temporary, a school holiday job. I was taken on for the bookshop really, but the regular girl is off with the flu."

She was a schoolgirl, then. That took him aback, but also quickened his interest. "Oh, what school do you go to?"

"Justin Lodge."

Two ladies came in and sat at a table. She said, "I'll be back in a minute," and went to serve them.

He wondered if he had ever passed by her, because Justin Lodge was not far from his school. It had been a Justin Lodge girl who had knelt on another's chest. He couldn't imagine this girl – who was so worried at the thought of upsetting someone – behaving like that.

She returned to the counter and began to prepare a tray. She glanced at his blazer and said, "I see you go to Ward. What year are you in?"

"Fourth year. And you?"

"I'm fourth year too, and finding it very busy. I expect it's the same at Ward?"

Yes, it is. The Highers are coming ever closer."

"Yes, they fairly hang over everything, don't they?" She was putting two sizeable rhubarb tarts on the tray. She said, smiling, "I hope these aren't making you feel hungry."

"They are a bit – but I'll survive. Maybe this isn't the best place to sit!"

"I didn't think of that," she laughed. "Back in a minute."

He heard one of the ladies say, "Oh, these do look delicious! Thank you so much, Miss."

When the girl came back, he whispered, "Money no object with those two!"

She whispered back, "The cream of Edinburgh society comes in here." And he couldn't resist, "Oh, that's very nice of you, but – well, you don't need to call me that all the time. My name's Martin."

She laughed – quite a peal – and blushed when the ladies looked over. "Martin Cream?"

"Martin Vanskin. What's your name?"

"Rosalind Urquhart. Have you any brothers or sisters, Martin?"

He outlined the family background and heard in return that Rosalind had one sister aged fourteen, two years younger. "My favourite subjects at school," she went on, "are languages. I'd like to teach French or German or be an interpreter. There's going to be a school trip to France in the summer. I'm saving up for it. That's why I'm doing this job. What are your favourite subjects?"

English and history, he told her, and was about to mention his writing, when the ladies left and she went to clear their table. "There's plenty of coffee left in these pots," she said, "and it's still hot. Would you like another cup? Already paid for, of course."

He hesitated – first a coffee on the cheap, now a free one.

"You might as well. I'm going to have one, too. It would only get thrown out."

"All right, if you put it that way. Thanks very much."

"Nothing to thank me for."

"Yes there is." Their eyes met, then lowered awkwardly. He stirred his coffee and said with comic pathos, "Crumbs from the rich man's table! Or dregs from the rich ladies' table."

"It's not dregs, Martin! It's perfectly good coffee!"

"Sorry," he laughed. "I know. I didn't mean it that way. Hey, Rosalind," he went on in a bantering, and yet gentle tone, "you've got me at this 'sorry' business now – 'Didn't mean it in a funny way! Sorry! Sorry!'"

Rosalind laughed. She looked straight at him. It was a look that told him unmistakably that she liked him very much.

The coffee lounge got busier. They could only exchange brief remarks when she had breathers in between serving. There appeared a lady with a black dress and a schoolmistressy air. Rosalind, muttering, "Manageress", moved a little away from him. He took Love On The Dole out of its bag and tried to look as if a good read was all he had come for. He pretended not to notice the frosty stare he got as the lady joined Rosalind behind the counter. The cash-book was inspected. "What was one shilling, Rosalind?"

She coped amazingly well. "Oh, it was a gentleman who'd left himself a bit short after buying a lot of books, but he said he could manage a cup of coffee. He's a very good customer of the bookshop, so I thought I'd better agree."

When the place emptied, Martin said, "Hey, you shouldn't have risked getting into trouble on account of me!"

"Oh – well – I didn't really. Her bark's worse than her bite. Still, I'd better not do it again. But, Martin, don't worry about it. If you want – if you happen to be in town again before Christmas and it's quiet down here, you can come in and chat. You don't have to buy a coffee. She only comes down when it gets busy. To watch me working!"

A cry of joy was inside him, but a choked "O.K. Thanks" was what came out. "I'd better have some money, though – to be on the safe side. I can get some from my mum. It's only half-a-crown. She won't mind. I'd better go now, I suppose, and let you get on. Shall I come on Saturday?"

"Whenever you like."

"Cheerio for now, then. And thanks for the coffees."

Mummy declared, "I must say I'm pleasantly surprised. And happening in a bookshop of all places!" She broke into laughter and he asked, "What's so funny about that?"

"Well, I'd begun to worry that books were keeping you away from girls. You can certainly have the half-crown – it'll be money well spent. I suppose the next thing will be the price of two cinema tickets, or do you think that can wait till your next pocket-money?"

"I don't know yet – really – if she'd want to go. Two tickets? She might want to pay her own – I don't know."

"It's etiquette that the gentleman always pays. It's time you knew things like that. She'll certainly expect it. And I hope you're going to get a haircut before Saturday. That's another half-crown, I suppose, but why spoil the ship for a ha'porth of tar? It's time you thought more about the sorts of things that make a good impression."

It amused him to think that had he not already made a good impression, there wouldn't have been this conversation! He had known that she would take the news well. She had occasionally been dropping hints about young lady-friends and the need to improve his dress and appearance. She had even used the phrase about a girl who was nothing remotely of the sort. Hillary was in the Esperanto Society which had been newly started up at school and to which he had been drawn by his recent reading and thinking. She lived in his street, and, on this purely geographical basis, he walked home with her from the meetings. She was a small, dumpy girl, even smaller than he. They sometimes practised Esperanto conversation, but then she would lapse into very boring English, prattling on about vegetarianism, radio serials of the kind he never listened to if he could help it, and her exceptionally intelligent cat. She had once kept him standing for ten minutes outside his house while she finished one of her feline marvel sagas. And Mummy, who must have been peeping through the window, greeted him with, "Why didn't you ask your young lady-friend in for a cup of tea?"

"She's not my young lady-friend! And the cup of tea would have gone on till midnight!"

"I'm going along to see Ewan," he now told Mummy after their meal. "About time! We haven't had a chance to talk properly for ages."

She smiled and said, "Going to tell him all about your conquest?"

"No! Just going to have a chat, that's all."

"You're having a very good day for chats!"

She was impossible sometimes, he thought as he set off. Conquest! Of all the stupid words! It was just two people getting to know and like each other... like each other a lot.

He passed a happy evening in Ewan's den, all the happier because he'd outgrown all that nonsense about wrestling with Ewan.

"Do you have any particular hobbies, Rosalind?" He had settled down on the stool at the counter. There was plenty of coffee in the pot and plenty of time to talk to her. He was the first customer in the coffee lounge and hardly anyone had been in the bookshop when he'd passed through, so he seemed to have timed it well.

"Well, not hobbies exactly – not hobbies as hobbies. But there are things I enjoy doing, and the main one's swimming. I love swimming. Do you swim?"

"No, I can't swim."

"You don't know what you're missing! You get a lovely free feeling when you swim. Have you never thought of trying it?"

"Well, I did have a few lessons at primary school, but I never took to it."

"Do you mean you were afraid of the water?"

"Well – yes, I was actually." This embarrassed him. He tried to laugh it off with, "I was the world's worst coward when it came to that!"

"No, you weren't – I was. I was at first. It took me ages to get over it. Well, I had to be helped over it really. I had a friend who was a good swimmer and I practised with her. She was very patient – and also I knew she could do life-saving." She smiled and added, "It helped quite a lot to know that!"

"Yes, I can imagine that it would!"

"So then I got the confidence, and, once you've got that, you're there. Martin – I've just thought – if I taught you to swim, you'd be the same as I was when my friend helped me – and I can life-save now. So – if you like – What do you think?"

"Oh – er – well –" His stammering, came from surprise and from the thought of how puny he looked when he was stripped.

She said, "It was just an idea," as if embarrassed because it had been a silly one.

"No, that's fine. It's good idea. Yes, I'd like that. It's good of –"

"Are you sure? If you'd rather –"

"Yes, I am sure." His sureness came from realising that, with Rosalind, everything would be all right. "Where were you thinking of doing it? The swimming-baths?"

"Well, not the Atlantic Ocean! Not till lesson three. They have mixed bathing at Portobello Baths on Saturdays, and they'll be open on the Saturday after New Year's Day. I often go there – it's near where I live – so I know all their arrangements. Will that day be all right?"

"Don't see why not. It'll be one last fling before going back to school. You'll probably have to fling me into the water!"

"No, I won't! You'll like it so much you'll probably have to be dragged out of the water! Oh – duty calls." A trio of customers had appeared and then more began to trickle in. She bustled to and from the counter. As she and Martin were laughing over a hurried joke, a girl in Justin Lodge uniform arrived at the counter. "Hi, Rosalind. Have I come at an awkward time?" She glanced pointedly at Martin.

"Oh! Katie!" Rosalind looked disconcerted. "Oh no, that's all right. Fancy you coming!"

"I told you I'd come sometime. Can I have a pot of coffee – if you're not too busy?"

"Yes – of course – I'll serve you in minute. This is Martin. Martin, this is Katie." Rosalind went off with a tray. Katie sat on the stool next to Martin's. "Hi, Martin. Are you from Rosalind's church?"

She had neatly curled red hair and a rather cheeky expression, and was smaller than Rosalind, about his height. She wore make-up, which, to him, was silly and artificial even on adult women. He felt horribly self-conscious. It was an effort to reply, "No – no, I'm not actually. I was in to buy some books, and then I came down here, and –"

"Where are your books, then? Left them behind in the shop?"

"No that was a day or two – a few days ago. Are you Rosalind's sister?" He instantly saw it was a silly question, because the sisters would go to the same church.

Katie, while not answering the question, seemed slightly amused by it. She said, as Rosalind came back, "Martin asked if I was your sister!"

"Oh – well – no, Katie's in my class at school. Martin's a fairly regular bookshop customer, Katie."

"Yes, I'm sure he is. I'm surprised you're surprised to see me. If I say I'll go somewhere, I go. Got to keep an eye on you, Rosalind! Keep an eye on your welfare in this – this –" She put on an air of groping for a clever phrase, and Martin, stung into a slight recovery, said, "'Coffee Lounge' is the word, actually."

"Yes, I had noticed. Oh, and talking of which, am I to get a pot, Rosalind? I seem to be the only person in the place without one. I'm not after a free one, you know. I wouldn't expect that kind of thing."

Rosalind, clearly angry, though she didn't raise her voice, retorted, "Nobody gets free ones, Katie."

Katie looked put out. Martin thought, "Good for you, Rosalind!" But Rosalind herself seemed uneasy as she filled the pot and told Katie about standing in for the waitress off with 'flu. Katie, sweetly now, asked how she was liking the job, and then moved on to Justin Lodge people and topics which Martin could know nothing of. When Rosalind went to serve at tables, her schoolmate drank or stirred or poured coffee in silence, except for once asking, "Do you play rugby for Ward School? It's got quite a name for rugby."

It was obvious that he didn't have the build for rugby. "No I don't," he said curtly.

Rosalind made some attempts to explain the Justin Lodge topics, but Katie kept skipping on to new ones. Then the manageress appeared briefly, Katie met her frosty stare with one of her own and said, "Good morning" in a haughty, ladylike way.

A Justin Lodge swimming contest was mentioned by Katie and then she said, "I don't suppose you swim, Martin?" As she turned away from Rosalind to face him, Rosalind, looking suddenly anxious, signalled to him by placing a finger on her lips. "No, I can't swim," was all he replied.

The lounge was getting crowded. Katie said, "I think we'd better leave you to it. Well – I'll be getting along, anyway." That more or less obliged Martin to do likewise.

Upstairs in the bookshop, he said, "I think I'll look round the books for a bit" as a polite way to detach himself.

"And then have another coffee?" replied Katie ever so innocently.

"I was right, you see, Martin!" said Rosalind as they left the swimming baths. "You actually swam. And you didn't keep to the shallowest end, either!"

"I can still hardly believe it. You're really great as a teacher, you know."

"Oh, I think some of it must have come back to you from primary school days. You just needed a bit of encouraging. Martin, I'd ask you round for cup of tea, but there's some relatives coming today and it's going to be rather crowded. But next Saturday, if you like, you'll be welcome to come back and have a meal with us. Would you like to?"

"Yes – yes, I would. Thanks very much. Your mum and dad know about me, then?"

"Yes. They'll like you." She blushed. "There's bit of time before they all come. Do you fancy a walk on the beach?"

It was hardly beach weather, but it was sunny and he was fond of walking... fond of her. As they took the road to the beach, he thought of how far they had come from being waitress and customer. There was no waitress's uniform and no manageress to cramp their styles now! She was in her Justin Lodge uniform and the white ankle-socks of a schoolgirl.

At the beach, she said, "Well then, which direction – Joppa or Craigentinny?"

"I'm not fussy."

"Well – Craigentinny, then?"

"Yes, O.K. Oh, but hang on a minute, Rosalind – it's very shingly at Craigentinny. Last time I was there, I was slipping on seaweed and falling on stones."

"If you take your shoes and socks off, it's much easier."

"What, carry shoes and socks in one hand and towel and swim-suit in the other?"

"Martin, anyone'd think it was the Rocky Mountains! It's much nicer at Craigentinny and you said you weren't fussy. Come on – please!" She tugged him by the arm. He became instantly tense. He tried to hold firm, but he couldn't, he got tugged an inch or two more towards Craigentinny. He thought, "Dragged by a girl!" and broke free.

"Golly. You're obstinate about it. Men all over!"

"Well – but – Joppa's just as nice and it's easier going." His thoughts were swirling. Some of them wanted this strong girl to drag him all the way. Some wanted her to try but fail. And some hoped that it wouldn't come to that sort of thing.

"It's easier going because it's more built-up and artificial – and if I know you, once you get to Craigentinny, you'd enjoy it, same as you did with the swimming."

"I'll just think about it for a minute – then – I'll give you my decision." It came out so pompously... he was asking for it now!

"All right, but –" She smiled mischievously. "Let me just get you into a comfortable position for thinking!" She pressed her hands on his shoulders and he felt himself being turned. "There you can see the sun shining on the Craigentinny waves." He tried to swing round, but she got him turned. Strong, naughty girl! He grasped her hands, pushed hard and dislodged them.

"Gracious, Martin! we came here for a walk, not a fight! Do you really want to make it Joppa?"

"No, not really. Craigentinny's all right. You've bullied me into it!" This last was a feeble translation of thoughts that cried out, NAUGHTY Rosalind! NAUGHTY Rosalind!

"I like that! I thought I'd have to go down on my knees and beg you!"

He laughed with her, but mentally he was saying, "You could have used other methods! Done other things with your knees!" And he wondered if he could have freed himself if she had really meant business.

"We've got the beach all to ourselves very nearly," she said as they set off. "There's just those children playing and there's that man with a dog in the distance. See him?"

"Where? I can't – Oh yes, I can now." Martin put a hand to his forehead to keep the sun from his eyes and strained to get a clearer view. "You know, I think it's actually a woman. Not many men wear skirts."

Rosalind, hand to forehead, studied the distant figure. "I'm sure it's a man. That's a long raincoat he's wearing. It's not a skirt. But, knowing you, I suppose you'll insist it's a woman and tell me it's a cat and not a dog!"

"You're giving me a terrible reputation! I'll take your word for the dog, but – well, I know I'm short-sighted, but I'd still bet that's a woman."

"How much would you bet?"

"Threepence."

"Threepence?" she laughed. "Is that all the confidence you've got?"

"All right, sixpence, then. I don't want to take too much off you."

"We'll see about that! Come on, I'll race you to the man – to the person with the dog."

He was fast, but her legs were longer. Whenever he caught up with her, she edged ahead. He took a lot of looks at the bare legs that were defeating him. She won the race and the bet. She tidied hair that had tumbled over her forehead, laughed and looked pleased with herself. He looked at her legs as he took a sixpence from his pocket, and he thought of the tugging and turning she'd done to him.

"Oh Martin, I don't really want the sixpence. It was only a joke."

"No, but you've won it. It's yours."

"No, don't be silly!"

But he chose to go on being silly and tried to thrust it into her pocket. She gripped his hand. Strong grip! He twisted it free, though it took some doing, and got the coin to its target. "Can't take you anywhere, Martin! Not even a deserted beach! I don't know what the opposite of robbery with violence is, but, whatever it is, you go in for it. Giving with violence – or donating with force. Something like that."

"It runs in the family, come to think of it." He told how Uncle Frank and Aunt Teresa had marked the end of his holidays with them.

"We've an Uncle Frank coming today," she said. "Well, different name, but the same habit. I don't think I'll resist him, though. You've tired me out."

"You haven't done so badly. You won the bet and you won the race," mentally adding, "and you grabbed me and pulled me and turned me!"

"Well – better eyesight and longer legs, that's all."

He again looked at her legs. He hesitated, but it cried out to be spoken. "Stronger legs, too!" Then he felt shocked at having said it and at the excitement in his voice.

"Not stronger. Anyway, stronger would make no difference in a fairly short race. If it was a marathon or some kind of endurance race, it might."

He saw the chance of both a joke and an escape from embarrassment. "Rosalind, any kind of race with you is an endurance race!"

"Oh, you cheeky devil!" She threw down the swimsuit wrapped in the towel, and pounced on him. Giggling, she pushed him and shook him. His towel dropped from his hand in the force of it. Somehow, he overbalanced her, sat her down in the sand. "What are you?" she laughed, "An all-in wrestler?" Still laughing she coiled her legs around his, and pressed her arms on the back of his knees. She said, "Even my father can't get out of that grip!" It was only his hand, coming down on the sand, that stopped him from falling. But she had got him down but for that, he told himself.

She let go of his legs and smiled up at him, but it wasn't the triumphant smile he might have expected. There was a shyness in it. "Sit down and have a rest." She tapped the sand beside her. "We both could do with one. I don't think we're going to make it to Craigentinny." Her school uniform was all awry, showing her knees. She was SUPER! She'd done it to him with her bare legs! A girl had got him down!

Then, remembering that he'd got her down first, he thought, "It was a draw, really."

She shook sand from her skirt, straightened it, and seemed about to cover her knees, but then let her hands drop. Martin wanted to kiss her knees. He was afraid to. He tried to think why, but he couldn't – he just was. He kept looking at her knees, kept wanting to kiss them.

She said, in a funny, low voice, "I'm not going to spend your sixpence."

"Why not?"

She didn't reply. He asked, "Going to put it in the Savings Bank?"

"I'm not going to spend it." She put a hand in the pocket where it was, kept her hand there a while. He thought he knew what she meant. And surely it would be all right to kiss her knees? But he was afraid to.

He sensed that she was hesitating about saying something. At last, in a light tone, as if making conversation, she asked, "Do you believe in kissing?"

He didn't know why he shrank from the obvious way to answer and merely made a silly joke about hygiene.

"Back to school next week," she said ruefully. "But we could swim on the Saturday if you like."

That was arranged and then he said, "I might run into you during the week. The schools are nearly next-door neighbours!"

"Yes, they are. Martin – I was just thinking – if I see you when I'm with other girls from the school, I – if you don't mind, I won't stop and talk. I'll just say hello, but I won't stop and talk. It's not that –" She seemed to find the explanation difficult.

"Oh, that's all right. You mean there's more like Katie?"

"Well – Katie's all right really. It's nearly teatime. I'll have to be getting home. I'll come with you to your tram-stop."

There, she said, "See you next Saturday, then. It's been a really nice time, Martin. Thanks very much."

Martin reached home to find that Ted had dropped in. There had of late been a rise of several notches in Ted's estimation of him. Rosalind must have seemed a major improvement as far as socialising was concerned! Mummy, inevitably, had passed on that piece of news. And, now, it was the swimming that intrigued him. "If I'd suggested taking up swimming, it would have fallen on deaf ears!"

Mummy said, "You're not Rosalind. How did it go, then, Martin?"

"I can swim now. Actually managed it on my own! Hey, Ted, what are you laughing at? Don't you believe me?"

"Yes, I believe you only too well! It all goes to show the power of women to change men's habits. I should know. I've no habits left I can call my own!"

"You wouldn't dare say that in front of Pearl!"

"Too right I wouldn't!"

"You mustn't put Martin off like that," said Mummy.

"I don't think there's any problem of Martin being put off."

Ted stopped for tea and Martin got more such banter from them. On the whole, he liked it. They were pleased with him and seemed to expect he should be pleased with himself. He was, of course. He laughed, parried their jokes, enjoyed the fun. But there was a cloud over his pleasure. He was thinking back to the wrestle in the sand. Had it been a draw? It had ended when she released his legs, but what if she hadn't? He'd have been helpless, held as long as she wanted to hold him – or maybe he would have really fallen over.

At bedtime, knowing she had won gave him the loveliest-ever bitter-sweet masturbation. But only the sweet was masturbated away – the bitter stayed with him all night. It would be so humiliating if she were to beat him every time they had a wrestle or some kind of tugging match. It frightened him. There needn't necessarily be such incidents of course. If he avoided certain kinds of teasing, certain kinds of argument, they probably wouldn't happen. Scared of it, aren't you? he accused himself. He pictured her legs and knees. Scared of her... No, there would have to be another wrestle and he would have to try and win. And if he lost... if she got her knees on his chest?

Then he remembered how much she liked him. Could losing to a girl who liked him so much really matter to either of them? Immediately after winning the wrestle in the sand, she'd told him she was going to keep his sixpence. She certainly wouldn't have treasured any old sixpence – any more than he would have haunted any old coffee-lounge. In love really, he thought. Yes – we are. And, if in love, what did it matter who won or lost wrestles? But then... it was to do with... what was it to do with? Well, it was to do with being a man. In all you ever heard or read about falling in love, the woman was never stronger than the man. For the man to be worried that she might kneel on his chest was unheard of, unthinkable. The man was never a weakling. That was the heart of the matter. Everything led back to that.

Somehow he pulled himself together. He called to mind all of Rosalind's signs of fondness for him. He thought of the jokes they had shared, thought too of all they had yet to tell each other. She didn't know about his writing and his Esperanto. Above all, she was about to introduce him to her family. She'd be telling them, in effect, "I like this boy." These were the things to keep in mind. They showed up all that other stuff for the morbid nonsense that it was.

He looked out for Rosalind to say "Hello" to when he passed by Justin Lodge girls in his first week back at school. He didn't see her. Some of those girls were really idiotic! He had passed one gaggle of them when he heard a wolf-whistle and giggling. It surprised him, as Justin Lodge girls were usually good-mannered. He supposed it was a sarcastic wolf-whistle because he was small and wore glasses. Well, he wasn't going to let that worry him – the nicest girl at Justin Lodge was his girlfriend.

On the Thursday, there came a letter from her:

Dear Martin,

I'm very sorry, but I shall not be able to meet you on Saturday. Unfortunately, I have a very heavy cold. Also, this term is going to be very busy, with a tremendous amount of reading to get through and essays etc. – a really big load of work. Do you mind if we leave it till nearer the Easter holidays? I hope you won't be too disappointed. But I'll write to you again then and we'll definitely get something arranged. My parents are still looking forward to meeting you. I hope things are going well for you at school.

Kind regards,

Rosalind

P.S. I really enjoyed Saturday.

To which he replied:

Dear Rosalind,

Thanks for your letter. I'm sorry about the cold and hope it soon clears up. Sorry about all the work you've got, too. I've quite a lot myself, but yours sounds even worse!

Must we leave it as long as Easter? What about swimming again in, say, four or five weeks? I suppose you'll have some of the essays out of the way by then! But if you're still very busy, we could perhaps meet just for a coffee. I don't mean in the bookshop coffee-lounge! Can you imagine the looks we'd get from the Lady in Black? Anyway, I'll write to you again about it nearer the time.

Yours sincerely,

Martin

P.S. Thanks for the enjoyment you gave me.

In the next week, he again did not encounter her. He wondered if she were off school because of her cold. The Justin Lodge idiot girls seemed to be in the best of health. One lunchtime, he got cheeky stares and, once he'd passed, wolf-whistles again. Then he heard: "Read any good books lately?" followed by hilarious giggling. They must have known about his trips to the bookshop, then... or could it just be because he looked bookish? No, that wouldn't have set off so much mirth. Katie must have told them, he reckoned, though she wasn't amongst them, nor had she been last time. But she still could have spread the word – juicy gossip, complete with description of him. Rosalind herself couldn't have told them, could she? No, that was the last thing she'd do, because she'd been nervous about her schoolmates getting to know too much. Perhaps they were taking it out on her too, He hoped she'd realise that they weren't worth getting upset about.

It was in the third week that he saw her. She was in a group of girls walking towards him on his way home from school. He smiled and nodded as he drew near, and decided that he would ask, just in passing, how she was – the rest could make whatever noises they liked. He saw her notice him and instantly look down. Then she turned attentively to a girl who was talking. The group was laughing. A few looked at him and laughed as they passed. Rosalind did not look at him, but she had a smile fixed on her face. A twisted sort of smile. A mocking smile.

Martin had felt some pains in his life, but never one like this. He was sure that the other girls were the ones who had mocked him before. Mocked him because he was small, bespectacled, not at all good-looking. All he had been to Rosalind was something to make her laugh and then to laugh with them about.

How stupid to have ever supposed anything else! How could she have been attracted to a puny, weakling speccy boy wholly without sex appeal?

### 25 Headmaster

[Back to table of contents]

The headmaster's room had a soothing effect on Ted. It gave an impression of order and continuity. The books in the bookcase, the framed photograph of rugby and hockey teams looked as if they had been in place for decades.

"It's very good of you to give me an appointment," said Ted.

"Not at all. My pleasure." The head was in his late thirties, rather younger than Ted had expected, but he spoke in a deep, measured voice that conveyed maturity and reliability. "I'm only sorry that it could not have been in happier circumstances. I was very sorry indeed to hear of the loss of your mother."

"Yes – thank you. She'd been ill – diabetes – for some years, but we hadn't expected such a sudden relapse. It's especially difficult for Martin, of course."

"Yes, at just this stage in his life, it must be. I take it you must be in the position of guardian?"

"Well, no. There's no guardian."

"I see. But in effect you're in loco parentis?"

For Ted, an embarrassing question. "Yes – in a way." For his uncertain position there were no Latin tags. "He agreed that I should come to – well, clarify the choices open to him when he leaves school."

"Well, one thing I'm happy to tell you is that the bereavement did not unduly affect Martin's exam performance. His papers were not his very best work, but, of course, that was bound to be. Nevertheless, he has passed in all the subjects he sat. His particular worry was maths. He only just passed in that – but pass he did. The subject's an entry requirement for university, whatever one's proposed course of study. He's been hoping to take either English or history. Well, the way is now clear for him, though I must say I've had some anxious moments. I asked him if he would like a postponement of the exams on compassionate grounds, but he insisted that if he had prepared properly, he should be able to pass and it wouldn't be a valid test if he got extra preparation time. I tried to explain why this was being unfair on himself, but he stuck to his view. It was as if he were challenging himself to pass these exams, come what may. I am –" the headmaster permitted himself a chuckle – "rather more accustomed to arguing with pupils who make excuses for themselves. I decided not to press the point. It was a tricky situation. He's no longer a child and he has to make his own decisions, and also it seemed to be his way of dealing with his grief. So it's a great relief that it has turned out favourably."

"Yes, it might not have done. He could have lost a lot." After a moment's reflection, Ted went on, "Actually, what you've told me seems to confirm some anxieties of my own about him. Yes, it was his way of dealing with his grief, but also part and parcel of a certain attitude he's developed towards his studies. He sees them as a means of escape from anything that's troubling him. And that means that the troubles are never dealt with." As the trouble over Rosalind was never dealt with, Ted was recalling.

"It's all finished!" Martin had burst out bitterly in reply to Ted's little joke about forthcoming swimming lessons.

"Well, I know just how you feel. When I was your age, it happened with my first girlfriend. It felt like the end of the world at first, but then I discovered there's more fish in the sea."

"They can stay there," Martin had said. Then he had gone to the front room and buried himself in his books for the rest of the evening... and for the rest of his schooldays, well nigh.

"One would hope," the headmaster said, "that in his own time he will mature in that respect – though obviously you know him more intimately than I do, and I can see that you must have mixed feelings about the prospect of university for him. Of course, that doesn't have to be immediately after leaving school, because there is the question of his eighteen-months' National  
Service–"

Ted broke in, "Yes, I was going to ask you about that. It could be the answer. Not that it would be an ideal environment, but perhaps the best thing for him at this stage. It would certainly help him out of being so solitary."

"Well, he's always had a few friends at school. But – yes – he has a tendency to be solitary. He has a choice on when to do National Service. He can either do it straight from school or defer it till after he has completed his studies. From what you've said, I should imagine that the latter would be his preference?"

"He's still trying to make up his mind. Not that he's talked to me about it much. It's hard to draw him out on it. He says he's going to hate it, but it might make sense to get it over and done with as a necessary evil – or an unnecessary evil, rather. His politics come into it, too. Although he's not a Communist, he doesn't believe there's a Soviet threat."

"Well, there's no escaping the imposition, whatever one's politics. I'd be inclined to agree with you that he needs a breathing space away from study, though this is from my own point of view as his headmaster. It would give him a chance to think about his future in a more practical way than he is thinking at present. Not that one would necessarily expect clear-cut plans from someone his age, but, when I asked what use he would make of a degree, he spoke vaguely of teaching or journalism, and his only definite idea was that he would like to go on to study philosophy. He seems to have made study an end in itself in a way that, like you, I find somewhat alarming."

Frowning, Ted said, "But he's not necessarily going to take our advice, is he?"

"No. We can only offer it as best we can. And it will need to be done sensitively, as I'm sure you realise. If we seem to be criticising his attitude, he'll resent it, and resentment doesn't aid clear thinking. And then, we mustn't be over-confident about our own attitudes. Headmasters, and if I may say so, older brothers, should be on guard against the assumption that we unfailingly know what's best for our young charges, especially when they have virtually ceased to be our charges."

"True," replied Ted, taking his leave and thinking that it must be a lot easier for headmasters.

### 26 Brother

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Ted often recalled the Rosalind episode, the sudden way in which it had ended, so soon after Martin had at last seemed to open out into a healthy and happy boy – going swimming with her, laughing and joking at home. And then "It's all finished!" No sign of any interest in girls since. Not even in the one down the street who showed every sign of interest in him.

Hillary kept seeking him out to talk about Esperanto matters. She sometimes stopped Ted, going to or from the house, to ask, "Do you know if Martin's free this evening?" This nicely-spoken, unaffected girl with a shared belief in Esperanto seemed just right for Martin. Yet he, though polite, always seemed glad to get back to work when she left.

Ted's opportunity had come when Mum had a bad cold and so there was a spare ticket for the family's trip to a Festival concert. "Pity to waste it," he told Martin. "What about asking Hillary if she'd like to come?"

"Hillary?" said Martin in obvious surprise. "Why Hillary?"

"Well – she's a friend of yours and I just thought it would be a nice idea."

"Hillary's not a friend." Martin sounded really baffled.

"But she's round to see you often enough, isn't she?"

"Oh, but that's only on Esperanto business. I'm the secretary, you see, and she helps to organise some of the events. So we overlap a bit and she needs to check things with me sometimes. Or she thinks she does. She could work out most of it for herself if she wasn't so scatterbrained! But I don't really know her well. It'd look odd if I asked her to join us."

"Oh, I don't think it would really. You know her reasonably well, after all."

"I know Ewan a lot better. What about him?"

Ted, thinking "Grant me patience!" persisted, "But you go out with Ewan at other times. A bit of feminine company would make a pleasant change."

"Well, all right, I'll ask her." Made it sound like doing Ted a big favour.

After the concert, they had a meal in a restaurant. Hillary seemed very grateful. She talked a lot, obviously nervous. Pearl and Ted tried hard to put her at ease, make her feel welcome. Martin, though again polite, made no special effort. Ted seemed to be in the ludicrous position of making Martin's efforts for him.

And, when next Hillary had crossed Ted's path, it was to ask as diffidently as ever, "Do you know if Martin's free this evening?"

So – grounds for worry over Martin even before the loss of his mother. According to Pearl, Ted worried about him too much – the lad had his own kind of resilience and would find his own ways of coping. But, with Mum gone, there was really no one else to keep an eye on him. He might not be Martin's guardian, but he couldn't walk away.

It didn't help that Martin had decided to stay on in the house, despite the offer of a home made by Pearl and himself. Mum had left the house to him, but it would have been sensible if he had taken Mr McGill's advice and let it furnished till he became settled in life, deriving some income to supplement the modest support provided under Dad's trust fund. He'd given no real reasons for his decision, saying vaguely that it would mean more flexibility in organising his time. But all it could mean was more isolation and more unhappy memories.

Ted doubted if Martin ate properly, apart from Sunday lunches at their house. He got by during the week with the help of a woman employed for a couple of hours every day, mainly to cook an evening meal. This coming Sunday lunch would be the time for Ted to report back to Martin on the interview with the headmaster. How was the "sensitive advice" called for to be put over? On this, Ted consulted Pearl. She said, "The one thing you've overlooked in this catalogue of anxieties is that we have something to celebrate. He did pass the exams. It must have been a terribly difficult time for him, but he rose to the occasion. So we might begin by congratulating him. In fact, it wouldn't come amiss to suggest an actual celebration and plan something with him – going to the theatre, maybe, and then a nice meal in town!"

"Yes. I did overlook that aspect, didn't I? The idea would at least put him into a good mood and make him easier to talk to."

"It might even put you into a good mood, and easier to listen to!"

### 27 Cherry

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"A night out at the theatre? Yes, I'd love to! That'll be great. Thanks very much." Martin felt bemused at all this good cheer. He'd been expecting one of Ted's sermons taking something or other said by the headmaster as its text. Instead, it was congratulations on how well he'd done in difficult circumstances, how impressed the head had been with the exam results. "So where were you thinking of going?"

"Oh, the choice must be yours," said Ted. "It's your day, after all."

"The Dave Willis summer show at the King's, then?"

Pearl asked, "Are you quite sure that's what you prefer? There's a Shakespeare season at the Lyceum."

"Have a heart, Pearl!" put in Ted. "The lad's had Shakespeare all through school!"

"Yes, exactly," laughed Martin. "I need a break sometimes!"

Approval continued to flow from Ted when Martin told them that he had decided to do National Service before university so that it wouldn't be hanging over him. "I think you've made a very sensible decision. The headmaster was inclined to think that that would be best. It'll give you a kind of breathing space, as he put it, to think about your future."

Martin thought, More like a suffocating space! but kept it to himself, not wanting to spoil the party.

He declined Ted's offer of a lift home, saying it was a nice day and he'd enjoy the walk. What he really wanted to enjoy was giving his undivided attention to Cherry.

This he did as soon as he got outside. "Well! That was unusual. He actually got through the whole afternoon with no nagging and no awkward questions! And a treat thrown in for good measure! How do you feel about the big night out, then? Oh, you do like Dave Willis? Yes, I rather thought you would. You've got a way of liking the things I like, haven't you?"

He smiled. "Yes, I know he's a person, not a thing. It's just a turn of phrase. You're awfully pedantic sometimes, Cherry! You'll have to put up with sitting on my knee through the show. If I'd said that a fourth seat should be booked, there would have been awkward questions! Now, which way home from here? The main road or through the Meadows? Yes, it is a lovely evening for a walk through the Meadows, isn't it? Lovely evening to kiss in the Meadows, too. Hey, Cherry, I don't want to wait till the Meadows, do you? You're not worried about the people in the street, are you? No, I didn't think you would be."

And he pressed his lips on the air above his right shoulder.

The people in the street were indeed nothing to worry about. They couldn't see Cherry, nor would they notice a slight movement of his head, or one hand kept clasped as he walked. The words didn't need to be spoken, though he might voice below his breath any that were specially tender. Anyone looking closely would see only a lad who smiled a fair bit and seemed lost in happy thoughts.

He had found Cherry when he changed his route to and from school to avoid Justin Lodge girls. She was nearly always with him, but he varied the intensity of her presence. It was faint when he was with anyone and negligible when things like homework or sitting exams preoccupied him. It became exquisite at the closing of the day, when they had their late supper in the firelight. They squatted on the hearth rug, using the little chair for a table. It was the chair he had sat on when he used to do Daddy's feet. Lovely having Cherry to soothe away the desolation of this bereft house! He would stroke the unruly black curls caught so sweetly in that glow, and take delight in the soft brown eyes, the loving smile, of this smallish girl who was quite sturdy for her size. He realised that some details might change when he met her. And it would be a huge coincidence if her name actually was Cherry. But till that came to pass, what she was now did very well.

They often had a love-wrestle before getting into bed. That was Cherry's phrase. She'd taught him to see the wrestles as just one part of all their love, and not to worry about who won. He won most of them, but sometimes she was quicker or cleverer and she'd tumble him onto the bed and hold him fast in a love-grip. He'd said, the first time that happened, "Hey, Cherry why don't you kneel on my chest?"

"I wouldn't do that," she'd told him, "because – well, it's not something I'd do."

But her knees, dug into his thighs or legs, would be part of the love-grip. And then they'd have intercourse. Didn't always climax... but that didn't matter... there'd be no difficulty once they'd met. Meantime, they got pleasure enough just talking about how completely at ease they felt with each other.

All sorts of things would come right when they met – the sight of a boy kneeling on another's chest, or a schoolgirl winning a tussle, would no longer bother him. Till then, he'd have to put up with the morbidity of masturbating such things out of his system.

Those were pretty well the only occasions when Cherry was not present.

### 28 Handicapped

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The theatre trip was not the only happy event in the offing. He was to have afternoon tea at Miss Shand's. She had retired the previous summer, but they had kept in touch. He'd sent her such stories as he found time to write, and when the number built up to three or four, she would invite him round for a more expansive and sociable discussion than had ever been possible in the classroom at close of school with the cleaners imminent.

He now anticipated an especially pleasurable visit, for, as well as passing his exams, he had had a story published. But, after she had congratulated him, the conversation took an unexpected turn. She said, "But I'm not quite so happy with this last batch of stories. I'm worried about them, to be honest. The subject matter is so nightmarish." Instead of developing this criticism, she seemed to be awaiting his reaction.

"Well – yes – I suppose it is. But – do you mean that nightmarish subjects shouldn't be written about?"

"Any subject can be written about. What worries me is your treatment of it. These stories pile on the misery ever more thickly and do nothing else. All four are in essence the one story. They're about men who are rejected and mocked by women because of physical handicaps or deformities of one kind or another, and the implication, the underlying message, seems to be: it is terrible not to be physically sound and attractive, life is not worth living in that situation. Do you really believe that, Martin?"

"No – I don't." He tried not to show that he felt shaken at having it put like that. "But that's not what I intended to say. They were meant to be a study in petty cruelty – how some people who are fortunate in life can inflict it and think no more about it."

"That's not how it comes over. The petty cruelty isn't the main problem. It's the reaction of these men to it, the cruelty they inflict is on themselves. And it's needless cruelty, because – " She paused for a moment. "You know, we're going to miss the point if we discuss this in terms of literary criticism. It's clear that the misery of these handicapped men is based on your own misery, even though –"

"No, it's not, because I'm not miserable. I've not based it, but drawn on, things that have happened to me. You've said that writers should do that. But these stories are fiction. I'm not miserable, I enjoy life."

"One wouldn't think so to read them. Perhaps there's more to these stories than you're consciously aware of. There's such intensity of pessimism over handicap, even though you are not handicapped yourself. You are somewhat smaller than average, but by no means exceptionally small. And that is all. Martin, it doesn't matter if someone isn't tall or well-built or good-looking or instantly attractive to the opposite sex. I wouldn't actually say you were puny or ugly or unattractive, but even if you were, it wouldn't lessen your value as a human being. All human beings have value – to God and in what they can give to one another. I believe God has gifted everyone with something to give to others, something to lighten darkness. You may not wish to see it in those particular terms, I wouldn't wish to press that upon you, but I do urge you to recognise your own positive qualities, and especially your gift of writing. That's a reason for you to be happy instead of miserable. Surely you must see that it outweighs any physical disadvantages?"

"Well – yes – but I never said otherwise. The stories are fiction." He found it hard to put the words together and harder to put his feelings together. Her harping on about his physical characteristics was infuriating, but wasn't there comfort in what she had then gone on to say?

"I hope you don't feel I'm belabouring the matter. Once a schoolmarm, always a schoolmarm, even in retirement! But, as a friend nearly old enough to be your grandmother, I think there's one other point that ought to be mentioned. I gather from these stories that you must have had some upsets with your first girlfriend or girlfriends. But that happens to nearly all young people in their first relationships. You shouldn't feel it as something that's happened uniquely to you because of your size."

"Oh, of course!" he burst out. "It happened to my brother Ted and he thought it was the end of the world at first and then he found there were more fish in the sea! A platitude for every occasion!"

He was immediately horrified by his rudeness and apologised. The talk turned awkwardly to neutral topics and he took his leave as soon as he politely could.

"Yes, it was rude," Cherry agreed. "But you did apologise. And she said some very annoying things."

"Heavens she did! She tells me that I'm miserable. I tell her, on the best possible authority, that I'm not. But she still insists that I am. What is one supposed to say in that situation?" But his humour failed to amuse him, and his ensuing thoughts were somehow not confidable to Cherry.

What right had Miss Shand to make personal comments about his size and about girlfriends? He realised that her intentions had been good – to help him out of his "misery" by telling him of all those things that "didn't matter". Who was she to tell him that they didn't matter, when he knew that they could matter and would have gone on mattering but for Cherry?

But what of her message about his value to God, everyone's value, everyone's gifts and the sharing of these? Could religion become relevant to him if viewed in that way? Would it have made any difference in his troubles over the paper girl and Rosalind? He wasn't at all sure that it would have done, but it stirred something in him nevertheless, and he sensed that there was truth in it.

That didn't dispel the memory of a most disagreeable afternoon. He thought there should be a cooling-off period before he contacted Miss Shand again. She wrote a few letters to ask how he was faring. He replied blandly and briefly. His replies grew less frequent and the correspondence petered out.

### 29 Holiday

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He left school with a couple of months' free time, in what promised to be beautiful summer weather, before National Service was due. He enjoyed long walks and picnics with Cherry. Returning home late one evening, he found that Ewan had put a note through the letterbox – "Martin, greetings! Long time no see! Would you like to come up for tea on Thursday? I hope you can, because there's an idea I want to discuss with you. Yours aye, Ewan."

There were a number of reasons for "long time no see." Ewan had a job now, having left school early to become a trainee reporter on a Scottish Sunday paper. He sometimes worked evenings and weekends. And there was no longer the South Side Journal to bring them together – the real-life reporter seemed to have outgrown what Ted had once called "playing newspapers." But Martin had a reason of his own for not seeing Ewan too often. Thoughts of wrestling with him had again become troublesome. There were times when the longing to be held down by him – to shut everything else out, even Cherry, in the delight of it – brought him to the brink of asking. And if that had sounded odd to Ewan when they were fifteen, how would it sound at eighteen?

Ewan broached his idea in the den after tea. "Our National Service is coming up and we could be doing it at opposite ends of the country. How would you fancy having a holiday together before king and country get to work on us?"

"Oh – well." Martin tensed.

"I just thought. I'd ask you. You – er – I realise you may have other plans."

Martin saw that his reaction had been hurtful. "Oh no, I've not made any plans. It's a nice idea. What kind of holiday did you have in mind?"

"I was thinking of a country holiday, somewhere where we could go on long walks. It seems ages since we did that!"

"Yes. It's time we did that again. Any particular place you were thinking of?"

"Well, I'd been thinking vaguely of the Lake District."

Martin replied, "Let's think definitely of the Lake District." He thought, "I need a holiday. And I want one with Ewan, whatever the problems."

"Great! Shall I send off for a list of bed-and-breakfast places and a map? Then we can pick one that's cheap and well-situated for walks."

As planning got underway, it struck Martin that wrestling might not seem such a weird suggestion when they were on holiday. It would be a carefree time with a lot of joking and teasing. And, wrestling or no wrestling, be must try to make the most of this holiday while it lasted. The prospect of National Service didn't bear thinking about... cooped up with total strangers... no suppers by firelight with Cherry... worst of all would be stripping, when they would see how thin and puny he was.

Sharing a bed-and-breakfast room was much cheaper. The "double room at the top" turned out to be a quite small attic with two austere-looking beds, an undersized wardrobe and little else. Ewan said as they unpacked, "I feel dead tired. I don't know if it's the country air or the journey, but I'm almost too tired to bother undressing!"

That ruled out any lead-up to wrestling that night. But Martin was glad about the "almost" – he wanted to get excited looking at Ewan's muscles. What he saw took him aback – because Ewan's clothes had concealed that he was as thin as Martin. If anything, even thinner.

His physique wasn't too far off the self-description he'd given when wrestling had last been proposed – "I'm weaker than I look. I'm a long, lanky strip of skin and bone!" Martin had thought he'd only been saying that. Except for Ewan's height, they'd be evenly matched in a wrestle. Martin realised that it could all hinge on who put more effort into it, which would probably work to his own advantage. If he didn't struggle hard to win, there wouldn't be much thrill from defeat.

Pointless if I win, he thought as he said "Good night" and got into bed. Worse than pointless – if he won, having obviously contrived to bring a wrestle about, it might look as if the whole idea had been to show Ewan that, though smaller, he could push him around. Like bloody Pat! A bit more subtle, but just the same really. He couldn't be sure that Ewan would see it that way, but it wasn't worth risking. Ewan had wanted him on this holiday because he saw him as his best friend. That was one thing that hadn't changed through all of eight years.

So... the wrestling problem had gone and it was time to sleep peacefully. They'd tossed a coin for who was to get the bed that felt slightly less hard, and Martin had been unlucky. He eventually found the part least unkind to his bones, but instead of sleep coming over him, there came a surge of warm feelings towards Ewan. He tried to imagine how it would feel to have the closeness of wrestling without doing it. He checked himself for imagining such a thing. And, anyway, it couldn't happen. It was just a silly fancy,

It tuned out to be less fanciful than he thought. There were ways in which physical contact came about. The attic room had a tiny window looking out over miles of valleys and hills. They couldn't share that view unless they touched. If one of them pointed to something, his arm would come to rest upon the other's arm or shoulder. If they stopped during a walk and spread the map out over their laps, they would move close up to each other – the map was steadier that way.

For all its pokiness, the room was what Martin enjoyed most about the holiday. It seemed cut off from all comings and goings below. In late evening, he and Ewan would lounge on one or other of their beds, and usually grow too tired to finish their chess game on Ewan's pocket set, but not too tired to talk of this and that. Martin fell into a habit of stretching himself across the bed when tackling any especially knotty topic of discussion. If his head came to rest on Ewan's knees or thighs, Ewan didn't move away. Then, when Ewan picked up the habit, this happened in reverse.

Martin came to think of the room as a little world belonging to the two of them. A very temporary world, but a kind of heaven while it lasted. There was no violence and no hurt in this world, no one mocked you for being small or being thin, no one made you feel you should be something different from what you were.

Ewan sometimes joked about being thin. "I suppose I'll get some nickname like Hairpin in the army. I gather they're great on nicknames in the services. You'll probably get dubbed Four-eyes or something equally picturesque!"

Ewan's attitude to all that sort of thing – laughing it off at his own expense – astounded Martin. It was so utterly different from everything he had felt. Didn't Ewan ever worry about sturdy fourteen-year-old boys being stronger... or about... girls? He wondered whether Ewan had a girlfriend. They'd never asked each other personal questions. Somehow – their sense of good manners, perhaps – it hadn't happened. On holiday together, they could be more intimate, but Martin still shrank from the questions he had in mind. Eventually, he hit upon one he thought he could safely ask.

"You know you were talking about nicknames in the Army? Do you ever worry that it could come to something worse than nicknames, because there'll be a mixed bunch there, and some people can be very offensive about physical characteristics?"

"I know. I've met some. Obviously you have, too." Ewan laid aside the pocket chess he'd begun to open up and looked at Martin thoughtfully. "Well, what I've found with folk like that is – they give up if they see that it just doesn't worry you. They only enjoy it if it does worry you. It means not taking yourself too seriously – or not taking certain things about yourself too seriously. I think – maybe you – well, I got very upset by it at first. There was a stage at school when I was getting bullied a lot, not being much of a fighter and not very good at football –"

"Me too!"

"Yes, I can imagine that. I used to go crying to my mum. I was a real crybaby in those days, I'm afraid. And what she did was to tell me not to worry about it. That sounds silly when you still have to go and face it, but somehow it made me feel better and it usually worked. She didn't lay down any hard-and-fast rule about fighting back or not – said you just had to judge that at the time. I did have one fight and got hammered. It was someone who wouldn't have stopped otherwise. But, in general, not worrying about it proved the right answer. Also, showing I could laugh at myself a bit. It's a great help if you can do that, you know. Well, I found that, anyway."

Martin felt at a loss to know whether this made sense or not. "So – that worked for you, then?"

"Yes, it seemed to. Maybe it was easier for me than for you, because – if you don't mind me saying so, Martin – you've always been a bit sort of shy and solitary. I suppose – by nature or temperament or something – I'm a better mixer."

"Yes, well, that's true enough," agreed Martin, doubting if that would have made any significant difference in his own case.

"Did you have a lot of difficulty at school?"

Martin was silent as he tried to weigh up whether Pat, and bare knees on chests, and girls being stronger, could be explained to Ewan. When the silence became awkward, Ewan said, "Don't mind me asking, do you?"

"Oh no, 'course not. Well – the way it was with me – what happened was – my mum took a hand in things, too. In her particular way. She went and complained to the headmaster. The bullying stopped after that." He concluded bitterly, "Not very heroic."

"Well – but – it was a long time ago. And it's nothing to be ashamed of, really, is it?"

"Nothing to be proud of, either."

"But it's not something you should dwell on. How heroic can a kid be when others are all ganging up on him?"

"Yes, I suppose you're right," Martin said half-heartedly.

"Heroics get awfully overrated, anyway. There's lots of things about you that I'd rate above heroics. Your writing. Your sense of fun. Your friendship. Your – well, your nature, I suppose – you."

Ewan, having sounded unusually earnest, looked embarrassed. He smiled and said, "I don't know if I'd rate your chess so highly, but do you want to prove me wrong?"

"I'll try." As they arranged the pieces, straining their eyes to distinguish little plastic bishops from little plastic pawns, Martin said, laughing, "I'm not all that worried about how you rate my chess!"

"All good things," said Ewan, "must come to an end."

"Time and tide," said Martin, "wait for no man."

It was their final talk on their final night in their bed-and-breakfast room, and they were playing at clichés to keep their spirits up. An idea came to Martin. He wondered whether to say, "As it's our last night together, what about sleeping in the same bed?" He had nothing indecent in mind, only that it would be good to have eight hours of closeness before eighteen months of separation. But would Ewan take it that way? It would be terrible if he took it the wrong way. So all that Martin said was, "Wouldn't it be nice if we could just stay on?"

"Yes. Wish we could."

They were sprawled across Ewan's bed. Martin settled his chin on Ewan's chest and said, "What do you reckon would happen if we just did?"

"Oh – well now. Quite a number of practical problems. Like running out of money."

"Well, supposing we wandered around the countryside doing odd jobs?"

"An idyllic picture, Martin, but – one little snag – the police – civil and military."

"Oh, come on, Ewan, we could easily give them the slip."

"Tell you what – make it your next story."

"Yes! It's got the makings, hasn't it? It's difficult to see how to end it, though."

"Well, they could pick on the wrong sort of person to do odd jobs for. Maybe Sergeant David in his country cottage and out of uniform."

"Yes, right. That being the village bobby, I take it?"

"Oh for heaven's sake! Sergeant David! Sergeant David, for the love of Mike, Martin!"

"Oh! Of course!"

"At last! Forgetting one of your best creations!" His hands cradled Martin's head as he asked, "What do you keep in there?"

"I don't think I'd really forgotten. My mind was running on a different track. Fancy you remembering that!"

"I'd never forgotten. I don't think I could forget that."

In the night, he waited till Ewan was fast asleep. He masturbated then and he got it to a climax with no wrestling image at all.

### 30 The State

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Awaiting his return home was the summons to attend his National Service medical.

The doctor looked anxious when, in the course of routine questions about past ailments, it came to light that Martin had had Child Guidance treatment and that the decision to end it had been his own, He saw that the doctor underlined his note of this. "And have you had any problems since?"

After a pause, Martin replied, "Yes, but none that I wasn't able to get over."

"Well, you certainly seem to have done well at school. Have you thought about university?"

Martin was glad that the talk had moved on to the present – till it came to his living arrangements since Mum's death. Again the doctor looked anxious and again he probed, establishing that Martin had declined to move in with Ted and Pearl, preferring to stay on in the house alone. The doctor looked up from his next bit of underlining to ask, "Do you have any social life?"

"Oh yes! I'm just back from a holiday in the Lake District with a friend of mine."

"Do you have many friends?"

"Well, I had a few at school, but of course – with leaving –"

"How many friends are you currently in touch with?"

"Oh – just currently – two." Determined to avoid disclosing that number two was occasional correspondence with a retired schoolmistress, Martin said, "Excuse me, but is this really relevant in a medical?"

"Well, yes, it possibly could be. You see, you give me the impression of being quite a solitary person, keeping your troubles very much to yourself."

This was so like Ted in a white coat that it provoked: "And I suppose you're going to say that Army life would do me the world of good?"

The doctor said calmly, "Maybe it would and maybe it wouldn't. Meeting more people and getting out of yourself would certainly be advisable, but whether the Army would be right – that's a bit more complex and I'll need time to consider it, talk to some colleagues. We'll be in touch."

The letter informed him, in matter-of-fact, official language, that he was Grade C and would not be required for National Service. He'd never known good news to be broken in such a bad way. Grade C sounded positively stigmatising. If it had been because of his physique... but the doctor had seen him as an oddity for the silliest of reasons. How dared someone discontinue Child Guidance... live on his own... not be gregarious?

Consolation came from realising that it was the doctor's attitude that was Grade C.

### 31 Beta Minus

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"This is a disappointing performance, Mr Vanskin." Martin's essay on the economics of the slave trade lay on Dr McPenn's desk. Dr McPenn was a lecturer and tutor in Modern British History at Edinburgh University. He was also Martin's director of studies and monitored his progress in all subjects. A tall, bleak-faced young academic, he sat frowning down upon the essay from a lofty height. Martin could tell that this interview was going to be a rough ride.

"You have," Dr McPenn went on, "assembled facts, but you appear to have become bogged down in them, I see no real attempt at selection and interpretation. That has applied, I'm afraid, to all your recent essays for me, indeed to all your other Second Year essays, I understand. All suggest a lack of due trouble taken to shape your material." He thrust the manuscript from him, across the desk to Martin; the "Beta Double Minus" marking was writ large above the title. The History Department considered the Greek alphabet more expressive than numbers.

Martin wanted to shout that he took hours of trouble, bedless nights of trouble often enough. But he sensed that Dr McPenn would merely reiterate that the results were disappointing. Martin took the essay and mumbled "Thank you." (God! he thought. What for?) He hadn't expected its return at this interview, originally intended to discuss his choice of specialised studies for next academic year. But Dr McPenn now deferred that because "I don't know at this stage whether I'd be recommending you to proceed."

Martin emerged into the late morning sunshine in one of his despondent moods. He couldn't face work at such times and would take a day or an afternoon off, even when, as now, there were fast-approaching deadlines for other essays. Usually, he would walk to the outskirts of Edinburgh, maybe wander into the countryside. He had taken Cherry the first time, but that hadn't done any good. He had, in any case, broken with her habitual presence soon after starting university. That made her special times really special.

He realised that on this occasion he couldn't just brood – he had to weigh up whether he could hope to improve his disappointing performance or whether he should get out before he was thrown out. Suddenly he thought of a particular walk which would perhaps make him feel better.

He made his way to the street where he he'd lived before moving into digs, the house having at last been let, on the insistence of Mr McGill. He passed slowly by the tenement stair, looking up at the window of the room where homework and writing had been done. He reminded himself of his school essays, his stories, his successful struggle to pass in maths. Then he went and had a walk along the road where Ward School was.

His journey ended back in town at the snack counter of a department store. The lady behind that counter seemed mildly surprised when he appeared – he normally went there on Saturday mornings. In her hairstyle and in something about her eyes and the shape of her face, she bore a slight resemblance to Mummy. Whether she'd resemble Mummy if she smiled, he didn't know, because she never did. He'd tried chatting and had occasionally sought special attention by, for example, requesting a drop more milk in his tea. But it was hard to draw words from her, let alone smiles.

"Are those cakes coconut flavour?" he asked now.

She eyed them as if doubting the existence of flavour at all. "I don't know."

"Which cakes would you recommend?"

He saw a trace of Mummy in her passing frown as she said, "They're all much the same."

So Martin ate and drank, and pictured Mummy putting food on their kitchen table. He now wished he hadn't revisited old scenes – they only rubbed in the contrast with the present. Had he any chance at all of coping with the morass of complexity and boredom that constituted Honours History? In his boyhood dreams, he'd seen it as a key to knowledge and understanding. That was a joke! There was never time to digest and connect the contents of the lectures and the books. He was given essays with long reading lists, deadlines running into one another, it wasn't education, it was frantic cramming. But others seemed to manage – what was the matter with him?

He tried to compose himself, to think calmly. He asked the lady who was a bit like Mummy if she could make his second cup of tea especially strong, She said, "Not much milk in it this time, then?"

"No – not much this time – thank you very much."

All at once, the full extent of his loneliness came home to him. Ewan was away on National Service, and he had lost touch with the few friends he'd known at school. He had made no friends among his fellow-students. They had a self-assurance which inhibited him, especially now when he was doing so badly. There had been a few women students he'd singled out to talk to, go for coffees with, but he had quickly realised that none of them was Cherry and that the whole thing was silly because he would know Cherry immediately when she came. Well... silly or not, it had at least been a modicum of social life, and now he had none at all, apart from Sunday lunches with Pearl and Ted. God! he thought, I'll be glad when Ewan gets back. His letters to Ewan were the only creative writing he had any spare time for – humorous, whimsical letters, untrammelled by the economics of the slave trade.

He had spun out his cup of tea till it was cold and he had decided nothing. He'd get nowhere, worrying on his own like this. He turned to the stool beside his and asked Cherry what she thought. "Don't get despondent, Martin," she told him. "Things aren't as black as they seem, love. Just try your best with the work. Take it one bit at a time, and don't worry about the next bit till you come to it. And then you won't feel so burdened down, and you'll work all the better for that."

"Yes. Yes, that's positive and I was being negative. I'm not going to give in without putting up a struggle! How could I explain it to people if I just left, anyway? And it wouldn't help with job applications, either. Right – one bit at a time, then. Bit number one had better be the Scottish History essay. I think I could get some of the books for that in the Public Library reference room. I don't feel like the university library at the moment."

### 32 Workshop Boys

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Martin spread his books and notepad out and settled himself at the end of one of the long tables. It was a quiet time; there was plenty of room. He had the table to himself apart from four schoolboys sitting together some way along from him at the other side. They looked about twelve or thirteen and seemed to be working on some kind of project. One was poring over an atlas, two others had a book each which they kept consulting, and a fourth noted down whispered communications in a jotter. Occasionally, on some keen point of discussion, it rose above whispers and risked violating the 'Silence Please' notice, but they checked themselves almost immediately.

At intervals in his reading, he felt his eyes drawn to them. They were very well-behaved, very industrious. Again, his own schooldays were evoked, even though there had rarely been group work at Ward and never library work. Wouldn't have trusted us not to dodge off home, he reflected. The sight was a vivid reminder that study didn't have to be a nightmare, it could be a pleasure.

The boys' voices rose again. The jotter boy looked round and saw Martin's gaze resting on them. "Sorry," he said.

"Oh. It's – it's all right." Martin gave what he hoped was a reassuring smile, and hurriedly delved into his book. He thought about his work and their work going on simultaneously. If he could get things shaped and completed just as they were doing... re-create the spirit that was in them and that had been in him not so long ago...

And it seemed, as he unravelled the intrigues around Mary, Queen of Scots, through the quiet afternoon, that – yes, he had got some of it back! When he looked at the library clock, he got a surprise – he'd be late for tea at the digs if he didn't rush. The boys were returning the atlas and books to the desk. He was close behind them at the door out to the stairway, and one held it open for him. "Thank you," he said. "You've all been working very hard. Are you doing some kind of project for school?"

"Yes," said one boy. "The growth of the railways. The way they grew because industries grew. And about towns growing too."

"Yes, very interesting, that. When you think of railways, you usually think of going to the seaside or somewhere on holiday, but that was nothing to do with the way they started."

"Yes, that's what we've found," said another boy. "Sorry if we disturbed you. We had to talk a bit while doing it."

"No, you didn't disturb me at all. You were –" He thought quickly, he didn't want to say "well-behaved." He substituted, "You were no trouble at all."

"He was nearly trouble." A boy poked another in the chest. "He nearly marked the atlas with his pencil. Would have got us barred!"

"I did not. It was only the top of the pencil."

"It was the point once."

"He shouldn't really be allowed a pencil," another joined in, "because he doesn't know one end from the other. He can't write."

The victim of this allegation laughed with the others, but, slightly hunching himself at shoulders and knees, made a swinging movement to pretend he was about to pounce on the other boy. A shine came into his eyes as if he would have loved to do it. Martin thrilled to look at him. Then another boy asked, "Are you a student?"

"Yes. History. So we're in the same line of business, in a way."

"Might see you here again, then."

The boys said "Cheerio" as they left Martin and made for their tram stop. He knew that, if it had been somewhere less formal than the library, the atlas boy would have gone for the joke boy, they would have wrestled, laughing all through, till someone's bare knees were on someone's chest. It was lovely to think of this wildness bubbling to come out when they left their well-behaved study behind.

The following afternoon, pleasantly surprised to find them there again, he sat nearer to them and, in a casual, humorous tone, asked the atlas boy, "Have you sorted out one end of the pencil from the other yet?" He hoped that he might get a fighting gesture, see that light in the boy's eyes. The boy gave him a friendly smile and said, "I think so."

When Martin was in the toilet, one of the book boys came in. Martin took the opportunity to ask, "What are you going to do with your project? Make a sort of joint essay of it?"

"No, not really. We've to do a report-back to the class. Mr Ensell – that's our history teacher – splits us up into workshops.There's other workshops at the museum and the castle and the palace. We always have workshops on Wednesday and Thursday afternoons."

"We never got anything like that at school. Our teachers wouldn't have trusted us not to dodge off home."

The boy laughed. "We wouldn't get away with that, because Mr Ensell fixes everything up in advance with the librarians and people. We suspect that Mr Ensell dodges off home, but we can't prove it."

On the Wednesday afternoon, Martin was disappointed to find that the workshop must have moved elsewhere. He felt an emptiness in the place without them. But he kept up the improvement in his work, getting "Beta Plus" and a beam of approval from his Scottish History tutor. A no-longer-disappointing performance! If he could sustain it, he could become a history teacher to boys like that.

He thought of an interesting thing to do. Towards the start of his course, he had chanced upon a small café where some of the boys from that school had lunch – if a plate of chips and a bottle of pop could be so described. If he made a return visit, he might see the workshop boys or, if not them, boys like them. He could listen in if they were talking about their work – or listen in, whatever, and recapture the inspiration. The middle of the working day would be significant timing – when he, and they, had got through the morning's studies and the afternoon's lay ahead. Well, on that basis, lunch there every day would be a good idea. There'd been adults there too, that time, having proper lunches, so he wouldn't be the only one.

On the first day, he didn't see any of the workshop boys there. He shared one of the few tables where adults sat, though he would have preferred sitting with boys. He decided that that might look a bit odd. Listening in to the boys was not easy – hubbub, much more than distinguishable speech, poured into his ears. They were aged from about eleven upwards. There were some big, sturdy thirteen- or fourteen-year-olds. Among some of these there was spasmodic minor horseplay, like blowing through a drinking straw into an ear, or grabbing a neck in a vice-like grip. It occurred to Martin that grabbing him by the neck and pulling him down to the ground would be a piece of cake for any of these boys. For all he was a man and they were boys in short trousers... the thought was both terrifying and delicious.

On his second and third days there, there were still no workshop boys. On the latter day, he was the only adult. It struck him that adults probably never returned to be regular customers – at least not at that time in the afternoon. They would be a passing trade – a very quickly passing trade! That made his position more embarrassing than he had anticipated. He therefore lunched elsewhere for the next few days and, on his return, timed his arrival for the last ten or fifteen minutes before the schoolboy exodus. And two of the workshop boys were there, the one who had made the "can't write" joke and the one who had made the little fighting movement. They half-smiled when he came in, as if unsure whether to greet him. He greeted them. "Hallo. We've got half a railways workshop here. How did your project go, then?" He sat down at their table.

"Oh, all right," said the boy who had made the joke. "Mr Ensell said it was good, didn't he, Pete?"

"Yes. We began with what you said to us about going to the seaside – you remember you said –"

"Yes, I do remember. You used that, then?"

Pete gave a satisfied "M–hm" and added, "Mr Ensell said our presentation was very good. We didn't tell his some of it was yours."

Martin laughed. "Well, so little of it was mine, I don't think I've got a case for breach of copyright."

They laughed, too. Then Pete said, "Hey, Tim, get your own chips!" Tim's hand had been sneakily invading Pete's plate.

"I can't. I'm broke till tomorrow."

"Well – but you've taken a dozen at least. I look away for one minute and Gutsy strikes again." Pete smiled at Martin and said, "I've got a case for breach of chips, haven't I?"

"You would have if there were such a thing. Breach of chips would make legal history."

"Oh no you don't!" Pete cried and gripped Tim's hand. Tim twisted it free and made two fingers walk on the edge of the plate. This time, Pete used two hands, one round Tim's wrist, the other over the back of his hand. "I'll break it!" Tim's arm tugged and twisted in spirited resistance. Then Pete got both hands on the wrist and pulled it down below table level. Martin looked over the edge and saw Tim's hand held fast between Pete's knees. "I'll break it!" Pete's voice was husky with triumph.

Pete cried "Help!" in mock desperation.

"Will you give in – and keep off my chips?"

"Yes!" Tim rubbed his released hand, pretending to groan in agony. The boys smiled at each other. There was admiration and excitement in Pete's smile. When Pete smiled at Martin, It was with a touch of embarrassment, but not enough to take the shine from his eyes.

Martin found difficulty in expressing himself. Then he said, "You didn't need the law, did you?"

"No. I just needed my hands and knees." Pete put a lot of relish into setting about what was left of his chips.

Martin thought of pinching a chip to see what Pete would say or do. He felt scared to. A bit disturbing... was he actually scared to? But he was an adult, of course, and he had his own chips, with an omelette, in front of him.

As schoolboys began to pour out of the café, Tim asked, "Do you often have lunch here?"

"Oh now and again."

"We do sometimes," said Tim, "pocket-money permitting."

"Or even not permitting," put in Pete, "with some folk I could name. Cheerio, then, see you sometime."

Pete was the hero of Martin's masturbation that night. He imagined his hand being sore from Pete's knees if he tried what Tim had tried. He went on to wonder if it could really happen. If he saw them there once or twice more, got to know them better, couldn't he pinch chips from Pete as a joke? But Pete would never react in that way to a grown-up. If it were one or two chips, he would just take the joke. If he kept pinching chips... well, it would be ridiculous. Supposing he simply asked Pete to try the knee-grip on his hand, to see if he could get out of it? But an adult, in a café, doing something like that with a boy? If it were somewhere better than a café... was there any way to find him somewhere else? What was he talking about, for heaven's sake? Following him after school? No, all he could do was to make the most of looking at Pete's hands, and at his knees when he could do this without making it obvious – and hope to see them in action again.

He sought this out the very next day. No need to wait, anyway, because the café staff must have seen that he knew a couple of the boys.

But Pete and Tim weren't there. He headed for a table he could share with one adult, but, passing a table where a well-built boy was that minute triumphing in a tug-of-war for a packet of crisps, he turned on impulse and sat beside his. The boy gave him a slightly puzzled glance, but then got on with the crisps.

Before long, the boy started talking to someone at another table and kept turning round in his seat. Accidentally, his foot pushed Martin's and he said, "Sorry." Martin said, "It's all right" and thought, Wow! He sent my foot flying! He stole a few looks at the boy's knees. They were brawny, towering above his. To test out his own foot power, Martin 'accidentally' pushed his against the boy's. It stayed rock-solid against the pressure, though the boy moved it of his own accord. Martin mumbled "Sorry." The boy said, "It's all right."

Was he so much weaker that he couldn't budge it even a little? After pretending to be preoccupied with his lunch for a few minutes, he tried again. It had the same result, except that he thought another "Sorry" would sound silly. Any more attempts would be too obvious... unless... he half-rose and reached for a pepper pot, then contrived a clumsy movement back to his seat, so that his foot kicked into the boy's. He didn't think he'd budged it, but he wasn't sure. The boy looked at him and frowned, then crossed his foot over the other, well away from Martin. Too well away – another boy protested, "Hey, watch where you're putting your feet!"

The first boy muttered darkly, "Best not bringing feet to this place." His foot, hurriedly uncrossed, half-stamped onto Martin's. It could have been unintended, but Martin got a now-or-never feeling and pressed against it as hard as he could. Had definitely budged it now. The boy rose. Martin feared such a revenge, such a bashing!

"Where are you going?" asked the other boy.

"Want to be back early." He spoke to the waitress on his way out.

When Martin left, the proprietor was waiting at the door, He said, "You! Don't come back!"

### 33 Big Changes

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He sat in his little room that evening, shattered. He couldn't believe, but he had to believe, what had happened. He felt unclean.

It was beyond belief that he had been barred from a public place. Even as a small child, he had known how to behave in places like restaurants and cinemas. And now... reported for misbehaviour by a child! The misbehaviour seen as something much more terrible than it was... well, was that surprising? A funny thought came to him. How would he have reacted if a strange man had done that to him at the age of fourteen? But no, a puny fourteen-year-old wouldn't have attracted it, not for the same reason. If for some reason, then, a man had done that to him, what would he have said or done? He wasn't sure. But he wouldn't have liked it. He might have done what this boy had done.

A grown man seeking out the company of boys, day after day!

Still expecting to get a job as a schoolmaster? he asked himself. Well, that's one school I needn't apply to. He'd be lucky if he could apply at all – didn't know whether further action would be taken. The café owner would probably leave it at dealing with an undesirable there and then. But if the boy reported it to his headmaster or parents? Well, they would probably decide it was too trivial to take to the police. But would it seem trivial? There had been such frequent trips to the café. It wouldn't be hard for the police to find him. The word must have got round the school – the workshop boys knew he was a History student at the university. But what could anyone prove? No one could have witnessed something happening beneath the table. If the worst did come to the worst, he could deny it – or, more plausibly, say that, with the table being very small, his foot had accidentally knocked against the boy's a few times. As long as he kept calm.

The act of making these calculations horrified him. Sordid! What had he come to? "Oh God, Cherry," he moaned,"I've made such a mess of things!" Cherry! What the hell was Cherry? Other young men – normal young men – had girlfriends, they didn't have Cherrys. Cherry was a mirage. She had seemed very real when she came and soothed the pain from Rosalind. Four years ago that had been. No girlfriend in four years, only a mirage – turning aside from girls who weren't Cherry. And now he had seen the result. If he'd put as much energy into getting to know these girls as he had into seeking out boys, this would never have happened. Well, there were going to be changes now, that was for sure. Most of those girls were still at the university, and he would join a society or two. There was a Labour Society... Esperanto Society... there would be girls who shared his interests.

Forgetting something, though, aren't you? he caught himself up bitterly. There was the lesson that the Rosalind affair had taught – he had no sex appeal, had he? He was recalling the manner of that affair's ending when something struck him – there were a few male students who were as small and thin as he, and no better-looking, and yet they had girlfriends. He'd noticed it, but it hadn't registered. I just walked past, blethering away to my mirage! He smiled at having put it like that. He went over to the dressing table and smiled into the mirror. He told himself that, between boyfriends and girlfriends, there was more to it than good looks. He had intelligence and humour, and was good company when he overcame his shyness. He had overcome it a bit, he seemed to remember, with some of those girl students.

Most of these girls had regular boyfriends by now, he discovered. So had some of the Labour and Esperanto ones. Others seemed too zealous to care about boyfriends. They organised everyone in sight to take on jobs. He reckoned that his only reward would be more jobs.

Emerging from the Old Quad one day, he saw a schoolgirl chasing another, both about thirteen. She caught her quarry and cried pugnaciously, "What's the rush?" Then they pressed on each other's shoulders, wrestling just like boys. The one who had been chasing rammed the other up against the Old Quad wall. The loser gave a little scream. He felt what he had never felt with any of the girl students. It was the first real excitement since Pete and the muscular boy in the café. It left no doubt that he would never feel it with a girlfriend unless she had wrestles with him and won some of them. Her legs and knees would have to be bare, be part of the winning love-grip. Cherry had known exactly. But she had been a mirage.

He told himself that with the right girl it would come about naturally. He would find the right girl eventually. Just had to keep on trying.

But before he could try much more, Dr McPenn demanded to know why essays weren't meeting deadlines. For the improvement in Martin's work hadn't lasted. Disillusioned as he again was about the value of Honours History, he doggedly resolved that he wasn't going to fail. That left no time for Labour and Esperanto societies. Only another two years of this, he tried to console himself. Girls can wait.

### 34 Crisis

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Walking through the Meadows one evening on his way home from the university reading room, he came upon a bunch of small boys having a rough-and-tumble. Something told him not to linger, but they could fairly pounce and throw each other down, and he wanted to see more, so he sat and watched on a seat close by. He lit a cigarette (he had started smoking to steady his concentration and nerves) to make it seem that he'd stopped for a smoke. They were nine- or ten-year-olds, he reckoned – a wild, struggling mass of bodies on the grass, a bit like the basement fights at Eveley Park School.

Soon, the fight of two boys in particular made spectators of the rest, and "Ou! Ou! Ou!" was being shouted. The winner did more than kneel on the loser's chest – he jumped his knees up and down on the chest and he smiled with delight. Naughty winner boy! breathed Martin. Aren't you just proud of your bare knees! The loser-boy yelled, "I give in! I give in!" But the winner boy was enjoying it too much to stop.

It was getting out of hand, screams were coming from the boy beneath. "Hey!" Martin shouted, "Go easy! You could break his bones doing that." The boy desisted. He stood up, saying, "Only playing, Mister."

"Well, it was playing a bit rough."

The boy still had his triumphant smile, black hair tumbled over a bold, cheeky face. "He plays rougher," he retorted, pointing to his newly risen opponent. "He strangles you when he wins. Didn't you strangle me last time?"

"Yes! And I'll strangle you next time!"

"Come on then!"

Martin went over and put a restraining hand on the winner boy's arm, and said, "Hey, give it a rest." For a second or two, he kept his hand on the muscle below the jersey. He went on, "If he'd strangled you, you wouldn't be talking to me now."

"I'm a ghost!"

"For a ghost you're very –" Martin changed tack and said, in a voice full of admiration, "For a ghost you're quite a fighter."

The boy did a Tarzan beat on his chest and said "I know!"

"We're all ghosts, mister," another boy put in. "We're the fighting ghost gang."

A third shed further light on the supernatural with, "They won't let us into Heaven 'cos we fight too much."

"What about down below?" returned Martin. "Is it too much even for them?"

His joke was received very well. It thrilled him to be in this boy world. He looked quickly all around – a few folk on far-off paths, no one else. He said, as casually as he could, "Do you think you could overpower me between you?"

They all looked at him curiously, and looked at each other. "Don't know," said one.

"Fight a man?" someone else gasped. "I'm no' fightin' a man!"

But the winner boy and some others were all for trying, and that mood took over. "No punching, no kicking, mind!" was generally demanded. "You'd better take your glasses off, Mister," said the winner boy. Martin put them in their case, put the case in an inner pocket.

He was surprised that he was able to loosen their grips and keep on his feet fairly easily. And disappointed. But then two of them resourcefully went for his legs, and down he came, buried under boys. They laughed and whooped, "We've won! We've won!" He tried to push knees off him, wishing he knew when he was touching the winner boy's in the tangle. But then they pinned his arms down. He was helpless.

"Jack! Mike! Come here at once! It's twenty-past-eight!" It was a loud, stern female voice. All rose from their prey. The scruffs of two necks were instantly seized by the woman. Gaping amazement came over her heavily frowning face as she stared down at Martin. "What – what's happening?"

He was numb with panic at first. He stayed down on the grass, transfixed by her frown and questioning eyes. "Are you all right?" she cried. "Did – did they at– attack you?"

Desperately, he strove to sound normal. "No. No, it's all right. It – it was just a game."

A flurry of boys' voices was quick to confirm this. "He asked us for a fight." "Just in fun." "Asked us to overpower him between us." "We did it, we won."

"Yes, " said Martin, rising. "You see, they were having – when I happened to pass by – they were having a fight among themselves. It seemed to be getting very rough and – I thought one of them might get hurt. So I thought I'd better check them, you see. Then I thought – if they took some of their high spirits – ha-ha" (he heard his own laugh, so stupid and simpering) "– out on me, well, it might –" He made a pathetic attempt at an adult-to-adult smile. The woman did not return it. She asked quietly, "Do you know any of them?"

"No – but we got talking when I happened to come along. I'd checked them and then – we got talking." He nearly dropped his glasses as he took them out of the case. He put them on and wilted when he saw in full detail the glowering suspicion in her face. She seemed on the brink of an angry reply, but then turned the anger on her two children. "When I say back at eight o'clock, I mean back at eight o'clock! And the rest of you – high time you were home, too! Out all bloody hours, talking to – talking to anybody!" She shook the two necks in her grasp and burst out, "I've warned you about that!" Her older child was the winner boy. He'd gone very pale and he'd started to cry. She gave Martin a last withering look before saying, "Come on, all of you! This minute!"

The morning after the tormented night brought certain inescapable conclusions.

First, though he was not a child molester, his behaviour had twice got him taken for one.

The café incident should have been warning enough. And yet the Meadows incident had happened.

Normal young men got excited over young women, not kids, tussles and bare knees. They didn't need to make special wrestling arrangements.

There was no consolation, no escape of any kind, to be found in his studies. On the contrary, escaping from them and into the boy world was one part of the problem. University had been a disaster; he'd have a nervous breakdown, become mentally ill, if he carried on like this. Become? Wasn't he already? How else to account for what he had done in the café and in the Meadows?

His thoughts lingered on the expression 'mentally ill.' Surely it applied to a great deal that went much further back than his university troubles... all those sexual feelings and images. It looked as if he had been mentally ill for years, for pretty well all of his life. He thought of Dr Pulliford at Child Guidance. He'd helped a lot at first, but when he'd tried to deal with 'painful things not really forgotten that go on hurting,' the patient had stopped attending.

Unwashed and unshaved, Martin got down late for breakfast. He was hungry, but the food held no taste for him and he didn't finish it. He smoked several cigarettes in his room and asked himself: What now? Given that the work's unmanageable, my feelings are unmanageable, I don't know what I'm becoming and I don't know where I'm going. I'll have to try and get some help. I'll have to.

So... a psychiatrist again.

### 35 Dr Thomas

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As his outpatient appointment with a Dr Thomas at Hattenbrae Hospital for Mental and Nervous Disorders drew near, Martin's uppermost dread was how to explain the disorder within him. It wasn't that he couldn't find words – the trouble was that they were unsayable. He was a weakling who got excited about kids who were stronger or who, even if not stronger, were super at fighting. He had twice contrived to have tests of strength with them and had got into trouble.

He had the waiting room to himself, apart from some goldfish in a tank. He'd once heard that looking at goldfish had a soothing effect. Some hope! Would he be here now, he wondered, if he had let Dr Pulliford continue his treatment? It had run aground when it had come to Lillian. Lillian and cowardice... the cowardice he'd been too cowardly to talk about. And, just as Dr Pulliford had warned, the hurt had gone on hurting und made him mentally ill. It had warped his sexuality. It was the sexuality of the Eveley Park playground, of being downed by Pat, out-tugged by Dennis, scared of Shirley when she'd back-thumped him. Not the sexuality of a man. The sexuality of a weakling.

The door opened. "Mr Vanskin? Would you like to come through now? I'm Dr Thomas." He proffered a handshake. Martin gulped, "Yes – good afternoon." He shook the hand limply and thought, "Oh God! All I'm bloody short of!" Dr Thomas was black.

"It's upstairs," said the doctor. "Rather steep climb, I'm afraid. The architect must have been a fanatic for exercise!" Martin felt horrified at having had a thought so shameful, one that went against all he believed in – Esperanto, socialism, common decency. But, even as he reproached himself, he felt incapable of confiding his innermost self to this man.

They faced each other across a small desk. The doctor, notepad before him, asked Martin to confirm whether details of name, address and birth date were correct. He had a deep voice, a slight lilt to it. The accent sounded a bit foreign, and yet familiar. Martin suddenly remembered hearing just such voices on a radio programme from Wales. Dr Thomas was a stocky, bespectacled man and seemed in his late twenties or early thirties.

"Well, then, Mr Vanskin – what's the problem?"

"It's hard to know where to begin."

"Beginning is often a frightening thought, especially if lots of things are swirling about in your head and you can't make sense of them and you think they'll sound awful. But you must try if I'm to be able to help you. Begin somewhere – with something. Doesn't matter if it's not a logical starting point."

He started with being small and puny, and all the misery poured out. He concluded by breaking down and saying that, because he had been such a coward with Lillian, and because he was a weakling, he'd become so mentally ill and sexually warped that he sought out tussles with boys.

"Right, I think I have the feel of it. And it wasn't unmentionable after all, was it? You've singled out two or three incidents as the cause of it all, but it sounded to me as if these were part and parcel of a terribly unhappy childhood. We shall need to look at that in much more detail. But two comments I can make right away. First, about Lillian, I've known, and heard of, quite a number of patients who were molested in some such way when they were young boys or girls, and I've never come across a case where the child was not absolutely terrified and unable to resist. An objective fact for you to consider. Significant, don't you think?"

Martin hesitated, then said, "I've got to ask you this, Doctor. You're not saying this to make me feel better?"

"No. I never work on that basis."

"Are you talking about children who were molested by other children, not by adults?"

"I am. I was making a direct comparison."

"Including boys being molested by girls?"

"Including that. It's interesting that, when reassurance is offered, you cross-examine it."

"Oh – I'm sorry – I didn't mean to be rude."

"No, you're missing the point. It's not that I object. I meant that you are very hard on yourself. You judge yourself severely and you seem to resist questioning the judgment. There is also this weakling theme. When I was at school and other boys ganged up on me, the first thing I did was to get myself up against a wall if at all possible in order to avoid a surprise attack from behind. I did that, having learned from an experience like the one you had with Pat. And when there was no wall I could get to, there were plenty more such experiences. So, as far as Pat is concerned, it would make more sense to reproach yourself for lack of strategy than for lack of strength – if you must reproach yourself at all."

"But it wasn't smaller boys who got you down, was it?"

Dr Thomas smiled. "Cross-examining again!" Martin, seeing the funny side, smiled too, for the first time in several days. The doctor said, "It was sometimes smaller boys."

"And – that didn't worry you, then?"

"Not that in particular. Anyone is vulnerable from behind – especially when there's a lot of hostility going on in front!"

"Yes, I suppose so." He said it half-heartedly, thinking, But I could still be downed by a boy.

"Did you have no friends at all among these boys?"

"Yes, I did later on." He explained that it had taken a while to stop thinking of them as common. It was, he thought, good to have a doctor whose understanding didn't come just from books. And he was curious to know why he had been ganged up on so much. So he ventured, "If you don't mind me asking, did you go to school in this country?"

"I did. You're really asking where I come from, aren't you?"

"Well – yes – I suppose I am."

"All right, I don't mind you asking that, either! Cardiff. Of Jamaican origin, but born in Cardiff. I don't know if you've heard of the Tiger Bay area?"

"Tiger Bay? Oh yes, I have – sort of vaguely. Isn't that where seamen from all over the world have settled?"

"That's it. My grandfather was one such. So I'm a black Taffy, which is a rare species in Edinburgh. Now, it's supposed to be me who's asking the questions, but I'll allow you the one I can guess is on the tip of your tongue. You're wondering why I, too, was bullied at school?"

"I did wonder, yes. Was it a very rough school?"

"It was and it wasn't. I certainly got rough treatment. But it wasn't known as a rough school, it was known as a posh school. I got there on a scholarship. I was the only black pupil. So we had basically the same sort of experience – that of being marked out as different or alien. But problems at school shouldn't be seen in isolation from..." For a moment, Martin lost track of the words. He couldn't but remember his first reaction on sight of the doctor. It had come straight from gut feelings like those of the boys at the posh school. Dr Thomas was saying, "So what was it like there?"

"Oh – er – where? Sorry, I didn't catch that last bit. I was mind-wandering."

"Mind-wandering? Now, that could be significant – where did it wander?"

Martin stammered, "It was nothing rel– nothing directly relevant."

"But something – obviously – troubling you. In a treatment situation like this, anything that troubles you is relevant."

"Yes. I suppose it is. It's something I'm very ashamed of."

"You felt that earlier on, didn't you, and then you felt better once you'd expressed it."

"This is different. It's to do with you personally. I hope you won't  
mind–"

"I won't. I couldn't do this job if I took personal offence."

Dr Thomas punctuated the confession with nods and "H–mms" as if hearing of problems far removed from himself. He replied, "Let's try to leave shame and remorse aside for now, and look at what exactly we're dealing with. It was a feeling, wasn't it? Something that came upon you utterly spontaneously. Now, how can it make sense to call a feeling wrong, to blame yourself for it?"

"But – yes, I can see that, but I shouldn't have that feeling. I should have known better. I thought I did know better."

"It's fairly clear that you do know better. But why do you think you had that feeling in spite of knowing better?"

"I was in a pretty despondent state – I was dreading seeing any psychiatrist just then. But that doesn't really explain it, does it?" Martin pondered for a moment. "I suppose it was childhood impressions – stuff I thought I'd grown out of. Not that I was brought up to be prejudiced – well, it wasn't talked of much, but, when it was – oh, my mum was bundle of contradictions. Anti-Semitism was wrong and colour bars were wrong, but she could dismiss the whole working class as common. And then there were – oh, jokes, figures of speech. I've just remembered – the wild man of Borneo. My dad once called me that when I was overdue a haircut and looking especially scruffy. Silly little things like that, but I suppose I grew up with them. I don't know how much that explains."

"I think it explains a great deal. No one completely outgrows these early impressions, and when I appeared in the waiting room, you had them reawakened in an unusually disconcerting way. It didn't take you long to right yourself, though, once our session had started. Your personality and behaviour have not been damaged in any significant way by those particular childhood impressions. You've felt able to question them and, on the whole, you have outgrown them. It gives us an interesting comparison with what you have not felt able to question and outgrow – what you were made to believe about the value of physical strength, toughness, fighting prowess. You've risen above what might have made you anti-Negro, anti-Semitic or anti-working-class, but you haven't risen above all that has made you anti-Martin Vanskin. I think that has got to be the focus of treatment."

There was a pause as Martin weighed this up. Then he said, "I can see what you mean – but – well, there have been times when I've questioned it, told myself it didn't matter, put it from me. And that might work for a while, but then it all comes back. It comes back sexually and it's getting dangerous now. I don't know what I might be led into."

"I realise how distressing it must be. And I know that of course you must have questioned it intellectually. What is needed is a process of questioning that engages your feelings. It will involve looking closely at the damage done in your formative years. I can't guarantee success, but, if you show some of the insight and honesty that you've shown at times during this interview, there should be a reasonable chance of success. If, in the earlier stages, I don't say much about your current sexual problems, that won't mean that I've lost sight of them. We must first deal with the context in which they arose. So that is what I can offer, can recommend. How do you feel about it?"

Martin felt doubt and hope at the same time. "I'll give it a try. I suppose I'd be very foolish not to. And thanks very much. How long is this treatment likely to go on?"

"That's hard to forecast, but probably a matter of months. Now, I hope you won't find it alarming – it's no cause for alarm, I assure you – if I also recommend that you come into the hospital. It would be on voluntary basis and you'd be free to leave at any time. I think we would have problems with outpatient treatment. If you were continuing to struggle with your studies, you'd have all those anxieties to contend with as well. I think that in any event we should negotiate some leave of absence "

"Leave of absence? I don't think I'll ever be able to cope there. Better to make a clean break."

"That would be taking a major decision at a time when you're badly distressed – in other words, the worst possible time to take such decisions. Leave of absence keeps your options open, and we may hope that you can decide that question when you're in a less troubled state."

"Yes, that makes sense. First things first."

"Exactly. Now, if you were an outpatient and not studying, there could be – problems there, too. In between our sessions, you'd be isolated, with time on your hands, whereas the hospital would provide routine and some company. Mental hospitals have come a long way from what they were like in bygone years. I don't know if you're aware of that?"

"Yes, I had heard. I read an article about it in The Scotsman. But would I be allowed out of the ward – to go for walks, for example?"

"You would after a week or two. You would be in the admission ward to start with, where inevitably there will be some disturbed or confused patients, as well as others as lucid as yourself. So there can't be complete freedom of movement – doors have to be locked. All the same, I think you'd find it a lot more congenial than being left to your own devices."

Martin nodded. "Some of my devices having got me into trouble?"

"Well, yes. There is that risk, isn't there?"

His admission was fixed for a few days later, giving him time to sort out such matters as moving out of his digs and finding somewhere to store belongings. There would be quite a bit to sort out. He found a snack bar near the hospital, got himself a strong coffee, smoked a cigarette. On the back of an old envelope, he began jotting down a checklist.

Some of these practical matters hid deeper implications. Was he to tell people that he was going into a mental hospital? That Scotsman article had said that gradually the stigma was being lifted – but not everybody read Scotsman articles! Then he perceived that concealment would be giving in to that prejudice. There was nothing to be ashamed of in explaining that there had been a lot of anxiety over his studies, he had been on his own a great deal, he had had a nervous breakdown. Not that it would be the easiest of things to say. It would certainly upset Ted and Pearl. He would have to stress that the doctor had seemed fairly hopeful. And, anyway, if he didn't tell them, he would have to lie about why he couldn't be there for Sunday lunches. Besides, their house was the obvious place to store stuff.

A particular worry was how Ewan would take the news, following those light, carefree letters. But he wrote as soon as he got back to the digs. With so much change and uncertainty in prospect, he needed to write to Ewan, however briefly and awkwardly, to steady himself. When he came to the reassurance sentence, he considered whether he could truthfully describe the doctor's attitude as hopeful, rather than fairly hopeful. The forecast had been 'a reasonable chance of success.'

Martin wrote 'fairly hopeful.' Then he paused again, reminding himself that he had gone to his appointment with hardly any hope. And now that there was a reasonable chance, it was up to him to make the most of it. It wasn't just a question of not getting into trouble. His life had become dominated by morbid thoughts about physique and morbid sexual feelings. Surely he could make more of his life than that? There was more to life than that, there were things he could offer. Was all that to be blocked by so petty an obsession? He remembered how Miss Shand had seen a link between God and what people could give to one another. If that were true, then God must want him to be freed.

For the first time in ages, he prayed.

### 36 Tranquil Place

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"Was the McHugh boy a weakling?" Dr Thomas asked.

"No," said Martin, puzzled.

"But he got knocked off a wall by someone smaller."

"Yes, but I took him by surprise."

"But what about Pat taking you by surprise?"

"Yes, I can see what you're getting at." Martin pictured the two incidents. "I'm not sure about the comparison, though."

"But there's certainly some comparison, isn't there? I find it particularly interesting that the surprise factor was obvious to you in the McHugh case, but, in the other, where you were at the receiving end of the surprise it didn't even enter your head. That's something for you to think about between now and our next talk."

Dr Thomas set thinking exercises as regularly as teachers set homework. Though Martin wasn't wholly convinced by the doctor's interpretations, he was beginning to see some things differently. That, he reckoned, seemed promising, but it was too early to judge.

The admission ward provided a good environment in which to think. It never housed more than seventeen patients and it was well run. The stock joke of the nurses was that the patients got spoilt in this ward. The day began with early-morning tea brought to one's bed – a bit too early-morning for Martin's liking, but it was nice to be awakened that way. Ambulant patients went over to occupational therapy after breakfast. There was much chat and fun there, and he amazed himself by managing to make a little tablemat. On their return to the ward, the morning coffee trolley would be awaiting them. It became the afternoon tea trolley at three o'clock. There was a cosy little lounge where he had his first sight of television. It was switched off shortly after ten at night, but they could enjoy a cup of hot chocolate during the closing minutes. If one got bored with the television, there was a seating area in the main ward, with a table on which were stacked packs of cards, jigsaws, draughts, chess and scrabble. Martin acquired a taste for playing patience. There were a few senile men in the ward, and one, who had been pacing up and down looking confused and distressed and getting in everyone's way, sat by him and eyed the columns of cards.

"A seven and a six and a five and a four and a three," he said. "All in order. That's very good."

"Yes, but I don't think I'll get much further. Do you play patience?"

"I've never seen it before," the old man said mournfully. "Never seen it before."

Martin doubted that, but went on to explain how it worked. "I can't get any more cards out now. I'll start a new game and then you'll see what I mean."

There were exclamations of pleasure from the man whenever cards left the pack to swell the columns or left the columns to swell the top cards. Martin became aware that the ward sister was standing over their game. "You're enjoying that, aren't you, Mr Wallace?" she said, and then, to Martin, "You've settled him down when none of us could! It's very good of you to take the trouble." She bustled away and he felt embarrassed, because it had just happened that way. "I'm stuck again," he told Mr Wallace. "I think. You don't see anything I could move around, do you?" "No, no, not stuck, never stuck." Mr Wallace tapped the remainder of the pack. "You've still got all those cards there."

"Yes, but –" Martin couldn't help laughing. "None if them is any use. Would you like to have a shot now? I'll tell you if you make any mistakes. Do you want to shuffle them? They'll need a really good shuffle."

Martin, on the lookout for cards getting dropped, discovered that Mr Wallace was a rather more competent shuffler than he was, and thought, "He must have played cards quite a bit when he was all right." But, when he played, he formed totally illegal columns and needed to be corrected all the time. "You do them again," he appealed to Martin. "They're beautiful when you do them."

Martin found that he could always lure him out of an agitated mood just by sitting down and playing patience.

His own agitated moods had left him, he felt much more relaxed. This was partly because he was away from university – and away from boys. Though he was allowed out for walks, on his own or with other patients, it was only in the hospital grounds. But another influence was the atmosphere of the admission ward. He had never expected a place of such tranquillity. Patients who seriously disturbed the tranquillity were promptly removed to other wards. Though he was glad to have the place kept as it was, he did sometimes wonder about those other wards. He got some clues when, out for a quiet walk, he came upon an escorted walking party. Though they walked in twos or threes, they didn't talk to each other. From their gait, their faces, their clothes, he could sense that they had been in hospital for years. Only one of the men had any cheeriness about him. He had a bouncy walk and kept up a humming sound, though it had no tune. He pointed to Martin. "There's a new boy!" he cried. "Hello, new boy."

"Hallo," returned Martin, trying to sound his usual civil self.

A lean, sunken-cheeked man swung away from the party and approached Martin, who was smoking. "Light!" he demanded. On his lips was a tiny, soggy and burst fag-end, almost certainly unlightable. Martin began, "Oh, I can give you –" but a male nurse gruffly called, "Huskinson, get back in line!" Huskinson obeyed. The nurse told Martin, not much less gruffly, "You should keep your cigarettes to yourself here, sir."

They all passed out of sight, but a gloom hung over the grounds. Martin returned to the admission ward and made the best he could of its tranquillity.

That night, Mr Wallace, more agitated than ever before, kept the whole ward awake. "I want to go home!" he raged again and again. "Get me a taxi now!" Martin got up and spoke to the night nurse, volunteering his 'patience' services. "I don't mind staying up. It's not as if I'd sleep, anyway!" Mr Vincent looked irritable. "Well – that's very thoughtful of you, but, really, you know, Mr Vanskin, it would be quite useless at the stage he's at now." Feeling very foolish, Martin went back to bed.

Mr Wallace was moved to another ward as soon us the day staff appeared.

Ted and Pearl visited frequently; they had been kind throughout. They called it a 'courageous step' to enter, and they now said he was looking a lot better since starting the treatment. They were clearly impressed by the admission ward and relieved to see signs of progress.

Strolling in the grounds, the three of them chanced on the humming man with the bouncy walk. This time, he was on his own and neither humming nor walking but staring fixedly at the sky. His gaze lowered to take them in. "It's that new boy again! With another new boy. And a new girl. Hello, new boys. Hello, new girl."

"Good afternoon," said Pearl brightly. "It's a nice afternoon, isn't it?"

Excitedly he pointed upwards and said, "There's an elephant in the sky!"

"M–hmm," Ted said soothingly.

"There's an elephant in the sky!"

"Really?" said Pearl. "Well, well."

The outstretched arm propelled the pointing finger as high as possible "There is an elephant in the sky!" This was so insistent that they had to look upwards. And there was – a balloon with an advertisement for a circus.

At the evening meal, Martin recounted this to the others in the ward dining room. That room was reserved for the most well patients – others ate in the main ward. It was like promotion when you got to dine in the dining room. The story caused much laughter and then there was more laughter at funny stories from others. Martin found himself thinking about his companions while laughing with them. Several, on entering hospital, had been obviously shaken and despondent. It was hard to believe they were the same people. But there was a vacant chair. Mr Frobisher had been as cheerful as could be until yesterday, a cultured man, fascinating to talk to. Today, he'd hardly stirred from his bedside chair, eyes downcast, lost in a silent, tortured world of his own.

Though there was no Mr Wallace to disturb the ward when night came, there was much that disturbed Martin. So many contrasts here! Progress for some, relapse for others... which would it be for him, when there was no longer a place of tranquillity to shelter in? Well, the treatment did seem to be helping, to be leading somewhere. But there was no guarantee. Dr Thomas had made that clear at the outset. There was plenty all around to show how badly things could go wrong in the mind, in the emotions. If treatment failed to help him, or if any improvement came unstuck after he'd left hospital, he could find himself in one of those wards whose walking-parties had to keep in line. That Mustn't Happen. Yes, the treatment had to be given every chance, but, if it didn't work, he would have to draw on... what?... will power, all the willpower he had. He would need to absorb himself in constructive activities: writing, Esperanto, anything that would bring out his positive qualities. He began a prayer, but then remembered Mr Frobisher, Mr Wallace, Huskinson who had been deprived of Mr as well as of his faculties. There were limits to wishful thinking.

At his next session with Dr Thomas, Martin spoke of this blow to his faith, and asked, "What do you think – or believe – yourself, as someone who works in the midst of so much tragedy?"

"Well, I don't know if my work really qualifies me to comment on faith. You see, a psychiatrist's views on that are of no more value than anyone else's. There are psychiatrists who are atheists or agnostics, but also those who are believers. Psychiatry as such cannot answer your question. Different psychiatrists make sense of things in different ways."

"But how do you make sense of them?"

"The problem there is that you tend to look up to me as the expert, the specialist. I don't mind that within my field, but beyond it – why don't you have a word with the hospital chaplain, because that's someone with the training and experience to deal with just such difficulties?"

"Oh! With training and experience they can be dealt with?"

"Oh - well – not dealt with meaning solved, of course. But he would have some insights that you and I don't have."

"It would be all about Jesus and salvation. I stopped believing in that years ago."

"No, it would be about what's distressing you now. I'm sure he would know better than to preach at you. You could at least give it a try. You don't have to ask him back!"

"I'd still rather have your ideas than a chaplain's. You must have some insights, too. As for looking up to you – well, I do, but that doesn't mean that I agree with every word you say."

"I'm sorry if I keep sounding unhelpful, but it's not for me to respond directly to a patient's spiritual problems. But perhaps I can safely give one insight, merely as someone rather older than you are. When young people ask questions about life or about problems, they tend to look for the most fundamental of answers, for ultimate explanations. I did when I was your age. I thought there must be some philosophy or religion or political-cum-social theory which could explain, or had the potential to explain, everything. Well, maybe there isn't. And, meantime, the business of living must go on. There are times when fundamentals are best forgotten. I can give you an example that may surprise you. I have heard about the games of patience with Mr Wallace. You saw how lost and miserable he was. You didn't seek an ultimate explanation of his condition. You didn't ask yourself what God was doing about it. You did something about it. You gave what help you could. Sometimes that is all we can do about a problem, but it's much better than nothing and much better than despair."

"Well – yes – I suppose so as far as it goes. But it wasn't much use to him in the end. It was pathetically little, what I did."

"But, Martin, don't write off what's pathetically little if that's all that's within your power. Often, you know, what I do here is pathetically little. We could all wish for better – for some discovery that revolutionises treatment or some great insight into the human condition. But, where we have to get by without that, the pathetically little is of some value. I don't know how much use that is to you spiritually – pathetically little, perhaps! H-mm – think about that one! Anyway, that's all the philosophy you're going to get from me. I'll be staying on my home ground from now on."

Martin said, "Thanks for straying off it this once. I'm glad you did."

### 37 Recalling Parents

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There were several sessions on Martin's parents, with thinking exercises in-between. He was asked to think about why he'd never confided his troubles to them. He reported back, "I've remembered a couple of times when I did – to my mother." He described how he had asked her why the Eveley Park boys tormented him for having a maid – and she'd flared up and given him a row for having told them. Then how he had gone to her on reading the scene in Oliver Twist where Mrs Bumble bashed Mr Bumble. "I interrupted her in the middle of writing a letter and she was a bit annoyed. I asked her to read it and then I asked if it worried her. I don't know what kind of thing I expected her to say, but all she did say was that Mr Bumble thoroughly deserved it and it was only a made-up story."

Dr Thomas said, "She didn't think of looking into why you were so worried?"

"No, it didn't occur to her. In fact, now I think of it, the question of how I might feel about things hardly ever seemed to occur to her. Well, not in the early days – it changed when Child Guidance was brought in. She was shaken then. She admitted that she'd got some things wrong and she wanted me to be able to talk to her and Dad about any troubles."

"But perhaps by then she had left it too late. And your father – can you recall any attempts to confide in him?"

"No. Never. He wasn't approachable that way. He could be very severe. It frightened me off."

"So if you came home from school feeling bad about yourself, there was no one there to make you feel better about yourself. In fact, from what you've told me before, they often made you feel worse about yourself."

Martin reflected and said, "Yes – between home and school – it was like that. I'd never thought of it in that way. I suppose I knew it, but I didn't put it to myself like that. It puts matters in a different light – or to some extent it does. But – well, you often do that –"

"We often do that – I draw on what you tell me."

"But will it change anything?"

"I don't know, but I think we're beginning to advance. I can't say more than that."

### 38 Heart of Problem

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"You've skimmed over quite a lot of the story," said Dr Thomas. "I didn't pick up much detail till you got to the end – the mocking smile, which you interpreted as meaning that she thought you had no sex-appeal. Tell me more about the happier times."

"Well – but that turned so sour in the end. I don't really feel like remembering them."

"Would you like to try, all the same?"

Martin found it not quite so painful as he had thought. He was surprised at how much he was able to recall.

"Doesn't all that tell you," said Dr Thomas, "that she was very fond of you? That's what it tells me."

There was a silence. Then Martin said, "But she couldn't have been really."

"Then why did she want you to make a return visit to the coffee lounge? Then want to see you again – the swimming lessons? Why did she say she wasn't going to spend your sixpence?"

"I was a bit of entertainment for her! She made that very clear at the end, when she shared the entertainment with those other girls!"

"You've never questioned that interpretation, have you? Let's think about this matter of the other girls. You spoke of the disconcerting effect on her when that girl, Katie, appeared in the coffee lounge. That was the effect produced when one of her schoolmates was present. In that final encounter, there was a whole group of them. Gives us an alternative interpretation, doesn't it? That she was too intensely embarrassed to give you any greeting."

"No, it can't have been that. There was that mocking smile."

"You described it as 'a smile fixed on her face, a twisted sort of smile'. I can well imagine a sixteen-year-old girl smiling like that to conceal the agitation she was feeling, the conflicting pressures upon her in the moment of that encounter. Can't you imagine that?"

After another silence, Martin said, "Yes – I suppose it could have been. She did say once that if she met me and she was with other girls, she wouldn't stop and talk, she'd just say hallo. And some of those girls were awful. Before that last incident, I'd had whistles and catty remarks when I passed them. And – yes – I did think that they might be taking it out on her too. But when she smiled like that, I thought she must be in it with them. So, if she  
wasn't –"

"There's no 'if' about it, Martin. We now have an explanation that's entirely consistent with all that had happened up till then. That can't be said of your 'bit of entertainment' theory. Would she have cultivated a bit of entertainment as elaborately as that?"

"What that means is – it all ended and it needn't have done."

"Well, your immediate reaction – shattered by the pain of it – was understandable enough. You couldn't be expected to weigh much up there and then. But it's significant that you hung on to your first conclusion and never reconsidered it from that time up till this minute. Why do you think that was?"

"I was absolutely blind and stupid!"

"But you're not normally blind and stupid, are you? If you'd heard the story as happening to someone else, you wouldn't have missed fairly obvious things that were going on. So what was it that blinded and stupefied you here?"

Martin thought for a moment. "Well – mockery. I'd come to expect it – I thought of myself as someone who would be mocked. There were all these doubts I had of myself, and the conclusion I came to was the one that fitted them. Does that make sense?"

"The best sense I have yet heard you make. You seized upon the conclusion that put you in the worst light possible. It's what you have always seized upon in all aspects of your life, apart from your writing and your school studies. You did it over Lillian – no one was ever such a coward as you. You did it over physique, you did it over fighting. If you didn't fight, again it was cowardice, but when you did fight, even when you were successful, that didn't count as winning anything. When you had a loud-mouthed bully backing down because he saw that you weren't cringing away from him, you nevertheless remained convinced of his superiority to you. So can you see now what you've been doing to yourself? Can you see how devastatingly unfair and unkind you have always been to yourself?"

"I do see," said Martin almost inaudibly. He could say no more just then, needing a quiet moment to adjust to this revolution in his world.

"You're a small man, but 'small man' would never do as a description, would it? Not nearly cruel enough. It had to be weakling. And weakling had to be a disgrace. You felt that being small diminished you as a human being. It doesn't."

"And I – felt all that – for so long. Why so long? Why such a hold on me?"

"Through no fault of your own, Martin. Our self-images are never all our own work. With a small child, the expectations of the people around him or her are the crucial influence. And for you, there was very little that was comforting or reassuring. You picked up lots of messages telling you that you fell far short of expectations. Some obviously came from the school playground, but I don't think you fully realise how much of it there was at home. You had to work hard on yourself to feel sure of having the approval of your parents. And sometimes what was right for one was wrong for the other. You sensed your mother's fear of your father, and you were in fear of both. In that atmosphere, it was easy to think of yourself as wicked – wicked if you told lies, wicked if you felt suspicion or anger about your parents, and if those feelings spilled over into your prayers, they became wicked prayers. You despised yourself for your supposed wickedness as well as your supposed puniness and cowardice. Your Child Guidance treatment helped you to outgrow the wickedness aspect, but the habit of self-despising remained deeply ingrained. And that has been at the heart of your trouble. That is why it lasted so long."

Martin said slowly, "So – they don't come out of it very well, do they?"

"I know it must come as a shock when it's put to you in that way. They are dead now and you'd like to remember them with affection. I'm sure they did love you and try to care for you, but they made mistakes and the mistakes were damaging. Remembering them with affection needn't preclude recognising that. And, after all, a harsher understanding of them is not such a high price to pay for a kindlier understanding of yourself. We've achieved a crucial breakthrough there."

"Yes. It's strange – I feel I know myself in a completely different way. But where does that leave the sexual problems?"

"It doesn't solve them, but it gives us a foundation we can try to build upon. But that's for next session – I think this one has drained both of us!" Sounds of the tea trolley's progress reached them from the ward. "Couldn't have come at a better time! I'm not setting you a thinking exercise this time. Some relaxation is what you need now."

The nurse serving tea said, "There's a visitor waiting for you in the Quiet Room. Take your cup of tea in there with you."

Martin, assuming that Pearl or Ted had come because they couldn't manage their planned evening visit, opened the Quiet Room door. "Hallo, Martin," said Ewan awkwardly. "How are you?"

### 39 Happy Afternoon

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"Ewan! Are you on leave?"

"No, I've finished National Service. I'm home. I'm a civilian again. So – how are you?" He had risen from the sofa on Martin's entrance and he sounded anxious.

"Oh, I'm a lot better. Well – really – vastly better, in fact. Ewan, it's great to see you again!"

"I brought you this," said Ewan, as if embarrassed. It was a little tray of mixed fruit.

"Thanks very much. Didn't they give you a cup of tea? I'll get you one."

"Oh no, don't bother specially."

Martin smiled and touched Ewan's arm. "I will bother specially." There was an awkward moment. Ewan seemed taken aback. Then he recovered himself and smiled in return. "O.K. then. If you insist. You remember I don't take sugar?"

"Of course I remember!"

Going off to bother specially, Martin was struck by the amazingly happy timing of this visit. He had emerged from a tally of all that had been baleful throughout his boyhood – had emerged to find Ewan waiting for him.

"I'm glad you're keeping better," said Ewan. "You're looking well. This seems a very nice place."

Martin hesitated over whether to sit on the sofa beside him, but settled for the armchair on the opposite side of the little coffee table. That seemed a more normal seating arrangement. "Yes it is," he replied. "But it's a sad place, too, sometimes. Well – on the whole I find it a good place. Hospitals like this have improved a lot, you know." He recalled that sitting close up to each other had been perfectly normal in their bed-and-breakfast room. But that had been a different sort of environment, of course.

"Yes, I'd heard there'd been big improvements, so I knew there was no need to panic when I got your letter. Mind you, my immediate reaction was to get quite alarmed. I thought of asking for compassionate leave, but –"

"Compassionate leave? But we're not relatives, they'd never have allowed it. Did you really consider asking for that?"

"Well, it was just my first reaction. I realised there would be no chance. It was silly, because my discharge wasn't far off. And, anyway, you've obviously done quite well without me! What's going to happen about university? Are you thinking of going back or do you reckon it would still be too much of a strain?"

"I don't think I'll go back, but I've not decided definitely. I'll see how I feel once I've finished treatment. Hey, Ewan, that fruit's too tempting to sit and look at! Can we make a start on it?"

"You can. It's for you."

"But you must have some, too." Martin unwrapped the tray, moved onto the sofa and placed the fruit between them. Again Ewan looked taken aback, but soon got more relaxed as he shared the fruit and spoke of his time in the Army. He mimicked his officers as hilariously as he had once mimicked his teachers. "But now," he concluded, "no more playing at war. It's back to playing at journalism!"

"Playing at journalism? That's what you did in the Weekly Searchlight days!"

"True, but, apart from being paid now, there's not so much difference. The Searchlight treated local trivia as news, because it didn't know any better. Trouble is – the Sunday Post doesn't know much better, either! It was fine on basic training, but I'll be looking for a chance to move on. What about your writing? I don't suppose you've done much, what with all your studies and then not being well?"

"No, it's been a dearth-time for that – which is one argument for not returning to university."

"Well, is it? It would only mean a year or two's break from writing and then you'd have a degree."

"It's not as straightforward as that."

"What does your doctor advise?"

"Oh – we haven't got on to discussing that yet." Seeing Ewan's surprise, Martin added, "He's been going over lots of other things with me – lots of problems from my past. They were more important, really, more urgent. He's helped me tremendously. He's a bit like a teacher, you know – sets a form of homework which he calls thinking exercises!"

"And if you don't do them, do you get a hundred lines of Freud?"

They laughed in the old carefree way. For Martin, it was carefree as never before, because burdens were being lifted and life was to be enjoyed.

"Do you fancy some putting, Ewan? There's a course in the grounds."

"Yes, I do. Where do we get the clubs and balls?"

"Well, we have to go to the doctor's office for that."

"The doctor's office? Is that where they keep them?"

"No, it's not where they keep them, but we get the prescription from the doctor and then take it to Sister –"

"Martin! You had me believing you for a minute. You're up to your old tricks again, you're getting too better! I think I'll go to the doctor's office and ask him to prescribe you a strong sedative."

Ewan said during the game that he had a completely free week before going back to work, and he suggested, for the next visit, a day out in town, a day wandering about just as they used to.

"Gosh, I'd love that!" said Martin. "But I'm supposed to stay in the grounds – at present. I'll ask the doctor about it. If we can't go out, we can still putt. And there's a tea room here, you know."

"We'll see what happens, then." Ewan's hand rested for a moment on Martin's shoulder as he added, "Either way, it's bound to be a nice time, isn't it?"

### 40 Way Forward

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"Did you enjoy your day out yesterday, then?" Dr Thomas asked, smiling. "Enjoy being a man about town again?"

"It was wonderful. We went to places we used to go to. It was like old times – the best of old times again."

"Did you have any particular thoughts when you passed by children? As you had a whole day out, you must have seen some."

"Well, I made a point of not specially noticing them. I'd anticipated it, you see. I thought, if I no longer see myself as a weakling, shouldn't it be possible to dump all the morbid sex that went along with that? Mind you, yesterday wasn't a severe test, as I had someone with me. Also, I didn't come upon any wrestling scenes. Whether I could have remained unmoved if I had, I don't know. I could wish, really, that there had been one and I hadn't given it a second look or a second thought. Then I'd have known."

"How likely," Dr Thomas asked searchingly, "do you think that is?"

"Well – maybe not too likely. There's another test I tried – recalling situations that brought the excitement on. They seemed a lot weaker – till I thought of the schoolboys in that café. I imagined how I'd feel having a wrestle with one of the sturdier ones. Not that I'd ever seek it out now, but, imagining it, I knew I'd be wildly excited and hoping he would win. So there are still grounds for worry, aren't there?"

"Yes, but it would be much more worrying if you thought there was nothing to worry about. You're being realistic. There could well be situations where you'd want to go back to seeing yourself as a weakling, because that is your way in to sexual pleasure, whether from acting it out or fantasising. That problem will be more difficult to resolve than those we've already dealt with. I can't talk you out of needing the pleasure you derive from humiliation at the hands of children. There's a further complication, I think – a fear of normal sex. There were three influences which were almost bound to cause that. All those doubts you had about your manliness gave you an image of the girl being stronger, and that poisoned the prospect for you. And two terrifying early impressions – the Lillian incident and the way your parents repressed your masturbation. These influences are no longer the impediments they were, but this fear that they produced may well persist. I don't want to sound pessimistic, but we must recognise the difficulties. If there were some treatment which could take the problem away from you, I would give it. But there isn't. I can see you're disappointed."

"Well – yes. It is a let down after the last session. I'd begun to build up hopes. But maybe that was a mistake."

"No, not a mistake at all. There is room for hope. Not for euphoria, but certainly for hope. For the first time in your life, you've achieved the insight and self-esteem to enable you to deal with your condition constructively. I can provide some support on an outpatient basis, but essentially it's a matter of self-treatment – changes which you can hope to make in your sexual interests and habits. The starting point must be such inclinations as you do have towards adult heterosexual feelings and love. Although these are very undeveloped, they do exist in you. They were evident in your relationship with Rosalind. You –"

"With Rosalind?"

"Oh yes, definitely. You even got the length of questioning whether wrestling mattered when it was someone who liked you so much. Then all your doubts rushed in. Even so, you would have carried on with the relationship if you could. It wasn't you who ducked out of it. You seem to have had a lot of affection for her, possibly even love."

"I thought so at the time. Yes – I suppose I really was though it's hard to be sure, looking back."

"But, at the least, it's the nearest you ever got to it?"

"No it isn't," said Martin. The doctor was clearly surprised. Martin went on anxiously, "There's something like it with Ewan – not being in love, of course, but affectionate feelings. I was about to tell you."

He described his feelings towards Ewan during their holiday in the Lake District. "I'd almost forgotten about it – he was away on National Service, of course – and then there he was, here, just after I'd seen you. I'd come straight from that session on all the pain of the old days to find someone who'd done me nothing but good in those days. That visit was one of the happiest times I've ever known. I felt a tremendous warmth for him. I felt it still more, out in town with him yesterday, wandering about and chatting and joking. And I felt it sexually. It was part and parcel of all the liking I had for him. Well – I don't know what to make of it. I can't feel that it was wrong. But it did get me worried. I've got enough sexual problems without being in love with another man."

"You began by saying that this wasn't being in love, of course."

Martin thought for a moment. "Maybe it's the difficulty of facing that I might be."

"There is that possibility and it does need to be faced. I'm glad you realised that having those feelings wasn't wrong. However, acting on feelings can sometimes be wrong. What's your impression of his feelings? Do you think it might be mutual?"

"I don't know. It sounds silly, but I just don't know one way or the other. Sometimes it's looked as if it might be, but I can't be sure."

"Do you know if he has any girlfriends?"

"I don't know. He's never mentioned any."

"Not that that invariably rules out homosexual inclinations, but it would certainly be grounds for you to think twice. Suppose he did mention a girlfriend and gave the impression that he cared a lot about her – how would you feel about that?"

Martin thought about it. "I'd be relieved in a way. It would settle the matter. I'd know there was no future in it."

"But perhaps, in any event, there couldn't be. I don't have moral objections to homosexuality, but we live in a society that does. If he doesn't feel that way about you, you'd be putting your friendship with him at risk. But even if he reciprocated, you'd be exchanging one sexual problem for another – a world of secrecy, anxiety, guilt, with no real hope of a stable and satisfying relationship. And are you really in love with him, anyway? From your description, it seems much more likely that it has been an overreaction to the timing of his visit, an emotional clutching-on to him as someone you've always been able to trust. Indeed, it sounds as if you grew up with a dependence on him for support denied to you by others. But now, as an adult with self-insight, you would be unwise to pin so much on one person, even at the level of friendship. I think your experience with Rosalind is much more relevant to the new situation than your feelings about Ewan. What you were capable of feeling for her, you'd be capable of feeling for other women whose personalities were in harmony with yours."

Dr Thomas went on to outline the practical steps to be taken. Martin would need an interesting social life where he could meet women and begin to enjoy their company. No need, in the early stages, to look upon them as potential girlfriends. Nor should he worry if he didn't at first feel sexual excitement – a high state of anxiety about that would be self-defeating. He should try to keep it all relaxed, should especially enjoy personality traits that appealed to him. "You'll need," Dr Thomas concluded, "some congenial environment where you can meet and get to know them. For example, what about taking dancing lessons?"

"I rather doubt if I could get round a dance floor without collisions and disaster!"

"But that anxiety would apply to others there, including some of your partners. Anyway, it's only an example of a readily accessible setting. It would certainly be more promising then the ones you tried at university. Talking of university, we've yet to discuss whether or not you want to go back. Have you had any thoughts on that?"

"I've made a decision on that. Not to go back."

"That could be a rash decision. So, of course, could its opposite. Have you thought it out carefully?"

"Yes," Martin said confidently, "I believe I have. I don't have an academic type of mind. School gave the impression that I had, but I haven't really, not at university level. I can see now why I overrated myself. It was a way of shutting out all the shame and humiliation I was going through. But now I can be realistic about both myself and university. It's not the right place for me. So I'll need to think about a job – and about how to explain my background."

"We'll have a look at that in the next session. You may well find difficulties, but your coping powers are much better than they were and that should see you through."

### 41 Writes Letter

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Dear Rosalind,

This is a crazy shot in the dark. I've no idea whether you're still at the same address. I'd better put 'If away, please forward' on the envelope. I suppose it will be forwarded if your parents are still there, but if the whole family has moved – well, anyway, I'm writing and all I can do is hope for the best.

I don't even know for sure whether you'll remember me, though I rather think you will – the boy who came into the coffee lounge where you were working, Christmas, four years ago. You braved the wrath of your manageress to let me have a cup of coffee. Then you taught me to swim – I don't mean there and then (in coffee?), but later, at Portobello Baths.

Then it became difficult to keep the friendship up. You must have had a hard time from your schoolmates.

You must be wondering why I'm writing. I realise it's ridiculous after four years. Well, all I can say is, yes it's ridiculous, but, all the same, I'm writing and I hope you won't mind. If you do, I suppose you won't reply and it won't matter to you much, anyway.

Of course, I've no idea of what's been happening to you. Did you go in for languages as you intended? You could be married by now, for all I know. But I do know you're 20 (same age as me), so statistically you're not likely to be married, if you see what I mean.

Now for the bit I've dreaded most – how to tell you what's happened to me without writing an autobiography! I went to university and studied history, but it didn't work out, and I had a nervous breakdown – partly to do with university and partly to do with other problems. I've been having treatment in a mental hospital as a voluntary patient and it has helped me tremendously. The above address is of a friend who visits me, and he'll bring in any reply. That's partly because I may be out of hospital by then, but, to be honest, I didn't want the hospital address to be the first thing you read.

It does look as if I'll be discharged soon. I'll need to find digs. I gave up my old ones on entering hospital. I've just realised I should explain why digs and not home. My mother died two years ago. I've still got the house, but it's let. Men are too helpless to look after themselves!

I won't be going back to university. I'd misjudged my capabilities in going there in the first place. So I'll be looking for a job. Career record not very illustrious to date! I should have written a pack of lies and told you I'd become a brain surgeon!

I'm going to close it here because it's feeling crazier every minute. As I said, I'll hope for the best.

Yours sincerely,

Martin Vanskin

### 42 Being Sensible

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Martin had at first considered using Ted's address on the letter, but one could hardly ask someone for a private postal service without some explanation. Merely to say that he didn't like giving the hospital address might suggest that he was ashamed of being there. He didn't fancy trying to explain to Ted – it would be back to 'more fish in the sea' – a positive shoal of them!

He realised that requesting this of Ewan would be rather like the reverse of the supposition put forward by Dr Thomas – that of Ewan mentioning a girl he cared a lot about. It could be hurtful. Or would Ewan be relieved to have the matter disposed of? But all this was completely in the air! He didn't know if Ewan had any such feelings. And it was the solution to the address problem.

"Yes, certainly," Ewan had said cheerfully enough. "I can easily do that. Bringing in a letter's no problem. There's one thing that occurs to me, though – if it's four years since you saw her, and with circumstances changing as they do, you could be risking quite a big disappointment. I hope it won't be like that, of course, but, if I were in your place, I'd want to stop looking to the past, because – well –" He looked thoughtfully at Martin. "When the past leads nowhere, it's best to put it behind us."

Martin was unsure of how to answer, unsure of what past Ewan had in mind, though he thought he knew. He said, "I'm writing, knowing she might not reply. It's a case of hoping, but not expecting."

"Yes, I think that's a sensible attitude."

A few days later, a letter postmarked Bristol was enclosed in a note from Ewan. Ewan wrote:

"Something has come after all. I thought I'd send, rather than bring, it, because the last thing you'd want is me hovering about while you're reading it! See you soon."

Rosalind wrote:

Dear Martin,

Thank you very, very much for writing. I was amazed to hear from you and deeply moved. I don't see it as something ridiculous – there was no need to be apologetic on that account. It's me who should apologise to you for the terrible way I treated you at the end. You referred to it, but with no word of reproach. You were right about a hard time from schoolmates, but that doesn't excuse me. I tried to write and explain – used up a whole writing-pad with letters I scrapped because I couldn't find a way to express it. You probably won't believe this – no, on second thoughts, I know you will, Martin – but I set out for your house, hoping I could tell you what I hadn't been able to write to you. I remember literally trembling as I waited for the tram. I couldn't think how I'd explain myself if your mother answered the door, especially if she were angry with me for what I'd done. (I was going to say in the course of this letter that I'm very sorry about the loss of your mother, but I felt I should start by coming straight to the point.) Then it struck me that you might answer the door and shut it in my face. That terrified me. The tram approached and I skulked off home. I've always been ashamed that I was too cowardly to cope with the situation and to do the right thing by you. You were such a very nice boy.

You put your 'autobiography' very bravely. You've had a really rough time and you deserve much better. To have lost both your parents by the age of 18 must have been devastating. I'm glad that the treatment has helped. I've known other people who have had to have mental hospital treatment. It can happen to good and sensitive people – perhaps it's more likely to. I hope things turn out well for you on discharge. You may not become a brain-surgeon, but somehow I know you will become someone with a lot to offer to others.

You can imagine that reading your letter brought some odd sensations. One was that I kept expecting some specific reason for writing to be given, yet none was. That's not a complaint, I hasten to add – it can't have been an easy letter to write. You can correct me if I'm wrong, but I assume you wrote in the hope of meeting again and, perhaps, going back to where we left off, more or less as boyfriend and girlfriend. Meeting again is possible – indeed, I hope it can happen – but unfortunately it could not be on that basis. I'm engaged to be married. I hope that's not too painful for you. To be honest, if I'd got on that tram, it's possible that the whole situation would have turned out differently. But, from your letter, I think you're realistic and will see that life goes on and one cannot turn the clock back.

I work as a civil servant – Inland Revenue – here in Bristol. My fiancé is vicar of a church here. But I have holidays in Edinburgh fairly often, my family still being at the old address. I'd very much like to see you again, if you still feel that you want it. If you don't, I'll understand. You must decide what will be better for your peace of mind.

Graham, my fiancé, is quite a bit older than I, but I believe that age shouldn't be made into a barrier between people. He's not at all like the popular notion of a clergyman, being down-to-earth, with a sense of humour, and not in the least narrow-minded. I joined his church more to make friends in a strange town than for religious reasons – the Civil Service sends you where it needs you, and if you don't know anyone there, it's too bad! I don't even know if I have a firm faith. But I think a faith where there are no doubts isn't really a faith at all. Don't ask me what I mean by that – haven't thought it out! We never talked about religion, did we? You're a bit of a dark horse to me as far as that is concerned. I can't imagine you as deeply religious, somehow. But I can't imagine you as irreligious, either. Oh, I'm blethering on and saying nothing – sorry, Martin!

All very different from my schoolgirl dreams of being a great linguist – unless officialese can count! I got very poor marks in my school language exams, so turned to the safe, unadventurous course of His Majesty's Service! I'm overdoing the exclamation marks in this letter. A teacher at school called them screech-marks. She was right.

I quite like Bristol. It's not unlike Edinburgh in some of its Georgian architecture and in being very hilly. I have a small flat at the top of what must be the hilliest street in the city. Since getting your letter, I've been imagining racing you up the hill. Remembering our race at Portobello, it's my considered opinion that you'd win this one by sheer stamina! (Should be one there, I think.)

I'm glad you took your shot in the dark. This exchange of letters has made me feel slightly better about something that has always been on my conscience. It's a shot in the dark for me too about how you'll react to my reply. I don't want you to feel obliged to write again if you'd rather not. But whatever happens – well, I think you'll know that I'll always wish the best for you. And on that note, Martin, I'll close.

Rosalind

The news of her engagement came as a blow, but her letter offered a friendship too valuable to throw away, even though it would have to be platonic. It was reassuring to realise that she had once thought of him as a boyfriend. If she had felt that way about him, surely one day some other woman would.

So he wrote and congratulated her on the engagement and said it would be lovely to meet up next time she was in Edinburgh. He guaranteed not to compete with someone who had allies in the highest of places. He continued:

You mustn't reproach yourself for a 'terrible way' of treating me. You were up against very real difficulties. I was, too, dating from long before we met, and that's what prevented me from contacting you at the time. The point is that we've both survived – we got hurt, but not damaged beyond repair.

Now, let me see if I can lighten the religious dark horse for you – not sure if I can lighten it for myself! You're right that I'm not deeply religious, in fact I'm not even Christian. I'm afraid that all the things attributed to Jesus dying on the cross make no sense to me. Not irreligious? Well, I've certainly had moods of something like irreligion at despondent times when I've seen no way out of my troubles. But my attitude has changed since I've had treatment. Though this hasn't totally solved my troubles, it has helped a great deal, and I feel thankful. Are thanks due to God or to my psychiatrist and the body of psychiatric knowledge which he drew upon? Perhaps psychiatrists use their particular God-given gifts to relieve suffering. Some of them are atheists, of course, but that doesn't rule the idea out. Like you, I don't have a firm faith, I can't say it's something I know, but I feel moved to see it that way. It doesn't explain all the suffering where people don't seem to be helped. That's quite a flaw in the argument. So, again like you, I have more to try to think out. Perhaps we can help each other along when we meet in, I hope, the near future. Looking forward to hearing from you,

Yours sincerely,

Martin

He reflected that, if he were to write to Miss Shand with these thoughts, it would be something fitting, something she would be glad to knew. But after so long? Well, two years or so wasn't so very long. She'd been a good friend to him and he had – well dropped her, really. He recalled his reaction to the personal comments she had made about those nightmare stories of his. His attitude had sprung from all the morbidity from which he had lately been freed. Should that be explained if he wrote? But it could be done in general terms, as with Rosalind. It would still be an awkward letter, awkward news. He thought, I should be out of hospital, settled in digs, in about two weeks. It'll be a bit less awkward then.

### 43 First Job

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When Martin was settled in digs, letters applying for jobs had to get top priority. The intended letter to Miss Shand got crowded out. He tried first for jobs in journalism. On Ewan's advice, he sent samples of his best stories with applications. But no one was interested and he applied for all sorts of office jobs. Handicapped by lack of experience, a problematic health record and his nervousness at the few interviews he obtained, he began to think he would never be successful.

Nor was there much time for 'an interesting social life', as recommended by Dr Thomas, though he did join a dancing class and an Esperanto group. The other men learning to dance had good jobs where exciting or amusing things kept happening, which they made much of when they chatted to the girls. Martin, with nothing worth chatting about, packed it in. He didn't like dancing, anyway.

The Esperanto group, an altogether nicer lot of people, was one of his few enjoyments. There was a preponderance of beginners and he was asked to help with teaching. He was nervous at the first lessons, but soon grew more confident. Some of his students liked to go for a coffee afterwards, and he was invited to join them. Here, he had no difficulty with chatting. He drew them out, especially the women, on why they were interested in Esperanto. He found they shared his ideals, but there was some naiveté about how much a universal language could accomplish. He had some lively discussions with these girls, but he felt no excitement about them.

Once, he was on a tram, on his way to an interview, at a time of day when it was full of schoolkids. In the seats near him, a bunch of boys, with much laughing and whooping, were pushing and tangling with each other. His excitement was instant now. He found it impossible to keep looking out of the window.

At the next outpatient session, he contrasted what he had felt on the tram with what he had failed to feel with the Esperanto women.

"So nothing seems to have changed when it comes to my feelings."

"There has been one very big change," said Dr Thomas. "You didn't feel impelled to seek out further tram rides with boys. Contrast that with when you couldn't keep away from the boys in that café. And, meanwhile, you're continuing to enjoy the company of those women. You see, your hope lies in gradual, but sustained, progress. You mustn't expect an overnight transformation. It won't happen that way."

"But you think it will happen?"

"That can't be guaranteed, but you're certainly moving in the right direction."

Martin felt comforted, but two further months of gradual progress on sexuality and no progress on jobs got him depressed again. And then, on the jobs front, his luck turned. He was granted an interview for an office vacancy at New Dawn Tours, which he hadn't expected, because the advertisement (Experience preferred, but not essential) had seemed typically unpromising. Mr Douglas (Founder and Director) was in late middle age. His smile was cherubic and his eyes were shrewd. "Our overseas tours," he explained, "cater mainly for school and student groups, youth clubs and other organisations working with young people. But it's not just about holidays, as it is with most of our competitors, and New Dawn isn't just a pretty name. We promote international friendship and understanding among the world citizens of tomorrow. Our couriers ensure that there are meetings and outings with youngsters in the countries visited. So although we're a small firm, we have a large vision. I see from your application that Esperanto is one of your interests, so I should think you'd have a lot of sympathy with our objectives?

"Well, yes. Anything that reduces barriers is a good thing."

"How fluent are you in Esperanto?"

"Fairly fluent. They've trusted me to do some teaching at the group I belong to."

Mr Douglas's smile expanded into a beam as he said, "Really? So you're not a beginner, you're not a dabbler, you're proficient. Let me show you some of our promotional material. This is the introductory letter which we send to prospective clients, and this is a brochure on one of our tours. Could you translate them into Esperanto?"

"Yes. Er – do you want me to start with the letter? That would go –"

"No, no," Mr Douglas laughed, "I don't mean here and now. I think I can believe you without a demonstration! The point is, I have plans to tap the Esperanto market. With so many ideals in common, it would be such a pity not to. And if the literature we sent were in the language, it would make the right kind of impression, would show them that New Dawn takes trouble and has real commitment. If you're willing to do translation work as well as office duties – and we'd pay you a bonus which I think you'd find very satisfactory – I'll be very happy to engage you."

In a daze of delight that made even English difficult, Martin stammered his thanks. He suspected that Mr Douglas cared rather more about the market than about the ideals, but this was not a time for moral fastidiousness!

### 44 Penny

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There were two offices at New Dawn. The one marked Private was Mr Douglas's. General Office and Reception housed, in descending order of age, Morag, Bruce and Penny, joined on this Monday morning by Martin. Mr Douglas introduced him as the 'new boy in our team' and he was welcomed warmly. "Morag," Mr Douglas told him, "is our office supervisor, so I'll leave you in her capable hands."

Morag was slightly more distant in her manner than the others. She looked in or near her sixties and had the grave, concentrated air of someone acutely conscious of her responsibility. This gave her a frowning appearance even when she smiled. Bruce was middle-aged, a large, stout man who fairly dwarfed his desk. He frequently changed the angle of his chair in irritable and vain attempts to be comfortable. Bruce's forte, Morag said admiringly, was in those hotel bookings where it paid to haggle over the rates. Penny was about Martin's age, a wisp of a girl who, at a distance, might have been mistaken for a schoolgirl. Her dull green floppy jumper did nothing to enhance her figure. Her face was intriguing, though – it seemed set in a serious, reflective expression, but, when she smiled or laughed, it lit up with animation and fun.

Bruce had a booming, hale-and-hearty manner. His welcome of Martin was a volley of quickfire jokes. "Am I glad to see another man! This place was becoming a matriarchy! Morag even manages to supervise Mr Douglas, boss or no boss. I hope you can stand up to the wiles of women, Martin?"

Martin, at a loss for a witty reply, made do with, "I'm not sure."

"Not sure? Hah – you're not letting on. Very wise. You've got to watch your step with these two, you know. Morag does the wages. You can't afford to get on the wrong side of her – literally can't afford! And Penny – Penny won't accept anything for typing unless it's in perfect copperplate handwriting, that being what she's become accustomed to here. Isn't it, Penny?"

"Accustomed to despairing of! I ought really, Martin, to have reading glasses for this job, but the kind I need haven't been invented yet."

"Well then," said Morag, "to business. What must be done today, Martin, is to familiarise you with our office procedures. Now – you've no office experience, I gather, having only been at" (the frown seemed to deepen) "university?"

"No, I'm afraid not."

"Well, it shouldn't be difficult for someone like you to pick it up."

She plunged him into a maze of booking-charts, lists of organisations, and colour symbols. Before he could grasp one set of procedures, her earnest, monotonous voice would move onto the next. The non-stop percussion of the typewriter didn't help. The phone rang frequently. Bruce took the calls. He seemed incapable of talking quietly. When Penny suddenly stopped typing, the stillness felt startling. She asked Morag, "Is this a bad time to be doing this? I should have thought."

"Well, no, Penny. Mr Douglas has got to have those by ten o'clock. Now, is that clear so far, Martin?"

He asked several questions. She answered patiently, but there was a touch of severity in her recurring "You'll remember I explained..." She concluded, "What you might do after tea break is have a look through last year's completed paperwork. Then you'll see the actual sequence of things. We usually have a break about now – quarter past ten." (He thought, God! It's been a solid hour and I've hardly taken in anything!) "We have a rota for tea making," Morag explained. "It's Penny this week. Penny, would you like to show Martin where the kitchen is and tell him about the rota arrangements?"

As they left the office and crossed the landing, Penny said, "I expect you could do with a cup of tea? Your brain must be reeling."

"Yes, it is. It's all very complicated." He cautiously added, "At least at first sight."

"It's not nearly as complicated as Morag makes it sound. She knows the business inside out, but she's not very good at explaining it. She launches into too much at once. This is the kitchen. More like a glorified cupboard! Two people and it's overcrowded, even two not very big people." She filled the kettle and placed it on the gas-ring. "I was completely bewildered on my first day. There ought to be something in writing, really, some kind of outline of the main things you need to do. I could put something like that together for you if you like. I do some work on bookings, you see. I don't type all the time, you'll be relieved to know!"

"Well, yes, that would be a tremendous help. It really would. Thank you very much. What's the position about smoking? Is it allowed?"

"Morag doesn't like it in the office, but it's all right in here. You'll find a cracked saucer on the shelf above you, which is an ashtray, New Dawn style."

"Right, thanks. Oh – do you?" holding out the packet.

"No thanks. I don't mind it, but I don't do it."

"I only do occasionally."

"Morag's induction being such an occasion?"

"You could put it that way."

Opening a drawer, Penny said, "All the cups are kept in here. The one with what's supposed to be a map of the world splurged all round it is Mr Douglas's. You take him his tea first. On no account forget!"

"That had better be in block capitals in the outline."

"It's not going to be an outline of all the office quirks, I assure you! You'll have to pick them up the hard way."

He made a good effort on the paperwork, cheered by the prospect of the outline and by thoughts of Penny – her sense of humour and how delightfully it enlivened her face.

She had the outline typed, ready for him, by nine a.m. next day, from which he inferred that she had a typewriter at home and had done it in her own time. It was all properly prosaic till it came to: "The total in this tally should be exactly the same as the number of yellow stickers on the chart. If not, have a quick fag in the kitchen and then carefully check your arithmetic. While in kitchen, you may find the following mnemonic of use: cigarette – cracked saucer – elegant cup – Mr Douglas – Mr Douglas's tea. Best I can do!"

By the end of the week, he was making sense of the office work, doing well on the translations, and feeling both hopeful and tense about Penny. Then he called to mind Dr Thomas's advice on having a relaxed attitude towards women in the early stages of getting to know them. And, anyway, she might already have a boyfriend. No good getting into a state of anxiety, he cautioned himself. Just enjoy her company. Get to know her.

But the office set-up presented maddening obstacles. The only socialising was at tea breaks and lunch, which was almost always sandwiches in the office. Bruce pretty well monopolised the chat. He was opinionated on any and every subject. If Martin challenged any opinion, he'd be interrupted, drowned out, by the booming voice. Morag didn't talk much. She occasionally chimed in with anecdotes that seemed tailored to endorse Bruce's prejudices. When Penny tried to argue with him, she got much the same treatment as Martin, who hoped that an alliance might result, but it didn't work out that way. She was sometimes capable of interrupting Bruce. One of his favourite targets was the nationalised industries. "The only competition they've ever heard of is for the world record in producing paperwork. Just look at –"

"Don't worry, Bruce, they'll never take it off us!"

Then he'd tease her on completely missing the point with such observations, only to be thrown off his track once more. Martin's enjoyment of the comedy was marred by the thought that Bruce was achieving more interaction with her than he was – a middle-aged family man who had no need to bother!

Martin wondered if he dared ask Penny to go out for lunch with him – for a change. Well... it would sound odd... and maybe snooty towards the others. He didn't know her well enough to suggest an evening date – And at this rate, I never will! Even the geography of Edinburgh worked against him: their tram stops for going home were on opposite sides of the road.

One little bonus came from fretting about it all – a short story called The Office Statesman, which got published in a magazine to which Bruce was most unlikely to subscribe. Martin wasn't sure whether to be glad or sorry on that point. Penny's reading tastes were an unknown quantity. He decided that, on balance, slipping the magazine to her would not be a good idea. She might like the story, but would she like someone who showed off?

One lunchtime, the headline news in Bruce's morning paper put him into a lather. "Scandalous, I call it! This bloke was sent to the loony bin for starting fires. Then, after six months, he's given parole, which means he's allowed out during the day on his own. So what does he do? He goes straight to see his ex-wife, gets into an argument with her, and then sets fire to the house. No one killed, but that's no thanks to the folk in charge of the loony bin, is it? A lot of gobbledegook in here from the psychiatrist giving evidence. If you ask me, he should have been in the dock as well. It's not the first time something like that has happened – there was that child molester who was let loose. It's high time there was a law putting a stop to all this parole nonsense. I've a good mind to write to my M.P. about it."

Martin couldn't let that pass. "That's getting it right out of proportion. Very few mental patients are dangerous, only a small minority. Mostly it's people with severe emotional problems or those who've become –"

"It's all very well to –"

"Bruce, could I just finish what I'm saying, please? It's vulnerable people, not dangerous people, for the most part. There's a lot of good work done in these places. That's something that doesn't get into the headlines. And they're not loony bins, by the way. They're mental hospitals. Obviously that particular patient shouldn't have got parole so soon, but that's not a reason to ban parole altogether."

For a moment, Bruce seemed nonplussed, but got quickly back into form with, "A–ha! That's what I call armchair liberalism. There's a lot of it about these days, especially among young people – very well-meaning and enlightened about problems they've never actually encountered. I'm sorry to have to say it, Martin, but you have all the hallmarks of an armchair liberal."

"Hardly. Certainly not on this subject. I've been a patient in a mental hospital. I'm going by what I saw and heard for myself."

Bruce gasped. "Oh – well – I – I hope you didn't take any of it personally, Martin. I'd no idea that –"

"No, it's nothing like that, I didn't. That's not the point at all. I just mentioned that because – well, because that's how I know."

There was a silence. Bruce still looked upset. A numbness had come over Martin – he didn't know what to make of the situation. His eyes strayed to the women. Morag seemed worried. Penny had been looking at him intently. She looked down hastily. Morag said, "I'm sure nobody meant anything personally. It was – unfortunate – a misunderstanding. Penny, could you chase up Harwich ferry-bookings this afternoon? They were supposed to phone this morning."

All four made a show of absorption in their tasks. Martin now felt taut and self-conscious. He had, he thought, been right to say all that he had said. Yet... stating it so starkly... "I've been a patient in a mental hospital." He was getting dates wrong on this itinerary. He'd better have a cigarette, steady himself. Lucky he was still carrying them round. He hadn't been using them lately. He went to the kitchen.

He told himself he had nothing to be ashamed of. Then Bruce's reference to the child molester gave him pause. But that was ridiculous – he'd never been that. Yes, there had been odd behaviour, regrettable behaviour, but that had been part and parcel of the disturbed state he'd been helped out of. Proved his point, in fact. The only real worry was whether Penny would be put off by the mental hospital background. She didn't seem the type who would have that prejudice, but he couldn't be sure. If she does, he reflected, then she's not the kind of girl I'd want, anyway.

He was startled by the door opening and Penny saying hesitantly, "Are you O.K., Martin?"

"Oh – yes – I just came through for a smoke."

"You're not too upset by that argument, are you? Anything Bruce says has got to be taken with a pinch of salt. You know what he's like."

"She's come specially," he thought, and he said, "He does lay it on rather, doesn't he? I was upset, but I've got over it now. Excuse me," (for she was blocking the ashtray). As he stubbed the cigarette, he smiled at her and said, "Another occasion!"

"Oh – oh yes." Her return smile dawned slowly, but was no less attractive for that.

"Thanks for coming."

"Oh – well – I could see you were a bit shaken, so – you know, Martin, I thought you handled it extremely well. Not just what you said, but it was also very brave of you to say it."

"It wasn't brave, because, at the time, I didn't see any difficulty in saying it. It just came out. It was the way the argument went, the way he put things. Loony bin really annoyed me. Apart from anything else, it's so inaccurate. I'd have gone from bad to worse but for the help of what he calls the loony bin. Well – anyway – I'd better not start giving speeches on the subject. I'm beginning to sound for all the world like Bruce!"

"God forbid!" she laughed. "You've got a way of making jokes when one least expects them, haven't you? Here I come, all ready with words of sympathy, and you spoil the scene, as it were, by cracking a joke! I suppose we'd better be getting back."

"Yes, before there's a search-party. Sympathy's totally wasted on me."

As they neared the office, she said hurriedly, "I'm glad we had a chance to talk. It's not very easy to talk in this place, is it? I mean – to talk – well, properly."

"No, it isn't." He stopped short of the office door and said, "Would you fancy going out – oh, for a meal, maybe – one evening?"

"Yes. Yes, that would be really nice. What about this Thursday, after work? Will that be all right?"

"Yes. That'll be fine."

She smiled at him happily as they passed into the office.

### 45 Family Talk

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In the next few days, he had mixed feelings. It was wonderful, of course, a date at last! But he warned himself not to jump to conclusions. Though Penny obviously wanted to get to know him better, that didn't necessarily mean that romance was in the air. If it were, it was still pretty high up.

The office life had taken a turn for the better. He seemed to have won new respect from Bruce and Morag. They now brought him into the break-time talk, asked for his opinion. Bruce didn't interrupt, kept off mental hospitals, and didn't call him an armchair liberal, though none of this meant that Bruce had become tame. He was unshakably right wing and had a rich repertoire of variations on 'armchair liberal,' Martin remarked to Penny as they passed on the landing, "He's taken away my armchair and it's very draughty in my ivory tower!"

Penny was joining in more than she used to. She endorsed Martin's left-wing sentiments, was more left wing and had a better grasp of politics. According to Bruce, the two of them constituted the 'red corner'. It struck Martin how little, outside the corner, they knew about each other. The office chat didn't normally reveal much about private lives, what did come out being brief and incidental, as when Martin mentioning his digs, had explained that his parents were dead. She had once, in talk about travelling abroad, referred to her father, who did this from time to time in his work as a freelance journalist. It was strange that she did office work and not something more satisfying intellectually. It seemed not unlike his own case, hoping as he did to become a writer some day. His dream had been given a modest boost by the publication of another story and by an editor's request to see more of his work. However, he reckoned he shouldn't tell Penny of that ambition on their first night out. It would hardly put him over as a steady and reliable young man. He might mention writing as a hobby, if hobbies cropped up.

On Thursday, in place of the floppy jumper, she wore a neat, red and yellow striped blouse. Her skirt looked new – a grey, pleated, rather elegant one. Nice garments, but they didn't really go together, he thought. But that didn't matter – what mattered was that she'd dressed up for him. He could tell, all day in the office, that she was as nervous as he, if not more so. Could this be her first-ever date?

They decided to go to a restaurant called the De Luxe, because it was quiet early in the evening and one could relax over a leisurely meal. On the way, she said, "Martin, do you mind if I ask you something – it's – well, I know you kind of invited me out, but could I – I'd like to pay my share. I'd feel a lot happier doing that. It's just – well, I don't believe in the man paying just because he is a man."

"Yes, that's all right, Penny. Don't worry. I'm not going to argue against something that'll save me money! Oh – that was a joke. I did intend to pay."

"Yes, I know you did. Thanks for agreeing not to." She sounded a lot more at ease. "I was afraid you might have stood on your male dignity."

"Oh, Penny, I don't go in for male dignity, whatever that is!"

"I'm not sure myself, but I suppose a man who was very conventional would have dismissed the idea out of hand."

"I'd have grown up to be that if I'd believed everything my mum told me. She was strict on etiquette. It was impressed upon me that the gentleman always paid – not the man, not the boy, it was the gentleman in this context. She once even offered more money than I would have requested – I was sixteen at the time and she held the purse-strings – to allow for two cinema seats."

"I'm glad you didn't become too gentlemanly, then! I expect she wouldn't have counted me as a lady?"

"Oh, I think you'd have passed, but as rather an odd one. But you'd have found her odd, I suppose. You'd have considered her very snobbish – in fact, me too, if you'd known me as a child. That's assuming you weren't snobbish yourself as a child, but I don't suppose you were?"

"Oh no," Penny said wryly. "I was very enlightened. I had to be."

They had reached the De Luxe, which, despite its name, was cosy rather than plush. Its only ornate feature was a miniature pool and fountain. They were asked if they'd like a table for two, and were shown to a fairly secluded one by a corner of the pool. He wanted to ask her why she had "had to be", but the menu was brought for their orders and then she said, "Do you want to tell me a bit more about your mum?"

"Yes, if you'd like me to. I was on about snobbishness, wasn't I? And – well, really the best way to make sense of that is if I told you something of her history, the kind of upbringing she had." So he told of the home that had three maids, of the little girl never allowed to learn menial tasks, but only things like recitations for young ladies. And it struck him that, even though this was their first date, it didn't spoil it if they talked of something sad.

Penny said, "She sounds like someone who wasn't given much choice about what she did with her life, despite the seemingly privileged background."

"Well, the one breakaway thing she did was to marry my father. His background was very different." He explained how and touched upon the clash of backgrounds. Then he sketched in Ted and Pearl, to whom he went for Sunday lunches, and Uncle Frank and Auntie Teresa in Aberdeen, who sent occasional letters with vague invitations to come up sometime. Penny remarked on the age-gap between him and Ted, which led on to the age of his parents, to being a late child, orphaned at eighteen.

"You were hardly more than a boy, Martin! You haven't had an easy time of it, have you? Being on your own like that, and then the time in hospital."

"Well – it was a difficult time – but – well, I came through it."

"I suppose it should make people like me, whose parents are alive and well, count our blessings instead of – oh, how can I put it? It was just that, listening to you, I was jolted into making a comparison. When there are tensions between my parents and me, it can seem such a big problem, and yet, compared with what you've been through, it's such a petty problem. Oh, sorry, Martin – I didn't mean to ramble on like that."

"It's not rambling. Maybe you're being a bit unfair on yourself, because there are bound to be tensions between parents and children and you can't just dissolve them by thinking about people who have lost their parents."

"No, I didn't mean dissolve. I suppose I meant seeing them in perspective."

"Not always so easy when you're going through them." He could sense that she had touched upon a painful area and he didn't want to sound inquisitive. He went on, "I don't think I ever managed to do that – in the ones I had with my parents. They were sometimes about petty things, but they were never petty problems."

"Interesting distinction. I haven't told you a thing about my family yet, have I, which is rather an imbalance. There's Quentin, my father, Helen, my mother, and Malcolm, my younger brother – quite a bit younger, he's twelve and I'm twenty-one. We call our parents by their first names. We're what would be called a progressive family." This was stated in a matter-of-fact way with no note of pride. "The progressiveness applies to a lot more than what we call our parents. Notably politics. Quentin does freelance work for the Daily Worker and other Left publications. Things like comparing levels of nutrition between working-class and middle-class households. Every so often, he's off to the Soviet Union or Poland or somewhere to report on how they organise their welfare systems. I don't know if you've come across any of his articles, have you?"

"Not that I can recall. I do get the Daily Worker sometimes. He writes under his own name, does he?"

"Oh yes. It would be headed Special Report by Quentin Wilcox." She gave this just a slight ironic flourish. "Or Quentin Wilcox Analyses or Quentin Wilcox Assesses."

"I don't remember seeing the name, though, with me not being a regular reader and him not being a regular writer as he's freelance, we could easily have missed each other, I suppose."

"There's another possible explanation. His pieces are loaded with graphs and tables, and. one might just be forgiven for taking one look and turning the page. Though not by Quentin. He's never been able to lose an academic style of writing. He started out as an academic, you see – an economics lecturer. But he gave up that very secure career for a much more precarious one. That's something he must be admired for, I suppose. I expect you agree?"

"Yes, I think I do. You say precarious – but he must be good if he can earn his living out of it."

"He doesn't always. He certainly couldn't support a family, though we're not a family that holds with the idea of the male as breadwinner, anyway. That won't surprise you! Helen has a part-time job as a social worker with Child Guidance. Then there's my job, and we all chip in. Well, all except Malcolm, of course, because he's at school. He goes to the Steiner School. I did, too. It's the kind of school you'd expect Helen and Quentin to send their children to. Do you know about Steiner Schools?"

"Vaguely. Aren't they what's called child-centred – none of the formal discipline they have in ordinary schools, no straps, no hundred lines?"

"That's about it. I can remember, you know, when I was about seven, reading a school story – I forget which one, but it must have been the first I'd ever read – and it had all these pictures of schoolmasters wearing gowns and mortarboards, and they were called 'Sir' all the time, and there was a school bully. And I thought, Gosh, what a funny school! Then Malcolm, at the same sort of age, had that experience, too. I remember him showing the book to us and saying, 'It says here...' I suppose that's how we became aware that we were at a funny school. At some point, we became aware that we were in a funny family, that parents were Mummy and Daddy in other families, and kids could be punished, even hit, by these mummies and daddies. I expect all that sounds rather strange to you, Martin?"

"Well – certainly rather hard to imagine." He'd been contrasting it with his childhood. "But I can see that it figures. If they didn't punish you, did they have some other way of disciplining you? You don't give me the impression that you were left to run wild!"

"No, I certainly wasn't. But I don't think discipline's the right word. I knew that things were expected of me. I came to expect them of myself. There was an understood code of conduct. If I didn't come up to it, there'd be no reproaches, no direct ones, anyway, but there'd be an atmosphere. I'd know that I'd disappointed them. I don't know if that makes sense to you. It's probably very different from your childhood."

"Well, yes, because my parents went in for very direct reproaches, very heavy ones sometimes. But there'd be an atmosphere, too. Rows would blow over, but the atmosphere would linger on, and that could be just as frightening."

"So you know what atmosphere can do. Not that I found the one at home frightening. That's not how it came over. It was more like – well, it might make more sense if I gave you an example. There were always..." There was an interruption as the waitress asked if they would like coffee.

The coffee ran on to be two coffees as the example ran on to be a story. Its setting and incidents were strange to Martin, but it wasn't long before he seemed to hear a song he knew very well, being played to a different tune.

### 46 Story Told

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There were always things needing to be mailed out. Between them, Penny's parents supported a whole spectrum of progressive causes. Quentin was secretary of his Communist Party branch end of a Scottish-Soviet friendship group. Helen was active in the Socialist Medical Association and in educational reform circles. Both got involved in relief projects for refugees from the Nazis. All this generated a flow of appeals, petition forms, newsletters, notices of meetings, minutes of meetings. Helping her parents to fold circulars and address envelopes was not the most alluring of Penny's childhood pursuits, but nor was it entirely boring, because Helen and Quentin would explain – simply and movingly – why these efforts were necessary.

Penny would ask, "Have I really done one hundred?"

Yes, she'd be told, she really had.

"Does that mean one hundred more people will come to the rally?"

Quentin would mystify her with the arithmetic of such things. Because some of the hundred wouldn't turn up. But, then again, there were others who'd bring friends or relations with them. "So you can't get an exact number, you see. But definitely more people will come because of the ones you've done. And the more there are, the more we can change things. So, in a small way, you've helped to change things, to make the world a better place."

It gave Penny quite a glow to be making the world a better place – till a specially heavy and urgent mailing clashed with the tea party her best friend, June, had invited her to. Penny was now ten. Tea parties meant a lot to ten-year-olds. She'd been looking forward to it so much. But this was an appeal for desperately ill refugee children. If she went to June's and then stayed up through the night to do envelopes? Even so, she couldn't just say she was off to a tea party. She saw a way around that. She put it as June inviting her, June expecting her, she'd promised June. And if her pile were kept aside, she'd do them when she came home, stay up all night if it took that long.

"Well, that doesn't really come into it," said Helen, "because we have to catch today's post. It would be a shame to let June down and miss the party. It's one of these very unfortunate clashes. It's not an easy choice for you. Either you miss an enjoyable party or you go off just when your help with all this would certainly be very useful. Things do sometimes happen that way, when you have to make a choice, and, whatever choice you make, you're not going to be completely pleased with it."

So it had to be the refugee children.

"You'd better let June know, though," said Quentin, "because that's politeness. They're on the phone, aren't they. Ring her up and explain."

It was obvious that June didn't believe her story. So Penny tried to describe the plight of the poor refugee children. But June cut her short with, "Someone's ringing the bell. They've started to come. 'Bye."

All through the mailing, she kept picturing June's party. None of the other girls had to do things like this! They'd be laughing and having fun. What's more, they'd be laughing at her, making fun of good, kind little Penny, staying in to do envelopes, busy little Penny, working hard for the poor refugee children. She was trembling slightly and she was afraid she might start crying. She became aware of Quentin looking at her. "There'll be other tea parties, Penny," he said gently. "In fact, you could have one of your own. I think Penny deserves that, don't you, Helen?"

"Yes, definitely. Maybe the week after next. Would you like to do that, Penny?"

A moment's silence. Then Penny said, "Maybe" almost inaudibly. (She was thinking, no one would come!)

Quentin said, "You deserve one because this afternoon, you chose to deprive yourself of a tea party in order to help children who've been deprived of much more important things than tea parties. They've been deprived of their homes, their parents, everything that we just take for granted."

The thought that came to Penny was, It's a pity they didn't just die!

The sheer wickedness of that shook her to the core. What kind of a girl was she? She was like a Nazi girl... thinking things like that...

Unfortunate clashes remained a problem, in one form or another, throughout her schooldays. By her mid-teens, she was in the YCL (Young Communist League) and in a neighbourhood group raising money for post-war overseas aid. Her personal priorities were by now less frivolous than tea parties. There was her schoolwork. And she joined another group which organised visits to elderly, housebound people. She thought she ought to know first aid if she were doing this, so she joined a first aid class too.

She was taking on far too much, and her parents were getting worried. Even the best of people, Quentin reasoned with her, couldn't do all they would like to do. Helen stressed the importance of finding the right balance, the mix of politics, education and recreation that she could comfortably manage. It was very much an individual judgement – Helen and Quentin could advise, only Penny could decide.

The balance principle worked well for a while. It permitted flexibility. Missing an occasional YCL meeting to go out with friends no longer brought intense guilt.

Nor did it seem wrong, with fourth-year school exams imminent, to miss doing a house-to-house collection for overseas aid which she'd done in the previous year. But this certainly surprised Helen – "Oh, that is a pity, isn't it? The exams are important, of course. I take it you have told Mr Snaith that you won't manage it this time? He'll need to try and get someone else to do this street."

"I – I haven't yet, but I'm going to."

"Well, it is getting quite close to the time. It really does help an organiser to know that sort of thing well in advance. You'll be organising events like that yourself some day, and then you'll appreciate the point."

"Oh – well – I'll phone him now, then."

"Yes, that would be a good idea. You did so well last year, too! In just one morning's work." That phrase, and the emphasis put on it, disturbed Penny. She kept asking herself if she really couldn't spare the time, or was she being selfish? Well... but she'd drawn up a timetable for exam revision... she couldn't muddle it up now. And she tried to forget the matter.

But then Quentin had a talk with her about exams. It sounded like helpful advice at first on not becoming over-anxious, but he went on to remark, "I gather you would have liked to do the aid collection again this year, but for the exam pressure." A strange remark, because she couldn't believe that Helen would have relayed it in those terms – much more likely to have complained about lack of commitment. So why had he put it that way? It was his way of saying that she should have liked to do the collection.

There came a flood of resentful thoughts. So much for the balance which only she could decide! Why didn't they just impose a balance? That, at least, would be honest. And why had they assumed she'd be doing the collection again? They made a habit of assuming things. It was even assumed that she would go on to organise collections. Well... wasn't that reasonable? No, it wasn't reasonable! It was likely, but it shouldn't just be assumed.

She reckoned she ought to have all this out with them, but how was she to put it? She felt too angry to put it tactfully – she'd probably lose her temper, accuse them of being dishonest. They'd accuse her of making excuses for herself. There'd be a horrible scene, the kind of scene you only heard of in unprogressive families. It was unthinkable. No, all she could do was to stick to the balances she thought right, and, if there were any more insinuations, she could then quote back at them that it was very much an individual judgement.

Then came a troubled time at the YCL. Some of her comrades became difficult to work with. They wanted to reorganise things; they dominated meetings. Penny had a few rows, missed several meetings, and got a reputation for unreliability. She countered the insinuation at home by saying she felt run-down, in need of a rest (which was true enough). They were wholly sympathetic about that, but, when it went on to be a prolonged rest, hints and little sounding-out questions appeared. At this point, she was saved by the approaching Highers at school – she could say there was no time for any outside activities.

Her academic prospects, however, threw up a new set of tensions with her parents. From her school reports, it seemed certain that she would pass the Highers. There was much talk of university by Helen and Quentin. She found this very flattering in some ways. It was nice to be told she ought to think seriously about choosing a course of study which would be right for her. But the possibility that something other than university could be right for her seemed to be totally excluded. Not that she had any definite ideas of her own, beyond supposing that she would work in some political or charitable setting. But that didn't have to be via university. University was just being assumed... yet another thing. And, this time, she asked why.

It was Quentin who drew upon his academic past to supply the answer. In fact, he supplied a dissertation on the paradoxical nature of universities in capitalist societies. For although they serviced the system and nurtured 'elitism' they could be used as a valuable resource by those dedicated to changing the system. There was the training in disciplined thought; the opportunity to qualify, and therefore to speak with authority, in a chosen field of knowledge; and the consequent access to posts in which one could influence events. Any progressive person who had the chance would be wise to take it up; so many, after all, were by various means excluded.

There was nothing there which she disagreed with. Her one doubt was that he'd been thinking of progressive people in general, rather than thinking of her. No, that was ridiculous – of course he'd been thinking of her! And as she had no firm plans of her own, why not go to university and let them take shape while she was there? But she got talking to her classmates about their intentions. Some did, some didn't, want to go to university. All were obviously pursuing their own ideas, not those of their parents. Then she reminded herself that these were not progressive parents in the way hers were, so... it was a faulty comparison. All the same, it fairly showed up her lack of planning. It was high time she looked properly into job opportunities for progressive people. That didn't mean she was ruling out university. It simply meant she'd be making an informed choice.

The outcome was a decision to go in for nursing. The activity that had given her real enjoyment and a real sense of being useful was visiting elderly disabled people. She'd done well on the first aid course, she was sure the more advanced work wouldn't be beyond her. For someone who was both progressive and enjoyed giving individual care, it was the ideal career, because the vision of a comprehensive national health service was about to be realised. And a nurse, once she became a matron, or a tutor, or an administrator, could certainly influence events.

Quentin asked if she wouldn't accomplish more, with the same job satisfaction, as a doctor. She had her reply ready: "A lot of folk are rather in awe of doctors, just because they have that title. I found that when I was visiting. You'd be surprised at the things they'd tell me which they'd never tell to doctors. They'd say they didn't like to or they couldn't very well."

"There's one thing," said Helen, "you possibly haven't thought of. Hospitals are highly institutionalised places and that isn't going to change easily. You'd find a great deal of petty discipline, a lot of authoritarian attitudes. All very different from what you've known at school and at home – or doing your visiting, for that matter. So you need to think very carefully about whether you could make that adjustment."

"Well, that's all part of the challenge, isn't it?" Penny told her.

But Helen was only too right. It seemed to Penny that her ward sister cared more about the folds at the foot of beds than about their occupants. Penny was expected to sweep personal possessions off "untidy" locker tops and into locker drawers with or without their owners' consent. She tried to get used to it all, to see the funny side, but it didn't work. The sister reprimanded her for spending too much time doing a small task for one patient – there was a wardful of patients and one had to work to a system. For Penny this was the last straw. She answered back. The sister delivered a scathing dressing-down. Was a first-year student nurse presuming to teach someone with over twenty years' experience how to care for people? Penny changed out of her uniform and walked out of her job.

Going home, shattered, she hoped her parents would at least see that she had taken a progressive stand – of a sort.

She couldn't face telling them over tea, with her nine-year-old brother there. She parried casual questions about her day at the hospital, and tried not to show emotion, till Malcolm went off to do homework.

Their immediate reaction was to try to comfort her, but Quentin remarked on how risky it was to tangle with people in authority. Penny then played her progressive card. It was the only time in her experience of him that Quentin went mad. What was progressive about a petulant outburst? Progressiveness was supposed to achieve something. That was the idea, that was the definition. All she'd achieved was the loss of her job. But perhaps he shouldn't be surprised. She walked out of any organisation that was not tailor-made for her comfort, be it the YCL, the hospital or anything. Organisations couldn't be expected – then, hearing Malcolm coming back, he stopped.

"Are you still all sitting over tea?" the boy laughed. "It'll be running  
into –" He broke off as he saw that Penny was crying.

Helen said, "Penny had a bad day at the hospital. She's upset. Isn't it time for Ignorance is Bliss?" That was his favourite radio comedy. Helen seemed unaware of the ghastly appositeness, aware only that the radio was in another room.

But he came and questioned Penny later, when she was on her own. And because he understood it in a child's way, he managed to give some slight comfort. Told about the sister (and only about the sister), he exclaimed, "She's a horror! If she goes on like that, all the nurses will walk out and then she'll have to run the ward by herself. Then she'll see she's not as good at it as she thinks."

Quentin didn't refer to it again. He made painfully awkward attempts to be pleasant. She enjoyed adding to his awkwardness by being frostily civil. Some mediation by Helen resolved this particular difficulty. In a woman-to-woman talk, she revealed that he still felt he had been right to criticise, but was very unhappy at the way it had come over.

Penny replied, "Not nearly as unhappy as I am!"

"That may well be true, but he is very unhappy nevertheless."

"Well – all right – point taken. But can't he tell me that himself?"

"No, he can't. He doesn't know how to handle it."

So Penny stopped rebuffing her father, and, between parents and daughter, an outward serenity masked an underlying unease.

Helen mooted the idea of a secretarial course at a commercial college: such skills didn't have to be used in commerce, there was a demand for them in progressive organisations, too.

When Penny successfully completed her course and got the job at New Dawn, whose internationalist vision attracted her, her parents congratulated her. But there was, she thought, an undertone of "Best we can expect of Penny." She soon found that New Dawn didn't offer much sense of vocation. "International friendship and understanding among the world citizens of tomorrow" wasn't so much its mission as its sales talk.

She made a few tentative enquiries about more worthwhile vacancies, but never actually applied. She didn't want to move unless she felt sure she would fit in, because that was her problem. She couldn't risk personality clashes again undermining her reliability and her sense of commitment. There was maybe something defective about these at the best of times.

And so, as she told Martin, she couldn't be sure where she would go from here. She certainly hadn't been very successful so far.

Martin said, "Well – yes – but – well, that's not really true, Penny. You have had successes."

### 47 Penny and God

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"What – you mean the commercial college? Getting the job?"

"Yes. But not just that. You do a very good job at New Dawn, even though it's not where you'd ideally like to be. Unreliable is about the last word anybody could apply to you. And personality clashes – you seemed to be saying that you're prone to them, and I can see that they happened at the YCL and with the ward Sister. Well, the other personalities involved rather invited them, didn't they? But look, Penny – you haven't had one with Bruce. If there's anybody you would have had one with if you were prone to them, it's him, for obvious reasons. But you use your sense of humour, and your arguments with him are always good-natured. So – well – there hasn't only been failure, has there?"

She hesitated, clearly surprised by his response. "Well – no – I suppose that's true as far as it goes."

"Maybe, you know, it goes further than you think. You go to a lot more trouble than the job strictly requires. If I were a customer, and someone in my tour party were disabled or had to have a special diet, I'd be really relieved if the person taking my phone call were you. I wouldn't be made to feel that I was creating complications. Then there was what you did for me on my first day – my induction panic, remember? You reassured me, you produced your outline. You showed the same sort of quality when I had the argument with Bruce. You came specially to the kitchen to make sure I wasn't taking it too badly. I would call all these things successes. And they seem to outnumber the failures."

He could see that this had made an impact, though she still looked troubled as she said, "I hadn't thought of all that in those terms. Thanks for saying that. I can see the point you're making. But they're – well, limited successes, aren't they?"

"They're not successes in your parents' language and therefore they don't count as winning anything." That phrase, so significant to his own history, seemed to come of its own accord.

"Martin, my brain's gone numb. I could use another coffee."

"So could I."

The waitress took the order and turned a page in her pad for volume two of their bill. They asked her to make the coffees strong. Penny said to him, "As at a YCL meeting!"

"Yes, I can imagine! Does that mean I'm getting difficult to work with?"

"It's me who should be asking that. I hadn't thought to burden you with such a recital of woes!"

"I don't feel burdened. I feel glad you were able to tell me – I feel privileged really. In a curious sort of way, you've picked the right person. I don't mean that I've any special wisdom, but I, too, had childhood problems that spilled over into adolescence and beyond. A lot of them were entirely different from yours and don't have any bearing on what you've told me. But there's one underlying problem in common – intense anxiety about coming up to the expectations of parents. The ones my parents had of me weren't much like what Helen and Quentin wanted of you. The Vanskin household didn't exactly revolve around progressive causes! Well, my dad had something of a sense of good citizenship, duty, responsible behaviour. If he gave me a severe talking-to, I'd feel shrivelled, I'd have a terrible sense of guilt. My mum was more capricious. If she had worries of her own and I did something that aggravated them, she'd fly into a temper. I grew up having lots of doubts about myself. And this self-doubt coloured my attitude to everything that went wrong. The conclusions I reached were the ones that put me in the worst possible light. And, notwithstanding all the differences, I think Helen and Quentin produced the same effect in you. I'm sure they didn't intend to – they're obviously kindly and well-meaning people – but they did. And so you talk about failure and defects and you don't recognise successes."

"Well, I'm beginning to now. You've opened my eyes to them. But I can't close my eyes to the failures. The fiascos at the YCL and on the ward can't be explained away by blaming my parents."

"No, they can't, but you mustn't make too much of them. That's what I meant by seeing yourself in the worst possible light. They don't amount to terrible blots on your character. Things like that are not bound to happen again."

Neighbouring tables were being stripped of their tablecloths. Penny said, "I think we're getting a gentle hint. Martin, there is something in all that. Thanks very much indeed." She reached across the table and squeezed his hand. Then, blushing, she drew back her hand.

On the way to the cash-desk, he asked, "Do you feel as strongly about men seeing women home as you do about men paying bills? I hope not."

"I'm surprised you don't want to escape at the first opportunity, after all I've put you through!"

They laughed – it was a good time for laughter. "I'm against it," she told him, "as a rigid convention, but as you're not rigidly conventional and as it would allow us to enjoy what's left of the evening, I can't possibly object. One condition, though. It's miles out of your way, so you'll have to let Quentin drive you home. No, don't protest, because he's very nice in that sort of way. He likes to be the perfect host. He'll actually offer. He always does with visitors who don't have cars."

They separated to go to the toilets. He thought back over their evening. It had been amazing. It wasn't just that he had helped her, though that in itself was wonderful. The full wonder was that this was the first time in his life he had helped someone else in such a significant way. It would have been unimaginable before. He had been the one needing help, needing Child Guidance, needing psychiatry. He had been driven in upon himself by all that had gone so horribly wrong. And tonight he had turned some of those very things to constructive use and done something good for another human being. That it was this particular human being made it more beautiful still, for she had made a point of helping him. And, by learning from that nightmare childhood of his that had for so long warped him in relation to girls, he'd been brought closer to this girl.

He thought, Thank God. Then he thought about that expression. He realised that he had meant it literally. It was the most convinced prayer he had ever made, though he wasn't quite sure what he was convinced of. He certainly didn't believe that God had arranged that he and Penny should meet at New Dawn. It was something to do with goodness coming out of a nightmare.

### 48 Tuition Offer

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When he re-joined her, Penny smiled and said, "Well then, to the tram stop."

They emerged into the dusk of a pleasant summer evening. He thought of joking about his past frustration over their separate tram stops, but decided he couldn't, at this stage, put things so pointedly as that.

She said, "I think we should talk about you on this journey, not about me. You've hardly had a look-in! Can I ask you something? I get the impression that you don't see New Dawn as the ideal job for you, any more than I see it as ideal for me. Are you thinking of moving on sometime?"

"Well – yes, but not moving on in the sense you mean." He told her of his writing hopes – it now felt perfectly natural to tell her. "But I wouldn't dare give up a regular job just yet – I'm not as brave as Quentin was! I'll need to wait and see whether I can get my stories published regularly."

"You've had some published, then?"

"Only two recently, but one of the editors wants to see some more. There's still plenty of rejection slips, though."

"Do you get your manuscripts typed? Because that helps."

"Yes, I do. I've got a friend who's a reporter and he types some of them for me. Reporters are about the only men who get taught how to type! I take the rest to an agency, because it wouldn't be fair to lumber him with the lot. I do intend to learn typing at night school, but I haven't had time to fix it up, what with my Esperanto group and, of course, getting the stories written. I'm not very well-organised, am I?"

"No, you're not! It's no good organising your material if you can't organise yourself! Would you like me to teach you to type? You could fit it in whenever it's convenient for you. I've got my own machine at home. I could type up some of your stories, too. Here's our tram."

It was just as well the conductor was competent – Martin couldn't count his change for counting his blessings. Penny checked his words of thanks with, "It's one way of making sure I get to see them! You've kept very quiet about them at work. We'd no idea we had a writer in our midst."

"Well – not the easiest of things to talk about in that setting. Also," he laughed, "there's one in particular that would not have been well-received in certain quarters at New Dawn! It's called – no, I'll let you wait till you read it."

"This is all rather tantalising, Martin! It sounds as if you've been putting us into your stories. If you're not careful, you'll be sacked and ordered to pay libel damages as well! I suppose I could start up a collection for you. That's assuming I haven't been libelled myself. I can't even be sure of that!"

"Wait till you read it. I've been advised by my solicitor to make no comment till then."

They decided that typing lessons should be on Saturday afternoons. The talk turned to Esperanto. She wondered whether it was the panacea which some of its advocates seemed to promise. He wasn't at his best in this discussion because there was something else on his mind. There was a question he felt he needed to ask. They alighted at the Braidburn Valley, a stretch of parkland they had to cross to reach the house. He said, "How long has Helen worked at the Child Guidance clinic?"

"Oh, twenty years or more – all her working life."

"I went to Child Guidance when I was eleven – ten years ago. I saw a Dr Pulliford, and my mum saw the social worker. I can't remember her name, if I ever knew it. I only knew her by sight. I suppose that would have been Helen?"

"Yes – yes, I suppose it would. But – then – she's not likely to remember. It is quite a long time ago."

"I think I'd like to ask her if she remembers. She wouldn't mind if I asked, would she?"

"Well – no – I don't suppose so." Penny was obviously puzzled. He himself was. Why had he brought this up?

"You see," he attempted to explain (as much for his own benefit as hers) "it means that my mother met and spoke to your mother. It's a funny thought. In a way it is. It isn't really, because your mother must have met and spoken to other people's mothers every day. But I was just struck by the thought. It means that this lady I'm about to be introduced to isn't totally a stranger. There's a sort of link. A link with the past, a link with home. I know that sounds silly. I can't really explain it. I'm not making much sense, am I?"

"I think I can see a bit of what you mean. It makes Helen a sort of memory of your mother?"

"Something like that. Oh, it is silly, but – well, there's no harm in asking." He thought for a second and then he laughed. "I won't ask as soon as I cross the threshold. That really would sound weird! I'm nervous enough without that. It's going to feel strange meeting them all so soon after hearing about them."

"Yes," she said thoughtfully, "I can see that it will. And, with my particular bias, I probably made them sound more forbidding than they are. But you mustn't be nervous. They'll be very nice to you. They rather fuss over the comfort of visitors. Oh – one slight correction – you said "meeting them all' But you won't he meeting Malcolm tonight, because he'll be in bed. Or, at least, he should be in bed."

"Is he difficult to bed down?"

"Well, now and again he is, not as a rule. It's only if he's in one of his restless moods. He'll go to bed, but he won't stay there. He'll find excuses to wander around in his dressing-gown, like discovering he's left a book behind." As they left the valley through a gap in the hedge, she said, "We go down this road and then we turn right. Please don't be nervous, Martin. There's no need to be, because you're coming as my visitor after all."

But he remained nervous. Conversation dried up as they turned the corner. Could he make a good first impression, and then a good every-Saturday impression? But he shouldn't worry, should just take the situation stage by stage. It would probably be all right, though there were possible ways in which it might go wrong. Well... but he had his friendship with Penny to build upon. That was the real point of his being there. That should see him through.

### 49 Doors Open

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It was a modestly-sized house with a modestly-sized garden, scented by the fragrance of flowers in the dusk. A small, plump woman with a roundish face and close-cropped black hair was looking out of a window. Her face lit up when she smiled – rather like the effect when Penny smiled. And he did remember her from Child Guidance.

As they entered the hall, the front-room door opened. Behind the small woman in the doorway was an extremely tall man. His size blocked the entrance, like a bouncer thwarting gatecrashers. Penny did the introductions.

"Hallo, Martin. Very nice to meet you." Helen shook hands warmly. Quentin spoke and did likewise. He added, "It's good of you to see Penny home. You'll join us for a spot of supper, I hope, Martin? Oh, let me take your coat."

As soon as Quentin spoke, he became unimaginable as a bouncer. He was soft-spoken, thoroughly gentlemanly. His hair was thinning, with flecks of grey, from which he seemed older than Helen. But his face had a certain youthfulness, which made him look younger than she.

Martin, wise to Edinburgh weather, had been carrying an old mac. He'd have put it somewhere on his chair, but, in the hands of Quentin, it was straightened, uncrumpled and given the honour not only of a hook in the hall, but a hanger too. As he raised it, there dropped from it a packet of cigarettes. "Oh, your cigarettes," said Quentin, picking them up.

Martin felt absurdly embarrassed. He hadn't smoked for days, had forgotten they were there, and now they'd come tumbling out to make him seem an inveterate smoker. Penny, suddenly overcome with mirth, exclaimed, "Martin hasn't smoked all evening! He carries them around, but he hardly ever smokes them – like a lucky charm! You might as well just put them back in his raincoat."

"Oh – well – but Martin might want to smoke while he's here. We're a non-smoking household, but we can provide an ashtray."

"Quentin, you shouldn't be tempting him! I'm surprised at you."

Laughter all round, everyone more at ease. He was shown into the front room, which seemed to be both sitting room and study, rather untidy, with more furniture than it was designed for. There was an elegance about it for all that. The little tables which he nearly fell over had inlaid chequer boards. Pictures of attractive rural scenes adorned the walls. Besides tables to fall over, there were piles of reading-matter to trip over – Daily Workers, pamphlets, books. The actual bookcase was crammed with encyclopaedias in several volumes. It partially obscured a television set, blank, silent and, he guessed, rarely used.

"Now, do you like salad, Martin?" Helen asked.

"Yes I do, thanks. It's salad weather, isn't it?"

"They might have had salad," Quentin observed, "for their meal out, which would make it –"

They assured him that they had not. Martin could see what Penny had meant by "fussing, over the comfort of visitors." There was more to come. Quentin said, "If you should wish to wash your hands first, the toilet's upstairs at the far end of the landing."

It was dim on the landing – the one thing Quentin had overlooked was the location of the light switch. Suddenly his way was lit when a door edged open. A tousle-haired, bespectacled face looked out upon him.

"Good evening," said Martin awkwardly.

"Good evening," said the boy brightly. He emerged from the doorway, barefoot, in pyjamas and dressing gown.

"You must be Malcolm," Martin said more sociably, after the initial surprise. "I'm Martin. I work with your sister. I chummed her home."

"Oh, yes, she was going out tonight, wasn't she? Oh –" as if remembering something – "Hallo, Martin, glad to meet you." He held out his hand for Martin to shake.

"Glad to meet you, Malcolm."

Malcolm had a firm handshake and a friendly smile. His head reached slightly above Martin's shoulder. Martin asked, "Is that – that's the toilet, isn't it, the end door?"

"Yes."

"Oh – were you about to go in?"

"No. I was just going downstairs for one of my books."

"Oh. Right. Well – goodnight, then, Malcolm."

"Goodnight, Martin."

What a polite kid, Martin thought. A bit quaint, with his "Hallo, Martin, glad to meet you." So this was one of his restless moods. He wondered what kind of reception Malcolm would get downstairs – that should be interesting. But, leaving the toilet, he found that Malcolm was still at his bedroom door. He was holding papers of some kind, tapping them against his chin. He said, "Oh, hello again. I thought you might want to buy a raffle ticket in aid of the handicapped children."

"Oh – well, yes, all right. How much are they?"

"A shilling. Or you could have three for two-and-six. They're handicapped children. In wheelchairs and that sort of thing. Some of them have speech impediments too. I'm in the Friends' Group."

From downstairs, Helen called, "Malcolm, do you realise that it's nearly half-past-ten? And you do have school tomorrow. It's not the best of times to be selling raffle tickets."

"Oh – yes – all right, Helen. I'm sorry, Mar–, oh, but Helen, Martin said he wanted one."

Helen laughed. "We should have thought to warn you, Martin. All right, then, Malcolm, but hurry up with the transaction. Don't keep Martin talking there all night."

Malcolm looked slightly abashed in smiling at Martin, but there was a touch of mischief in the smile. "You did want one, did you?"

"You've talked me into it, young man. Let's have the three, then. It is a good cause."

"Thanks a lot, Martin. Could you write your name and address on the stubs? Come and use the table in my room. It'll be easier for writing."

Malcolm dropped the half-crown into a jar which looked as if it had been doing brisk business, and declared, "You could win fifty pounds, or a bottle of champagne, or a weekend in a luxury country hotel. With three tickets, you could win all three. Well, you could possibly win all three."

"I'm not exactly banking on it. And I'd probably be suspected of being the organiser's nephew or something if I did."

Malcolm, sitting with legs folded on the bed, laughed. "I'd speak up for you if that happened."

"I'd die of surprise anyway, so you wouldn't have to bother."

A silly joke, but both enjoyed it. Still smiling, Malcolm said, "I bet you can't guess what my hobby is. Oh, Penny hasn't told you, has she?"

"No, she hasn't." Martin made a few run-of-the-mill guesses. The boy gleefully shook his head to them all. Then Martin came to wrestling and boxing. He hadn't wanted to, but he was running out of others. Malcolm shook his head as before. "Judo, then – fighting of some kind?"

"Hey! What do you think I am? Do you give up?"

"I'll have to."

Malcolm leaped off the bed and went and opened a drawer. "Come over and look."

It was full of little dolls, but nothing like the ones toyshops sold. "I make them out of shells and pebbles and bits of slate and all sorts of odds and ends I pick up on the beach at Portobello. I do the clothes out of seaweed and paper."

Martin gasped. "These are beautiful, Malcolm. Can I touch?"

"Yeah, of course. They wouldn't be much good if they were too fragile to touch! I did all them some time ago – they're just sort of basic dolls." He closed the drawer and started to open the one below it. "What I've got in here – oh, that sounds like Quentin coming."

Quentin knocked. "Come in," said Malcolm a little apprehensively. "I was just showing Martin a few of the dolls."

"Well, but Martin is ready for some supper. And you don't want to be half-asleep at school tomorrow. Martin did come to visit Helen and me, after all. You can show him the dolls another time."

"Yes. Sorry. You'll be coming again, then, Martin?"

"Yes, Martin will be here again. On Saturday, I gather from Penny. Come along, Martin, or you'll never get away. Goodnight, Malcolm," Quentin concluded with emphasis. Going downstairs, he said, "Sorry about that. He's a difficult child to extricate oneself from without appearing rude." In the sitting room, he announced, "Rescue operation completed! He was showing Martin the dolls."

"Really?" said Helen in some surprise. "Well, they're well worth a look at, but there's a time and place for everything. As if the raffle ticket wasn't enough! He does a lot of good work for charities, Martin, but he can be overzealous sometimes. You mustn't feel obliged to buy them."

"Oh, that's all right. I didn't mind." As the little tables were positioned by the chairs and supper was started, Martin said, "Those dolls are really beautiful."

"They are, aren't they?" Helen agreed. "He's very gifted that way."

Penny said, "He doesn't show his dolls to all comers, you know, Martin. He's definitely got to like somebody before he'll do that. It's quite remarkable that you should be shown them after – what? – Just about a minute or two talking to him. I don't think that's ever happened before."

"Yes," said Helen, "that's what I was thinking. It's quite a tribute to you, in a way, Martin."

It was hard to find a reply. He managed, "Well, I did buy three raffle tickets."

Penny answered, "So have other people and not been shown the dolls. No, he must have taken to you right away."

"How did he learn to make them?"

"Well, he very largely taught himself," said Helen. "He did get a book from the library which put him on to the idea, but he soon built up a technique and a style of his own. He's given a few away – to us and one or two really close pals of his – and he's donated some for charity sales and raffle prizes. He's combined his two passions a bit, you see. But by and large" – and she now spoke sadly – "he's somewhat shy and secretive about his hobby. Some people would say that it's not a suitable pursuit for a boy. Not us. We don't believe in conventional notions about boys' and girls' activities. And we've brought Penny and Malcolm up not to have these sex role stereotypes. But, of course, we can't insulate ourselves against influences from outside, though, in this particular case, it wasn't altogether from outside, but from his Uncle Sidney. My brother is not the most imaginative of people. Malcolm said to him, 'Come up and see what I've been making.' He was quite uninhibited about it to begin with, you see. And Sidney made some very unfortunate, stupid remarks which hurt Malcolm a great deal. Then he rubbed it in by criticising me in Malcolm's presence. I must admit I didn't handle the situation well. I did try reasoning, but Sidney is extremely obstinate and prejudiced. Perhaps I should have been more assertive, but that would have risked a major row, and I didn't want that sort of scene in front of Malcolm. I tried to put the whole issue straight for him as soon as Sidney left, and I did succeed to some extent, but he's never altogether got over it."

"That's a shame," said Martin, thinking back to Ted. "But, at least, he didn't give up making them, did he?"

"Well, what happened was somewhat curious," Quentin put in. "He carried on, but he started doing more elaborate dolls. He fashioned objects for them to hold. When he shows them to you, you'll see how elaborate they became. Of course, that's something he might have gone on to do anyway, but it does look as if the bother over Sidney triggered it off. Whether he did it to prove how good he was or in order to make things that were not exactly dolls, we're not sure, though he still insists on calling them dolls. I once suggested that they were more like figurines or statuettes. Had a certain amount of difficulty trying to explain the difference! But he stuck to dolls. He said there were basic dolls and advanced dolls, but they were all dolls. So there's some ambivalence – on the one hand, he's proud of making dolls, but, on the other, he's still quite fearful of attitudes like Sidney's."

"I'd never have guessed there was anything like that from the way he was speaking about them. He seemed so happy."

"That's interesting," Quentin replied. "It could be that he's growing out of those worries."

"I don't think," said Penny, "that he could grow out of them as suddenly as that. I think it's just that he felt perfectly safe with Martin. Something just struck me – thinking about the dolls and about the raffle tickets. He could probably raise quite a bit of money for charities by exhibiting the dolls. I wonder how he'd take to that idea. It might just persuade him that he shouldn't hide them away."

Helen replied, "I doubt if he'd have the confidence to do that at this stage. Even when he donates a doll as a raffle prize, he won't let them say who it comes from."

"Yes, I suppose you're right." There was a moment's pause, then Penny added lightly, "Well, you're bound to be right, being a Child Guidance expert!"

"Well, I wouldn't make that assumption!" Helen laughed.

"You're the social worker there, I gather," said Martin, grateful for the cue.

"Yes, I am."

"It's rather a coincidence – I don't know if you'll remember – but I went to Child Guidance when I was eleven – ten years ago. I saw Dr Pulliford, and you saw my mum. You had one interview with her. I just wondered if you remembered."

If she were surprised, she didn't show it. She said gently, "Yes, I do, Martin. In fact, the name Vanskin rang a bell when Penny mentioned that that was the name of the new young man at her office. I kept thinking I'd come across it before, and then it came back to me. When you came in here, I thought I could picture you as a boy. You've got something of your mother's features, you know. I can recall her – not perfectly, but fairly clearly. You've lost your parents, I understand, and you're on your own now. I'm sorry to hear that. It can't have been easy for you."

"Well –" A pang of sadness shot through him very suddenly. "Well – no, but things could have been a lot worse. I'm not lonely – there's my work, and I'm in an Esperanto group, and my hobby is writing and that keeps me occupied as well. You can recall my Mum, then?"

"I can. She cared a lot about you, Martin. I remember picking that up very strongly. She'd be pleased that you're managing and that things are going well for you."

He thought, "Yes. Being here. Like this." He said, "Thanks, Helen. It's nice to think of you remembering her like that. Is Dr Pulliford still there?"

"No, he's in London. He got a job as a senior consultant. He writes to me every so often. He seems to be enjoying it down there."

"If you're writing to him, could you remember me to him? If he remembers me, that is. Mind you, he might, because I did something very stupid – I walked out of the treatment. I don't mean I literally walked out of a session, but I stopped attending. So –" Feeling just a shade foolish, he laughed it off, "I wasn't a model patient."

"But it's our failure when that happens. It means we've not made a child feel secure enough."

"Well – I don't know – it wasn't Dr Pulliford's fault – oh well – it's over now, anyway. I mean, things got better for me eventually."

He saw that Penny was looking at him attentively. She said quietly, "You've turned out very well, Martin. We all do stupid things when we're young, but they're not the end of the world."

There was a short silence, broken when Helen offered Martin more salad, more tea. Quentin said, "If you're worrying about the last tram, don't, because I can give you a run home. Tell me about your writing. Has Penny told you that I write, too?"

Penny's valedictory was, "Thanks, Martin, for a really nice evening." It made both of them smile. What an understatement!

### 50 Psychology

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He switched on the bedside lamp. Ten past four! Was Penny sleepless, too, he wondered, and thinking of him? Yes, almost certainly she would be. It really did seem... at last... he'd found a girlfriend... so all he had to do... he had to... But hold on, he thought, I don't know for sure that it's like that – that she feels that way about me. What was the significance of the evening's events? That question must be thought out. He got up, sat in the armchair and lit a cigarette; it wasn't an occasion, but it might just help him to think.

Their relationship was certainly no ordinary one. She'd confided some quite intimate troubles which seemed never to have been mentioned to anyone else. And he'd been able to help her, But did that make them girlfriend and boyfriend? Well, she hadn't said anything which implied that – no, not unambiguously. She'd fairly jumped at the chance to have him round for typing lessons, but that could be a case of one good turn deserving another. Then he remembered how much sympathy, warmth, closeness there had been all through the evening – that was why she had felt able to talk so openly. A rapport had come into being remarkably quickly. Rapport... rapport didn't mean quite the same as romance, Rapport... a meeting of minds, a sharing of experiences. That could happen between people of the same sex, between someone young and someone old. Between him and Penny, it could lead to romance. It showed every sign of doing so.

There was something familiar about this train of thought, it was reminding him of something or other he had read, Suddenly it came back to him, surprisingly clearly for a piece of casual reading done in his mid-teens, It had been in the Reader's Digest, which he would only ever read if he saw it in a waiting room. The article had compared male and female psychology. He'd had a laugh at how uncomplimentary it was to men. Most women, it had argued, were much less impulsive than most men. They were more mature in the way they handled relationships, they didn't make instant choices of boyfriends. They cultivated the friendship side, the interests in common, before they committed themselves emotionally. Martin, man and boy, had always regarded the Reader's Digest as politically and intellectually suspect, but this article had better credentials than most – it had, after all, been written by a psychologist, a woman psychologist.

He felt soothed by the cigarette he had smoked and the perspective he had achieved. He must wait and see how it all developed and evolved. This was the early stage, the cultivation stage. And he had made a very good start, including a good impression on the family, even the little boy. Not that little a boy – he might be taller than me in a few months. He was quite a character, selling raffle tickets, conducting a guessing-game and showing off his dolls when he should have been asleep! There couldn't be many able-bodied children who gave much thought to handicapped ones. Yes, a likeable kid. In talking to Malcolm, he had managed just the right approach, a healthy, normal way for an adult to relate to a child. In one sense, that was the most promising thing that had happened.

It would have been a good note to fall asleep on as he again bedded down, but sleep still not coming, he tried to picture the typing lessons scene, Penny would be sitting close to him – or would she be standing over him? Would her hands guide his on the typewriter? Did that happen in teaching it? The image brought some sexual excitement, but not as much as he would have liked. He was dog-tired, of course. And hadn't Dr Thomas said that worry over it was self-defeating?

Next thing he knew, he was being breakfast-gonged out of oblivion. Along with his porridge, Mrs Naylor handed him a letter. Rosalind was coming to Edinburgh for her wedding. She'd be in a whirl with all the preparations, but could meet him in town the Saturday after next. She suggested afternoon tea at... of all places... "I don't know if you know it, but there's a place in Hanover Street called the De Luxe. Very nice atmosphere, I remember, for relaxing over a cuppa." He was wryly amused by the two ghastly snags in the proposal. The minor one, the clash with a typing lesson, he could tolerate – no harm in explaining the situation to Penny. But the De Luxe! The waitresses would think he was some kind of Don Juan! Unless he said, "Could my sister and I have a table for two, please?" He pocketed the letter, to answer in the tea break at work.

Penny had not reverted to the floppy green jumper, but was again in the more flattering outfit she had worn for their date. Flattering for me, too! he thought, but then added, Such conceit! Get on with your work! Her appearance drew some embarrassing jocularity from Bruce. "A-ha, our new typist is back for her second day – oh no, it's Penny, I keep forgetting. Another night out tonight, then? I don't know how you youngsters keep up the pace!" Martin hoped it wouldn't lead on to the words boyfriend or girlfriend but Penny was able to handle it. "No, it's not another night out! Bruce, if you turn up with a new tie or jacket, I don't give you an inquisition, do I?"

"Quite right," said Morag. "We are in the travel business, Bruce, not the fashion business."

At odd moments during work, Martin tried to think of a suitable alternative to the De Luxe. Suddenly there came to mind the one rendezvous he'd prefer above all others. He wrote in his note to Rosalind: "How do you take to the idea of meeting at the bookshop coffee lounge? (Don't ask which bookshop coffee lounge!) Does that sound crazy? I assure you that it's not to try to recreate the past. It's to be there in the present, knowing that all the things that went wrong at that time have now turned out right. For both of us. We are reconciled. You are about to marry. And there's a girl at work I'm getting to know quite well. She means a lot to me. I realise, of course, that you might not take to the idea, in which case there's a nice restaurant in the Co-op. in Bread Street. Both of these places might be quieter than the De Luxe at that time of day."

He'd told the others that he wasn't working through his break, that it was a letter he had to dash off to reach someone in time. Penny now said, "Is that a letter you'd like typed, by any chance?"

"Oh! – no thanks, Penny. It's not a business letter or anything like that."

He wrote: "P.S. I'm dashing this off at work. She's just asked if it's something I'd like typed! ! ! ! ! ! ! !... ad infinitum."

That should appeal to her, he thought.

### 51 More Rapport

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Penny's room was both her bedroom and her study. She had her typewriter, uncovered and ready for him, on a writing-desk by the window, and introduced him to the home keys used in touch-typing. These summarily disposed of his speculations about her hands guiding his. With the student's fingers correctly placed, he needed no hands but his own. The preliminary exercises were highly monotonous, but when he managed to produce "a lad as sad as Dad" as his own unaided composition, he felt he was getting somewhere. Penny told him he had done well and that was enough for one lesson. It had been arranged that he should stay on for tea with the family. "That's not till half-past-five, though," she said, "so would you like a walk in Braidburn Valley first?"

The small figure crouching below the hedge at the entrance to the valley turned out to be Malcolm. When he saw them approach, he put a finger to his lips. "Hide-and-seek," he whispered. "Don't stop and talk. It'd give the game away. Hi, Martin. See you later."

As they passed inside, a boy making for the hedge stared hard at Penny. In an undertone, he asked her, "Have you seen Malcolm?"

"I thought he'd gone out playing with you, Eddie."

"Clever stuff!" Martin laughed when they were clear of Eddie.

"Yes, very. I ought to have been a secret agent. I wonder if there'll be a row about Eddie cheating, because I'm sure Malcolm heard me even if he didn't hear him."

"Yes – yes – asking somebody is cheating." And, at Eveley Park and Ward, cheating had often been good cause for a boy to wrestle someone down and kneel on his chest. Suspense, excitement, unease shot through Martin – a troubled tangle of feelings. He looked back. Eddie was standing where they had left him, still deliberating, presumably. Penny chattered about being put off the game for life after hiding in a clump of what turned out to be nettles. Martin looked back again. Eddie had just found Malcolm, and gave a cry of triumph. Malcolm gave a mock groan, and then a carefree laugh. They started the race to the den which would determine who would be "it" next. Penny looked back. Martin said, "He found him after all."

"Yes. I didn't think he'd be fooled for long."

Martin was relieved, but shaken. He thought,It's still there, all that. Malcolm wasn't the type of boy who'd inflame it, but it was still there...

They had walked to the top of the hill. "Shall we have a seat here, Martin, and enjoy the view?"

"Yes, good idea."...But he'd been told that it couldn't vanish overnight. The key to it all was his rapport with Penny. As that built up, the other thing... surely... would recede.

The view from the bench included Malcolm, who must have lost the race, because his hands were over his eyes and propped against a tree. Eddie was invisible. Penny said, "If he comes and asks if we've seen Eddie, I'll scream!"

Martin, who now felt much better, laughed. "Perhaps we should have gone somewhere else. Penny, I don't want you to think that I'm truanting away from the typing lessons as soon as they've begun, but something's cropped up for next Saturday which I can't easily change the timing of." He told her of the "very-ex-girlfriend" who now lived in Bristol, engaged to a vicar there.

"Oh, that's all right. It sounds like a very nice occasion – and much less drudgery than typing! Never mind, I'll save the drudgery up for you. So in spite of her being 'very ex', as you put it, you've kept in touch, it's been possible to keep the friendship up?"

"Yes, in a way. Well, it wasn't really kept up. We lost touch completely for four years. We haven't seen each other since we were sixteen. That happened – I suppose it was rather unusual really –"

"I hadn't meant to be nosey, Martin."

"No, that's all right, I know that. Anyway – well – there's nothing very hush-hush about it. I wrote to her on impulse. It was while I was in the hospital. I didn't know that she'd left Edinburgh, but the letter was forwarded. I wouldn't have been surprised if I'd got no reply – or a pretty cool reply. But I got a very nice letter back – her name's Rosalind – but it included the news that she'd got engaged. And she left it to me whether I wanted to renew the friendship, but on a different basis."

"H–mm. So you did that, then. An interesting story. Something rather sad, but it had – well, not exactly a happy ending, but – how can I put it? –"

"It was a happy ending in its way."

"Yes, I think I can see what you mean."

It struck him that she couldn't fully see what he meant without further explanation.

"And... well... yes." Actually, it ties in with what we were talking about at the De Luxe – about seeing oneself in the worst possible light. I'd come to a point in the treatment where I'd been helped to stop doing that. And that included the way I thought about what had happened with Rosalind. Well, it was a major part of it really. We'd split up in – well, pretty damned miserable circumstances. It wasn't just the usual schoolboy-schoolgirl sort of thing. And – oh, I don't need to go into the whole story. The details don't matter – not in this context. But I was able to look back at it all without thinking the worst of myself. And that made me able to write to her. It turned out that she'd been thinking rather harshly of herself over what had happened, and she was glad that I did write. So that's it, that's how it came about. I thought you might be interested, after what we were talking about."

"Yes. Thanks for telling me. There's someone I lost touch with – not an ex-boyfriend exactly. I hadn't thought to tell you about Steve, but as you've told me about Rosalind – he was active in politics, quite a seasoned campaigner, though only in his late twenties. He could be quite inspiring politically. After those failures of mine, I saw him as someone to emulate and learn from, someone who might be a steadying influence. So we came to have something of a mentor and disciple relationship. It turned out that he rather enjoyed mentor and disciple relationships with women. He seemed to think it gave him the right to make advances. I was made to feel an oddity when I objected. He'd say uncomprehendingly, 'I'm a red-blooded man, you're a red-blooded woman, aren't you?' Well, I could have wished for a friendship based on something more than having the same colour of blood and the same colour of politics. And, anyway, I wasn't the only one and I don't suppose I was high up on the list. I can't imagine him writing a letter of reconciliation. And if he did, I don't think I would trust him."

"I can see that. What a nasty time for you, Penny!"

"Well – the disillusion was the worst part of it really."

They heard a yell from Malcolm to the again invisible Eddie. It was accompanied by a thumbs-down signal. Eddie climbed out of a tree – his harbourage while Malcolm had been roaming the valley. The game ended, Eddie parting from Malcolm, who waved to Penny and Martin and shouted something they couldn't make out from so far. Penny put a hand behind her ear. Malcolm traced the shape of a huge T in the air, then tapped a finger on the back of his outstretched wrist. "Teatime!" said Penny. "He's right, you know, and we're late." They ran down the hill. "I'm hungry even if you're not!" he greeted them. "I'll show you the dolls after tea if you like, Martin?"

"Yes, I would like. I've been looking forward to it."

"You can't see them properly in the drawers. I'll get some out on the bed and do a display for you."

### 52 The Dolls

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Malcolm hurried his tea, saying he would need a bit of time to put the display together and he would give Martin a shout when it was ready. It turned out to be a somewhat extended bit of time, allowing the adults quite a chat after tea, but at last Malcolm called from the top of the stair, "All right, Martin. It's ready now."

Martin immediately saw why it had taken so long. The counterpane of the bed had become a thronging doll world. Malcolm had created this effect by pairing and grouping dolls, though a few single figures had been placed to add variety. As Martin made for the bed, Malcolm touched his arm, saying, "It looks better not close up. You can touch them afterwards if you like." Martin halted. He could almost believe that dolls were walking together, talking together. There was a group huddled like conspirators; a doll wielding a cricket-bat; one with a flute to its mouth. As Quentin had indicated, all sorts of auxiliary objects were part of the handiwork.

"That's a really clever display," said Martin. "You're very artistic, you know, Malcolm."

Malcolm smiled. He looked pleased, but not puffed up. "It's not so clever close up. If you come over, you'll see what I mean."

Martin, moving to the bed, noticed that a good many dolls remained in the open drawer. The boy had achieved the crowd-scene using relatively few of them. "Yes, I do see what you mean. The pairing and grouping don't work so well close up."

"No. And you can see how fake some of it is – that bat's just a few matchsticks glued together. He wouldn't score many runs with that!"

"Well – but it's wonderful the way you get it all shaped with shells and bits and pieces. You're certainly clever with your hands." Malcolm smiled as he had before. "Yes, kind of. Well, nimble more than clever, really. Some of it's very fiddly sort of work. If you weren't really keen about it, you'd get bored, or you'd get impatient and give up. What I like about it is, you get all these shells, and pebbles, and odds-and-ends, and scraps, and" (with a laugh) "old rubbish, and then, eventually, you get something made out of it, and it's not rubbish any more – it's all this."

The simple joy in those words, along with the beauty of "all this," moved Martin deeply. He looked from the dolls to Malcolm and nodded his understanding. The boy's hands had come to rest over the bed-rail, they were slender, with slim, delicate fingers, and they had become browned in the sun. So, too, had his knees and legs. Martin could picture him rummaging about on Portobello beach, picking up that tan as he picked up his materials.

"Which doll do you like best, Martin?"

"Well, it's hard to single one out. I like them all. But this one here's particularly ingenious – the minister in the pulpit. How did you put that one together?"

"The pulpit's a cardboard sweets tube cut down to miniature, and I put brown paper over it to hide what was left of the writing on it. Then I used black tissue-paper with a white crayon mark at the top for the front and the clergyman's collar. And that gave me a minister doll! Would you like to have it?"

"Oh – that's very kind of you, but – well, maybe it's one you shouldn't be in too much of a hurry to give away, because it is quite ingenious and quite a striking figure. So it's worth keeping for – well – in case you ever wanted to exhibit your dolls, say."

"Oh, but they're not for exhibiting. It's all just a sort of collection. I give a few away to friends and I've put some in as raffle prizes. Not in your raffle – they only wanted posh prizes in that! So you can have it. And you don't need to win a raffle for it!"

"But some day you may think of exhibiting them, and it would be a shame not to have that one."

"No, I won't be exhibiting them. How do you exhibit things, anyway? A boy couldn't just go down to the art gallery or somewhere and say "I want to exhibit something," could he?"

"No, I don't suppose he could. I wasn't particularly thinking of art galleries, though, but – well – maybe something put on in the neighbourhood, in a church hall or somewhere. You see, a display like that is good enough to charge admission for. If you were to say to me 'That'll be five bob, please, Martin', I'd consider it well worth the money. So you could do it in aid of the handicapped children, for example."

There was quite a silence. Malcolm looked tense. He said slowly, "Yes, it would be a good way to make money." He stepped close up to Martin and put a hand on his arm. "It'd be difficult for a boy to do that, though, wouldn't it, Martin? If it was a girl –" He looked down at the dolls. "You know, Martin?"

"You mean people being nasty about a boy making dolls?"

"Well, yes. Some people are."

"But that's only stupid people, Malcolm. You've made beautiful things there. I've got a lot of pleasure from looking at them. I know Helen and Quentin and Penny have, too. I think most people would. It's stupid to be against a boy – or a girl – doing something they like and are good at, just because of their sex. I'd say the same about a girl who had a talent for woodwork, say. Don't let stupid people or stupid ideas stop you from giving what you've got it in you to give. Preaching you a sermon! Well – perhaps that's what the minister you've made would be saying if he had a voice. I really do think you should exhibit your work."

"I see what you mean. I'd be stupid not to. If I did exhibit them, would you be there?"

"Of course I would."

"If you're there, I'll not worry over what people say."

"Well, it shouldn't depend on me being there. I will be, of course, but –" Martin cast around for some way of not sounding like Ted.

"It won't depend on it. Not really. But if you are – you know."

This eloquent vagueness made Martin smile. "It would make it easier?"

Malcolm smiled back and said, "Well, sort of."

"OK then. I'll see what I can do. By the way, what made you put so much effort into creating a minister?" Martin had been wondering about that choice of subject from a boy presumably brought up to be an atheistic Communist.

"A minister did!" laughed Malcolm. "The one he's based on. Sometimes his sermons are good and sometimes they're boring. Once, I just couldn't keep my mind on it and I started thinking about dolls and that gave me the idea."

"You go to church regularly, then?"

"No, I don't go regularly. I sometimes go with Quentin. He goes nearly every Sunday. Helen and Penny never go, because – oh, did Penny tell you about it?"

"No, she didn't. We haven't talked about religion. Well – she did tell me you were Communists, and I'd thought most Communists were atheists, so I assumed you all would be."

"Oh no, not all of us. Most Communists are, but there's some who aren't. Quentin's a Christian, Helen's an atheist, and Penny and I haven't made up our minds. I'd like to find out more about it, but Penny says it doesn't matter whether there's a god or not, what matters is what you do and how you treat other people. What do you think, Martin?"

It took him a moment to muster any thoughts at all. "Well, I can see what Penny means. The real test of people is what they do. I think there's a God and that He can help in how people treat one another. I believe He works through us, though I wouldn't say that belief in god is essential, because there are obviously non-believers who do a lot of good. But I don't know that I'd say it doesn't matter. Oh dear – that sounds like neither one thing nor the other! It's something I need to do more thinking about."

"That makes two of us, then! I'd better get the dolls cleared up. We'll be having supper soon."

"Do you want a hand with clearing them up?"

"Oh, right, thanks. If you pass them over, I'll put them away. You can pick up a small handful at a time, they won't break." Malcolm knelt by the drawers. "Oh, is there any doll you would like, as you don't want to take the minister one? Oh, one I forgot, left it in the drawer! This one's supposed to be Penny." He took the dolls Martin had carried over, and placed "Penny" in Martin's hand. "It's not come out very like her, but you can have it if you want. I'm going to try and do a better one to give to her. Tell you what – I'll try and do a better one for you, too, but you can have this to be going on with."

Blushing to be regarded as the obvious possessor of images of Penny, Martin said, "Oh – well – thanks very much," which seemed not enthusiastic enough, so he added, "Yes, I'd love to have it," which seemed an unfortunate choice of verb.

"Yeah, I thought you would. Now – something to wrap it in – in that cupboard." Malcolm jerked himself round and upwards, his head knocked into Martin's thigh. "Sorry." He rummaged in the cupboard and produced some wrapping-paper. From the stamps and writing on it, it had once been a parcel for him. "Should have a pen – somewhere – oh yes." He found one on the bedside table, scored out the writing, and wrote something else. "Now if you'll give me it, I'll wrap it. Wrap her." He smiled happily and presented it to Martin. He had written in a neat, firm hand:

"To Martin

from Malcolm."

"Thanks very much indeed, Malcolm."

"Thanks for the exhibition idea – and all that. Oh, Martin, would you mind not telling Penny that the doll is her, because she'd wonder why she'd never seen it, which is because I was waiting till I'd done a better one. Could you just say you got a girl doll?"

"Yes, certainly. It could be embarrassing, couldn't it?" (For me, too! he was thinking.)

As they resumed putting dolls away, Malcolm asked, "How did you get on at your typing lesson?"

"Not too bad. Penny thought I'd made a good start."

"She was saying you want to learn because you write stories."

"Yes, I do. They need to be typed if they're being sent to magazines."

"I know, 'cos Quentin types what he writes." A little hesitantly, Malcolm said, "Do you think I could see some of them sometime?"

"Well – yes – if you like. I brought one or two for Penny to type, so you could be the first after her to see them in a presentable state!" They weren't likely to appeal to a twelve-year-old, Martin thought, but nor were they manifestly unsuitable. "You won't enjoy them nearly as much as I enjoyed your dolls."

Malcolm seemed to weigh this up before replying, "I might. I won't know till I see them. And then I'll tell you."

As soon as they got downstairs, Malcolm asked Quentin what you had to do if you wanted to get the church hall to exhibit dolls in. It was described as "Martin's great idea."

"It was Penny's idea originally," Martin corrected him. "It kind of came up in the conversation on Thursday – after I'd first seen the dolls."

"I may have thought of it," said Penny, "but I don't think I could have put it over to you as effectively as Martin obviously has."

"The credit can be shared," said Helen. "And you should take some, too, Malcolm, for feeling able to act on the idea. That's a big step forward."

Over supper, Martin mentioned that he wouldn't be free to come next Saturday, due to an old friend's flying visit to Edinburgh. He was startled to see how disappointed Malcolm looked. "It's just that one Saturday, it's unavoidable. But, after that, I'll be keeping Saturdays clear if I possibly can."

Malcolm seemed to cheer up instantly.

### 53 Seeing Rosalind

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Martin arrived twenty minutes early, wanting to stray through the bookshop, peep inside the coffee lounge, before Rosalind came. The coffee lounge had been modernised beyond recognition. No table lamps now, the cosy, dowdy armchairs all gone, too. It was all strip-lighting, black-tiled tables, and chairs of steel and synthetic leather. The counter where he had first seen Rosalind had been superseded by a shiny self-service fixture, uncluttered by the three high stools of yore. The little pantry that had been Rosalind's domain had been refurbished away. All the same, standing at the door where he he'd stood that time, he felt the past reach out for him, as if he would surely hear a friendly, cheerful voice calling, "Can I help you, sir?"

"Martin!"

He spun round. She had stopped on the stairs from the bookshop, was peering down at him. She had spoken his name as a startled exclamation.

"Rosalind!"

She ran down to him, took his outstretched hand in both of hers. "It's lovely to see you again, Martin."

"Lovely to see you, Rosalind. I came a bit early. Thought I'd look round the place a bit first."

"So did I!" she laughed, and squeezed his hand before releasing it. "And seeing you, right there at that door, where I very first saw you – it was a strange feeling."

"I had a strange feeling. As if your voice, from in there, would call, 'can I help you, sir?'."

She didn't seem as tall as he remembered her, nor sturdy, particularly, but otherwise she was not much different. Her hair, once untidy beneath a waitress's cap, now straggled rebelliously from the constraints of her white summer bonnet.

"Shall we go in?" he said. "It's changed – changed completely."

"Yes, it has. That's a pity. Well – maybe it isn't really. If it were just as it was, it could be – overpowering, perhaps?"

"Yes; I see what you mean." But she seemed overpowered, anyway. He wasn't sure how to handle it – they'd got inside, it was a bit late to suggest going anywhere else. He tried humour. "We couldn't have a pot of coffee now even if we wanted to. It's only cups mentioned up there," pointing to the white lettering which had replaced the little blackboard. "I won't try pleading for the rules to be bent this time!"

She smiled and seemed to have composed herself. "But they still have pots of tea. Shall we get that, Martin?"

"Yes. And they still have sickeningly scrumptious cakes. Shall we indulge ourselves, now that we've come up in the world?"

"Why not? But they're gateaux, you know. You're not in the Bread Street Co-op now."

With their tea and gateaux, they hovered over, then possessed, a corner table being vacated. "They have transformed the place, haven't they?" she said. "I don't know if they've improved it. Mind you, it was a bit snobby. I don't suppose they get the cream of Edinburgh society now!"

"Oh yes they do! That's what I am – remember?"

She laughed, "Oh, but of course!", but suddenly she looked pensive. "We're making the same jokes, just as if nothing has happened in between."

"Well – yes – but then, what's happened in between hasn't been all bad, has it?"

"No. No, you're right, it hasn't, of course." But she still looked pensive. Then she forked a fragment of cake with a decisive movement and dipped it in a blob of jam. "Well now, let's get down to business. I understand you're looking for a typist to type the things your regular typist mustn't see. I was thinking of applying for the job."

"Oh, please don't rub that in! My life's most embarrassing moment, I should think."

"Only you could get into such a situation! Supposing you'd been called to the phone or something, and she'd glided by your desk and seen it?"

"Well, Penny's not in the habit of gliding by people's desks."

"Ah, so her name's Penny. Taken you long enough to tell me! Am I to be allowed to learn a little more about her? Female curiosity, of course, but also – well – do you mind if I take a sort of sisterly interest? You never had a sister, did you?"

"No. That's one thing I was spared."

"Cheeky! Shows you needed a sister! But – well – can I apply for that job?"

"No need to apply, you've got it. That reminds me of something else that that'll amuse you." He explained the complication of the De Luxe and 'Could my sister and I have a table for two, please?'"

"That would have aroused suspicion instantly! Martin, I'm still waiting to hear something substantive about the young lady."

He described how helpful Penny had been on his first bewildered day at work, the concern she had shown following his clash with Bruce, leading to the evening out, their chance to get to know each other much better. Omitting Penny's problems, which he thought of as confidential, he went on to his meeting with the progressive family. And now... weekly visits for typing lessons.

"Followed by a walk with her in Braidburn Valley," Rosalind observed, "and then tea with the family, and a doll display as a special treat. You've fairly taken to Malcolm, haven't you? And he to you. That's a good sign! Are you fond of children?"

"Well – no – not as a rule, not especially. But I think most people would take to Malcolm."

"You might revise that opinion when you count up how much his raffle tickets are costing you. On the other hand, there are free typing lessons to set against that. I'm being thoroughly mercenary about it!"

"Which ill becomes a prospective lady of the manse! How are you looking forward to all that? Now it's my turn to take a brotherly interest!"

"Well, Graham warned me to think very carefully about the role I'd be taking on if I married him – a full-time job with lots of unpaid overtime. Not that he's a slave-driver, but he was talking about the expectations and demands of parishioners. So I took stock of myself as thoroughly as I could, including the question of faith and doubt. I couldn't reason or pray the doubts away, and I had to fall back on feeling. I concluded that there was enough faith for more to grow and that the hard work would keep me out of mischief!"

"That gets my brotherly approval. Not that it would stop you if it didn't! With faith and doubt, I suppose it has to come down to feeling in the end. Well – feeling and reflection."

"You've been going through that yourself, I expect. When you wrote to me just before you left hospital, you said you felt thankful that you'd been helped there, though that still left a lot of suffering unexplained. Have you had any further thoughts?"

"Well – yes – though I don't know how much they explain. I was able to help someone. It was Penny actually – she had some personal problems. It wouldn't be right to go into them, but the details don't matter for this purpose. The point is that I was able to help by drawing on some aspects of my past troubles and some of the insights I'd gained from treatment. And it seems to me that though things can go terribly wrong, it's sometimes possible, if you're responsive enough, to learn from what you've suffered and to help other people. There can be a potential for good in situations that seem hopeless, and I've come to feel that that is something to do with God. That sounds vague and woolly, I know, and there are lots of hopeless situations that don't seem to fit that. But that's how I've experienced it. My experience has been limited, but it's all I can work from."

"But you mustn't underrate it as something to work from. You've had your share of misfortunes."

There was silence for a few moments – it seemed to come naturally, nothing awkward about it. Then she said, "There's something I've just decided to tell you. I came out not knowing whether I would or not. I don't know what you'll think, but here goes. Do you remember, when we were at Portobello, we had a sixpenny bet on whether a distant figure walking a dog was a man or a woman?"

"I do. I lost the bet, lost the sixpence. I've never betted from that day to this."

"Do you remember I said I wouldn't spend the sixpence?"

"Yes. You don't mean a –"

I'm afraid I do!" She took a little purse out of her handbag. Out from the purse, out from schooldays, came the sixpence.

He said, as he held it, "Funny feeling."

"But a nice funny feeling?"

"Yes! You'd better have it back before I spend it on a sticky bun."

As it disappeared into the purse, she said, "It was a sad memento for a long time, but, when you wrote to me, I was glad I'd kept it. Heavens, I'm sounding like a heroine from True Romance Library!"

"Well – that's not really a fair comparison."

"I don't know what would be, then. Oh – you know what it's a bit like? Do you know an old Scots song called The Crooked Bawbee?"

"Oh yes! The man gives the girl an old penny and she keeps it and years later he comes and tests her out."

"Are we thinking of the same song?" she asked. "I don't recall any testing out."

"But that's the whole point of it, because he's prospered and she doesn't recognise him. And he flaunts his green silken wallet full of gold to lure her, but she says–" "You're right, it's coming back to me now." Sotto voce, she sang, "But the heart that beats true 'neath this auld worsted plaidie/Is pledged lang syne for a crooked bawbee. I'm afraid she comes out of her treasured coin story more creditably than I come out of mine."

"Not really. It's a song, after all, and songs are songs and life is life."

"1 suppose so. Mind you, though – there is one thing that that song has in common with us. It's about qualities in people that don't change, no matter what else changes. When the changes are very big – bigger than in the song – the lasting things may have to work themselves out in new ways, but they are at work, they are there, don't you think?"

"Yes, I see what you mean. It's better than rebelling against the changes and better than being overwhelmed by them."

"I suppose I ought to be making tracks for home," she said. "I'm glad we had this afternoon."

"So am I. would you like me to see you home – or would you rather not?"

"I think, you know, that it would spoil it if we contrived to spin it out. There will be more meetings – every time I come to Edinburgh. Come with me to the tram stop, though."

They had a few minutes before the tram came. "Some day," she said, "you must have a holiday with us in Bristol. Or better still – you and Penny."

"Well – it's too soon to be thinking of that. Here's the fifteen coming. All the best for the big day."

"Thanks, Martin." They kissed spontaneously. "And all the best with the typing-lessons!"

### 54 Disturbing News

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A letter was forwarded to him by a magazine which had published one of his stories. It came on the Monday after his tea with Rosalind.

He recognised the writing on the envelope, even though it had been ages... no, it hadn't really, only about three years. The magazine was the only address Miss Shand could have been aware of.

She congratulated him, said she had been delighted to see him in print. She asked:

What exciting things have you been doing besides writing – (and disappearing!)? I'm afraid there is nothing exciting to communicate from here. I've not been in the best of health – old age and all that. I really am an old crock now! I'm having to go into the Royal Infirmary tomorrow, and am busy with packing my belongings and suchlike chores, but I made up my mind to dash this off to you in the hope that it will reach you. With my very best wishes,

Yours sincerely,

Irene Shand

There had been some delay in re-directing the letter. She would now have been in hospital about a week. He re-read it two or three times, trying to infer how ill she was. Why had he still not written to her? In hospital, he had meant to do it as soon as he was settled in digs. And then it was going to be a must once he'd found a job. And since then? It had simply been put off. Sometimes he had been on the point of writing, but something more pressing had come up. Or something more enjoyable. He'd considered phoning or visiting, but that would have seemed so bizarre, right out of the blue.

He phoned the Royal Infirmary from work, asked how Miss Shand was, whether he could visit. The Sister said, "She is really too ill to see anyone, I'm afraid."

"Oh. Well – could you tell her that – would you give her my best wishes – oh, my name's Martin Vanskin – and say that I got her letter and that I appreciated it very much?"

"Yes, I'll certainly do that, Mr Vanskin."

A couple of days later, there was a notice of her death in The Scotsman. A short obituary appeared, because she had been highly regarded in educational and Labour Party circles.

On Friday, he got a morning's leave to attend the funeral, but felt an impostor, as belated as that in paying his respects. In this affair, he had assuredly not brought good out of what had gone badly wrong. He felt more guilty about the recent period than about the original break. At that time, perhaps he had been too neurotic to have much choice. But latterly it had been lack of effort, lack of will. Though not the easiest of letters to write, it wouldn't have been beyond him. A little of the mental effort devoted to his stories, his Esperanto and his thoughts and hopes about Penny could have been spared for her. He recalled her view about people using their gifts to help each other. It had become his view, but he now saw that gifts were of limited use if one failed to give oneself.

### 55 Innermost Problem

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As Martin seated himself by the typewriter for his second lesson, Penny said, "There's something I'd like you to see." She handed him a typed letter. It was a job application for a secretary/receptionist in the Edinburgh office of a national welfare organisation for the elderly. "I'd like your comments before I send it off. Does it sound all right?"

"I think you've put yourself over very well," he pronounced. "You've emphasised all the right points without seeming to boast. I wonder what the next typist at New Dawn will be like!"

"Hold on, Martin! I won't be the only applicant, you know. But I've made a start and I wouldn't have had the confidence only a matter of weeks ago. So your efforts weren't wasted. Whether or not I get this particular job, I've a lot to thank you for."

"Well – I'm glad – I'm very happy I was able to do that."

"You haven't done too badly with Malcolm, either. He's spoken to the Friends' Group about an exhibition. It's being looked into. We sort of sounded him out on how you managed to persuade him, and you seem to have struck just the right chord. He's really taken to the idea of exhibiting the dolls in aid of the handicapped children, because it brings together the two things he's keenest about."

"And I expect Helen and Quentin, from what you've told me, would rather have doll-making put to a good cause than done for its own sake?"

"Well, yes, but I wouldn't say they were against doll-making done for its own sake, though I suppose there would have been problems if it had left him with no time over for good causes. He seems to have avoided the kind of troubles I had. He does get roped in for things like mailing out circulars, but – it's rather amusing really – he ropes them in for his charities. Can they take a few books of raffle-tickets to meetings, for example – can they help out at a bazaar? He's even brought circulars for them to stuff into envelopes! So there's a sort of tacit understanding. The more they rope him in, the more liable they become."

"Attack is the best form of defence!"

"Oh, I doubt if he worked it out as a strategy, but, having chanced upon it, he's used it. Yes – rather like the way some folk find they can escape work by setting the teacher off the subject! Shall we just see if you can remember where the home keys are?"

"Hey, that's not fair, Penny – the teacher got herself off the subject!"

"But the pupil kept her off it longer than she intended, and ought not to be contradicting her, anyway."

"Are you sure it was the Steiner School you went to?"

They again found Malcolm and Eddie in the valley, this time with two other boys. They were kicking a ball about. "Hi, Martin," said Malcolm. "Are you going to stay for tea again?"

"Yes."

"See you later, then."

Penny got a polite "Hallo" and Martin a polite nod from the boys he hadn't met. From Eddie, Penny got a stare and Martin got, "You were here before. Are you Penny's boyfriend?"

She expostulated, "Eddie, don't be so nosey! You shouldn't ask people personal questions."

"That's right," said Malcolm. "You shouldn't. It's not polite."

"I only asked if – ach, I know he is, anyway. If he comes once and he comes again and he stays for tea, that's the reason. Couldn't be any other reason."

"Oh yes there could!" Malcolm gleefully caught him up, "And there is. Martin's learning how to type and Penny's teaching him." Even the two good-mannered boys laughed at this. "Huh!" went Eddie. "Are you having me on? Men don't type. Only women type. You're not learning how to type, are you?"

"Well, yes, as a matter of fact I am." Martin addressed all three of Malcolm's pals in the hope of avoiding a slanging-match. "It's true that very few men type, but there are some who need it for their work. People who write things for newspapers or magazines, for example. That's not my main work, but I do it as a hobby. And so I need to know how to type."

"Yes, that's quite right," declared Malcolm, "'cos Quentin does that, and he types."

"Who," asked Eddie, "is Quentin?"

"My father! I told you he writes –"

"You didn't tell me his name. You don't call him that, do you?"

"Oh – yes, I do actually. We do that – call our parents by their first names. Don't we, Penny?"

"Yes, we do. They want us to. They prefer it that way."

"You're just saying that 'cos he's your brother! OK, Malcolm, I'll give you a bet on it! I bet you – one shilling – that, if I come with you to the house, you won't call them by their first names or if you do, they'll box your ears. And no slipping away to warn them beforehand! Come on, let's go now, if you dare!"

"Well – if you like. But you'd only lose your money. Honest."

"You're trying to get out of it now!"

"No I'm not – we can go if you like – but it'd just be silly. Hey, I know – Martin could tell you, if you won't believe Penny, couldn't you, Martin?"

"Yes, I could. It's perfectly true, Eddie. Both Malcolm and Penny call them by their first names. Heard it with my own ears!"

"And so have I!" cried one of the boys. I've been at the house. I was surprised, but it's true. It's unusual, but – well, that's what they do. No harm, really."

Eddie, groaning, turned to the second boy. "I suppose you'll be telling me that you've been there; and heard it?"

"No, I haven't. But it doesn't make any difference, 'cos you've lost your bet. No need to go to the house – there's three folk can all bear him out – all right, not counting Penny as she's his sister – but that still leaves two, this gentleman and Donald. So you've got to give Malcolm a shilling."

"Yes," said Donald, "pay up."

The shilling was sulkily produced. Malcolm said, "Oh, it doesn't matter about that. It wasn't really a bet. I didn't say I would take it on." But the other boys, thoroughly enjoying Eddie's discomfiture, would have none of this "Malcolm, you're daft not to take it!"

"Well – all right, then. Tell you what, it can go to the handicapped children. Oh – a shilling – you can have a raffle ticket for that if you like."

"Oh no!" A slight smile came through Eddie's glower. "Not the raffle tickets again! I've told you I don't want your raffle tickets."

"Yes, but you've given your shilling now, anyway. You could win –"

"I don't want one! My mum says there's no need for these raffles, anyway, because they get everything free on the National Health."

"No they don't. All they get free is doctors –"

"My mum says they do! What a family! Raffles for kids who get everything free! Parents called by their first names. Men typing! I don't know!"

Donald said, "I don't know why we're not playing football," and Penny and Martin made their escape.

They took a walk and then found themselves by the bench where they had sat last time. The boys were playing at the foot of the hill, directly below them. "Shall we sit here again," asked Penny, "or would you sooner be out of sight of Eddie?"

He weighed things up and said, "Oh, I don't think he'll bother us. He won't want to be ganged up on again." He'd been pondering a more likely source of bother – how he'd feel if any wrestling or horseplay broke out. He decided he should be able to weather that now, to give all his attention to Penny. He was worlds better than when he'd last talked to a group of boys in a park.

He asked, "Do Helen and Quentin know that you're looking for a change of job?"

"Yes, they do. They very much approve, of course. I've shot right up in their estimation! Not that they've said that in so many words, but the whole atmosphere's improved. Well, part of that is within me. You worked wonders on my self-image, you know! I'd never thought of talking to anyone about those troubles. I'd just taken my supposed deficiencies for granted. Getting an outside view transformed the situation. So that's something else to thank you for."

"I can't claim all the credit. I –" He saw that if he brought God into it, he might sound preachy. "1 couldn't have done it without my own experience of getting an outside view – from my psychiatrist when I at last went for treatment. He got me questioning what I had never thought to question. Only with me," he laughed, "it took a lot longer. I was a slower learner!"

Though she smiled, the looked thoughtful. "It must have been a lot more severe for you, though, if treatment was necessary?"

"Well, yes, it was pretty severe." He was thinking, "More severe than I can very well tell you." He said, "I was lucky to have such a good psychiatrist – Dr Thomas. An extremely interesting person, too." But, as he went on, something was niggling at him, something that didn't feel right. Though she had confided her innermost problems, what he had confided to her had stopped far short of that, creating a kind of inequality in the relationship. But, of course, he couldn't speak of all that, which seemed to dispose of the matter, and the talk passed on to other things, and yet the nagging persisted. Was it really beyond speaking of? To Penny? If he explained how it fitted in to what he had already told her, she would surely understand. Recalling Miss Shand, he reckoned that this, in its own way, was another aspect of giving oneself.

So he said, "Getting back to what we were talking about before – my treatment and why it was necessary – I haven't told you much about that, have I? You must have wondered?"

"Well – yes, I have. I was bound to, I suppose. I didn't want to ask in case it was painful to talk about. But if you feel you'd like to tell me, of course I'd be interested. Only if you want to, though."

"Yes, I do. There's no good reason not to. You've told me all about your difficulties, after all. It is a rather complicated story. Well, I've already told you – would you like to walk some more?" He had suddenly felt he couldn't talk of these things while overlooking Malcolm and his friends.

"Yes," he resumed, "when we had that long talk, I spoke of the way my parents damaged my self-esteem. I kept it to my parents because of the parallel with your own situation. But they weren't the only source of damage. I got a disastrous double dose because troubles at home interacted with troubles at school. I went to a tough primary school and I got bullied a lot. I thought of myself as a weakling and a coward.

For example, a smaller boy once got me down from behind, and the humiliation I felt – I don't know if I could describe it to you – but I read much more humiliation into it than it warranted. And that kind of thing kept happening – coming off worse in some form or other of tussle, or wrestling, or horseplay. Sometimes – sometimes it involved –" There was a long pause as he considered the actual material that would have to come next. "It's difficult to explain, but I got some crazy ideas." He paused again, thinking of how they would sound crazier and crazier as he went along, weirdest of all when he came to his university days.

She said uncertainly, "If it is really painful to talk about..."

"Well – not painful exactly – it's in the past – but difficult. Well, to cut a long story short – I'd better, I don't know if I could get through it all before teatime – I grew up with all sorts of doubts about my manhood. It all came to a head when I was at university, which I should never have gone to. The strain of that made things worse. There were various complications and I realised I needed treatment. And that was the turning point, as I've explained."

"I see. You're hardly a weakling to have come through all that in the way that you have. Thanks for telling me, especially as it wasn't easy to talk about."

It left him shaken. His attempt to give himself had collapsed. But, then, it would only have been the morbid self of the past. No virtue in giving that. And no need – he was so much better now.

"Penny! Martin!" Malcolm was running to catch them up. "I've been looking all over for you! I looked up the hill and suddenly you'd disappeared. We're going to be late for tea again."

Penny said, "We're getting to depend on you for time-keeping, aren't we?"

"Yes – and it's ridiculous, 'cos you've got watches and I haven't!" In a sudden change of tone, he said, "I'm sorry about Eddie. He goes on like that because he's backward."

"Backward?" replied Penny doubtfully.

"Oh yes, definitely. He doesn't understand that he shouldn't be so nosey. And he doesn't understand when you explain things to him."

"H–mm. I don't know if I'd put it down to backwardness. Did he strike you as backward, Martin?"

"No. He struck me as – well, not as backward."

"If you knew him as well as I do," said Malcolm, "you'd see he was backward."

Martin decided against contradicting. Eddie was a disagreeable, if not downright unpleasant, boy, but Malcolm was too innocent to see.

"I've got something to give both of you when we get back!" Malcolm announced. Penny asked what, but he said, "Wait till you see it. I'm going to keep you in suspense! There's something special for you and something special for Martin."

Martin said, "I think I know what it's going to be."

### 56 Something Special

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And it was, indeed, the promised dolls. Malcolm presented them just as the meal was about to be served. Penny's doll was a big improvement over the one he hadn't wanted to show her – it was holding out a little can, as if making a collection. Martin got not just a doll of Penny, but one of himself! They formed a pair, facing each other and linked together by a tiny approximation to a typewriter, which they were holding between them. Everyone remarked on the workmanship of this piece.

Malcolm seemed surprised by the amount of praise. "The typewriter's just some black pebbles on pieces of slate. You mightn't know it was a typewriter if you didn't know about Martin's and Penny's typing lessons."

"I'll test it out on someone who doesn't know," said Martin. "My landlady or someone at the digs. But my guess is it will be recognised. I'm going to give it pride of place on my mantelpiece! I really do appreciate this, Malcolm. Thank you very much indeed."

Malcolm looked straight at him and smiled the happiest of smiles.

During the meal, the boy said, "I read your stories after Penny typed them. I liked them a lot." He asked quite perceptive questions about some of them. They had obviously caught his imagination.

After tea, he asked, "Do you play table tennis, Martin?"

"No. I'm not very good at ballgames."

"I'm not, either – most of them. But table tennis – well, table tennis is different. You can be bad at other ballgames, but all right at table tennis. I could teach you, if you like. We've got a table in the playroom."

"Playroom? You've a playroom here?" The word had Martin bewildered – the house was surely small? Or was Malcolm planning to smuggle him into the Steiner School?

Quentin said, "We have a playroom of sorts. It's a piece of improvised carpentry which I did in some panic when Helen was expecting Penny. If you look closely at that far wall, you'll see it's really a partition dividing off part of this room – which is why there's so much clutter in the rest of it."

Malcolm opened the partition and said, "Come and have a look, Martin. It's a workroom as well as a playroom – just to make it more confusing! This is where I make all the dolls, that's all the shells and stuff. The bedroom's where I keep them, but this is where I make them."

"There are limits," explained Helen, "to the mess which even we could tolerate in Malcolm's bedroom!"

Malcolm declared, "If there was no mess first, there'd be no dolls afterwards!"

His relatives went on about a time and place for everything, and Martin sensed that it was a familiar family joke.

As Martin crossed into the playroom and looked around it, Malcolm closed the partition. This shut off the light, but there were wall-lights which he switched on. His hobby seemed to have ousted most signs of play as normally understood. There were only the table tennis table – a miniature one – a large box with the parts of a model railway half-in and half-out, and a dartboard with a broken clasp lying upside-down on the floor. The dominant feature was a kitchen press which had seen better days. Beside it was a large canvas holdall which had also seen better days. Malcolm tapped it with his foot and said, "That's what I take down to Portobello beach to carry everything in. And here" (opening the press) "it all is." Methodically arranged on the shelves were jars for shells, pebbles and seaweed, and one for what he'd called "old rubbish"; also tins of paint, boxes of crayons and a big bottle of glue. Martin surveyed all this and said, "You don't have any sort of workbench, then?"

"No, I just do it on the floor."

"Would you show me? Could I see you at work?"

"Yes, sure, if you'd like to."

"I'd love to."

So, table tennis forgotten, Martin knelt beside him on the floor. "I'll show you how to make a very simple, basic doll." It was fascinating to follow the movements of those deft, slim fingers. Martin thought, He's more than just clever with his hands. He's so creative with them. And when he looked at the short trousers, the knees, there was no intrusion of morbid imagery from the past. They made him think of Malcolm's innocence.

Martin tried twice to make a doll, and both turned out a mess. "I've never been any good with my hands, I'm afraid. I was hopeless at any kind of handicrafts at school."

"I bet you were great at English?"

"Well, I don't know about great, but I did rather better there."

"I'm lucky if I can get a pass mark in an essay! Hey – we've forgotten something, haven't we?"

"Oh, yes, wasn't there something about table tennis?"

"The reason we came in!" Malcolm laughed. "We'd better leave it till next Saturday now. By the time I get all this cleared up, I won't be able to show you much before supper."

As Martin helped with the clearing up, he said, "I hear that there could be an exhibition."

"That's right! The Friends' Group's looking into it."

"Good news, that! You know, those typewriter dolls ought really to be in it. The same applies to them as to the minister one, in fact they're even  
more –"

"Oh but Martin!" All Malcolm's joy had left him. "They're not like the minister one – I made them for you – specially – I was thinking of you all the time I made them – oh, Martin, you've got to take them!"

"Oh – you thought – Malcolm, I will take them. I didn't mean I wasn't going to take them. I meant that when there's an exhibition, you should have them back for that." He put a hand on the boy's shoulder and said, "Of course I'll take them."

"Oh – yes – sorry, Martin – it was stupid of me."

"No, I didn't explain it properly. I wouldn't dream of not taking them." Martin put his arm over both of the boy's shoulders. Whether by this pressure or by Malcolm's own movement, the nearer one came to rest up against him. Martin said, "It was just a misunderstanding," and withdrew his arm.

"Yes, that's all it was. Thanks, Martin."

When they returned through the partition, Penny quipped, "I didn't hear any ping-ponging. Were you teaching him the theory first? I know we're supposed to be Marxists, but..."

Their explanations led to more teasing, more laughter. He felt more than ever like one of the family. A perfect end to a perfect day.

### 57 Embarrassing Invitation

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"And how are the typing lessons going?" Pearl or Ted would ask over Sunday lunch. Every Sunday lunch. Not that they lingered on that subject as such – it was their way in to questions about the Wilcox family and, in particular, the Wilcox daughter. "I don't much agree with their politics," Pearl had once observed, "but they do seem to be very nice people."

"Well, that's what really matters," Ted had remarked. "They sound just the right sort of people for you, Martin."

They had the whiff of romance in their nostrils, Martin recognised. It amused him, but it irked him a bit, too. Treating him like a walking Woman's Own serial! How much did they expect from week to week? He'd partly brought it on himself, of course – he shouldn't have mentioned, in discussing a film, "I saw it with Penny and she thought much the same." It was now risky to talk about films. They'd ask, "Did you see it with Penny?"

The time came when there were no more typing lessons to ask about, because he could now do his own typing. He was, he told them, in the course of typing a story on the little portable he'd bought for home practice. He hoped this achievement might steer the conversation clear of Penny, but Ted, smiling impishly, said, "So what are you going to be doing with your Saturdays, then?"

"Oh, I'll still be going there." Feeling suddenly impish himself, Martin added, "I wasn't thinking of going to football matches instead."

Ted feigned puzzlement. "Why not? You could take Penny to a football match, couldn't you?"

Pearl said, "Oh don't be silly, Ted! Penny doesn't sound as if she'd care very much for football. Martin, to slightly change the subject and make a sensible suggestion, how would you like to bring Penny here for lunch next Sunday?"

"Well – that's very kind of you – but I'd rather – I'd feel happier leaving it for a while – if you don't mind. It would be – well, awkward just at present."

"Oh," Pearl said flatly. "All right. It was just a thought."

Ted's stare showed unfeigned puzzlement.

Martin thought, "God, I've given the wrong impression!" He said, "I do want it to happen. I hope it will before long. It's just that I'd rather not ask her at this stage."

"Well," replied Pearl, "you obviously know best about that. Do you feel she'd maybe be a bit shy with strangers?"

"No, it isn't that. She's not shy. It's just that — well, she might misunderstand if I asked her to meet the family at this stage – at this stage in the relationship."

"But," said Ted, "you've been meeting hers – regularly – for the last three months or so, isn't it?"

"Well yes, but that's different – because that arose from the typing lessons."

"Well, what if it did? What makes it so different?"

"Because she didn't ask me there to meet her family. That was incidental, if you see what I mean."

"I don't know if I do. And, anyway, you're now going to be –"

"Ted," Pearl broke in, "it is really for Martin to decide. He's the best judge of it." But she didn't sound at all convinced.

The talk moved on to other things, but, walking home, Martin still felt shaken at their total failure to understand what he meant. It surprised him that such a premature invitation had been mooted at all. He did, sometimes, picture the happy occasion when Penny would meet them, but that was part of the yet-to-come stage.

### 58 More Surprises

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"How are the typing lessons doing?" asked Ewan. From him, the question was easier to take. He was himself in the writing trade and the question meant what the question said. And when Martin told him of the manuscript in the portable, the significance was properly understood. "And it's happened," Ewan went on, "at just the right time, just when you're starting to become known. Of course, you had the best possible apprenticeship – under your very first editor!"

"Yes, you were, weren't you? And in this very room." For Ewan's den still throve, with certain alterations. Gone were the piles of paper on the floor and bed. A desk and a typewriter had been installed, because he worked partly at home – he was now a reporter and, increasingly, a feature writer with The Scotsman. The heirs of the South Side Journal jottings were all on the desk, towering over the typewriter in precarious bundles.

"Tell you something that'll amuse you," said Ewan. "I was thinking of offering you typing lessons, but while I was debating whether that would be the best way for you to learn, along came Penny with what has obviously been a more satisfactory arrangement!"

Martin laughed. Unlike Pearl and Ted, Ewan didn't overdo references to her. "I'm saying nothing," Martin replied. "I don't want to be drawn into making invidious comparisons."

"I've got some news for you, talking of all that – not of invidious comparisons, but the fair sex. There's a girl I've met – at long last –"

"Oh, really? That's very nice news."

"Yes, it is, but the interesting bit is that it's someone who used to know you. Do you remember Hillary Brown, who went to Ward School with you?"

"Yes. I knew her in the school Esperanto Society." (Hadn't he once amused Ewan over the garrulous girl and her tales of a mastermind cat? Best not to remind him in these circumstances!) "How did you come to meet her and what's she doing?"

"She's a dentist's receptionist. But I didn't meet her through toothache, I met her through art. I've just recently enrolled in an evening class. So had she; we got talking, and it turned out she lives in this street. I had the car, so I offered her a lift. Funny thing is, we'd vaguely known each other by sight for years, but never spoken. We should have done, because – well, we got on together immediately. When she told me she'd gone to Ward, I asked if she'd come across you. And I'm under orders to fix up a meeting. How do you take to the idea of all four of us getting together – you and Penny, Hillary and me – and having a meal out somewhere? And, incidentally, I'd rather like to meet Penny!"

"Yes, that's a really nice idea. Shall we make it the De Luxe? Penny and I usually go there. It's where we went the very first time, so we've got a soft spot for it."

A provisional date was set, pending the girls' agreement. Martin observed, "Hillary must have dropped out of Esperanto, otherwise I'd have run into her at meetings. I think I'll give her a row for lapsing! Oh – another thing she used to be was a vegetarian. I don't suppose she's kept that up? That would have been a schoolgirl fad."

"No, you're wrong there, Martin, she's still that. It put my mum into quite a state when she came for tea, 'cos it ruled out the homemade steak-and-kidney pie she always does for special occasions!"

"Oh, what did she make, then?" Not that Martin was interested in the answer. As he was leaving, he asked, "Did you say it was only recently that you met Hillary?"

"Yes, three or four weeks ago. When the class started – three weeks, I think."

### 59 Self-Correction

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Martin walked home slowly, smoking, time scales boggling his mind. Three weeks and Hillary had met Ewan's mum... three months and it was "premature" for Penny to meet Pearl and Ted... Pearl and Ted baffled. Could it be there was something wrong in the way it was going between him and Penny? But weren't there bound to be different time-scales with different couples? Perhaps Ewan and Hillary were having a whirlwind romance, the exception to the rule. It was hard to imagine that of Ewan, though – or Hillary, from what he could recall. It struck him that their proximity, being in the same street, might explain it, inviting each other in would seem natural. But... 'special occasion'...that's how Ewan's mum had seen it. No, that was nonsense, it wasn't meant that way – when he went for tea with them, he got steak-and-kidney pie. The occasion had probably been – more or less – just a social one. But if that could happen after two or three weeks of getting on well together, was Penny really likely to mind an invitation to meet Pearl and Ted after three months of close rapport? He thought back to a conversation they had had about his relatives at one of their De Luxe sessions. That might shed some light on the question.

He had made some reference to Ted, and she had asked, "By the way – I just wondered – do Ted and Pearl know about me – the typing lessons – and all that?"

"Yes. I've told them about that."

"Have you told them," she went on quizzically, "that it's a bunch of Reds you've fallen in with?"

"No! I mean, no, not in those words. I told them what Quentin's job was, because they asked, and the family politics sort of followed on naturally. Penny, you surely know me better than to think I'd use that expression! Being a fairly deep pink myself, I just put it to them straightforwardly."

"Yes, I realise that – I'm sure you did. But – what I really meant was that they might have used the expression – and not approved of me – of the family – well, not approved generally. I know – obviously, you're your own master, but I just wondered if it was causing any frictions?"

"No, definitely not. Nothing like that at all. They are a bit cagey about communism – but they're not bigoted, not on a personal level. In fact, you'll be pleased to know they've said you sound like very nice people, in spite of your politics!"

Though she laughed, she still looked anxious. "So – there aren't any problems as far as that is concerned?"

"No, none whatever."

At the time, he had thought it a promising sign that she had wanted this clarified. She hadn't seemed totally reassured, though. Well, an invitation from the family, meeting them, would reassure her. Yes, he had misjudged this matter. He had failed to see that meeting the family ought to be the start of the cultivation stage. However, he couldn't immediately rectify the mistake, not with this other event – Ewan's invitation – in the offing. He couldn't very well press both upon her in rapid succession. That would be like saying, "Now is the time for you to meet my friends and relations."

### 60 Teasing

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As soon as she saw him, Hillary cried, "Martin, you've hardly changed at all!"

"You haven't either, Hillary."

Ewan smiled at Penny and said, "I don't know how much change they were expecting in each other. It's only been about three years, after all. You realise that the two of them are all set to reminisce about Ward School for the whole of the evening? If the worst comes to the worst, we could move to a separate table after the first hour!"

"Well, you could regret that," Penny laughed. "I might give you a lecture on Steiner education."

"Oh," said Hillary, "I've always wondered about that. I'll come and join you at the separate table!"

"That would leave me all on my own!" Martin protested. "Well, why not?" said Penny airily. "You've heard it all before!"

They settled down to a study of the menu. Martin said, "I'm afraid they don't do much that's vegetarian, Hillary. Oh, there's cauliflower cheese, I see."

"Ewan's told you about that, has he?"

"Yes, but you told me yourself, back in those days – remember?"

"Did I really? Oh yes – I would have done, I suppose. I used to chatter away about everything under the sun, didn't I?"

"Don't be polite, Martin," Ewan interposed. "'Used to' – I like that!"

It went on most enjoyably – memories of schooldays, a good deal of teasing. Then the alignment in the teasing changed from Ward School versus the rest to male versus female. Hillary, making some joke at Ewan's expense, extended it to men and appealed to Penny, "Don't you find that with Martin?" Indeed she did, Penny assured her. Martin feigned outraged astonishment. It was, he thought, turning out to be a delightful evening. But it soon became clear to him that the point-scoring between Ewan and Hillary was shot through with a joy in each other, a tenderness, that had never been part of any teasing between him and Penny, however close their rapport had been. Ewan and Hillary looked and smiled at each other with the glow of young lovers. The teasing between himself and Penny came to sound laboured and artificial. He could tell that she was aware of the contrast, under some strain in finding things to say, awkward in saying them. Her smiles, forced by politeness, were not the kind that lit up her face. She was making the best of – a bad business? It certainly seemed she could have wished for better. Then she appeared to lose heart altogether, finding hardly anything to contribute. He, too, began to dry up. Ewan and Hillary seemed to pick up their reticence merely as a sign that teasing had been overplayed, for Ewan said, "Let's call a truce, Martin, especially as we've no chance of winning," and Hillary launched into an anecdote about the dentist she worked for.

Outwardly, the party cheer rolled on, but Martin felt he had been shamed in Penny's eyes, that she must think him an apology for a boyfriend. But why had she never given any hint or sign of wanting more from him? No, he couldn't blame her. In assuming – or feeling – what he had about the length of the cultivation stage, he had set a tone. In cramping his own style, he had cramped hers as well.

At the end of the evening, Ewan taxied them all to their homes in his car. Hillary declared, "It's been a really nice time! We'll have to do it again! I think we make a very good quartet."

"Makes us sound like musical performers!" Ewan laughed. "If you said foursome you'd avoid that connotation."

Hillary cried, "Penny, isn't it awful having writers as boyfriends? One wrong word and everything stops for an English lesson! Well, I suggest another foursome in about a month's time."

"I'm all in favour of that," said Ewan.

"Yes, good idea," said Penny with a show of enthusiasm, "if you're happy with it, Martin?"

"Yes – yes, of course, we'll have to arrange it." It'll have to be sorted out by then, he was thinking. When he said "Goodnight" to her, he tried to make it sound especially tender, but his worry was that he had left it too late, that she'd want to end a friendship so frustrating.

Entering his digs and going upstairs, he pulled himself out of this pessimism. Almost certainly she would want the relationship to continue. Yes, he had misjudged this cultivation thing, but it had been an honest misjudgement. All he had to do was say something to put it right, do something... a kiss... a touch. He felt frightened – and couldn't think why. She would want him to do that; it would be all right. But, opening the door of his room, he still felt frightened.

He put on the light and turned his eyes upon all those dolls, gifts from Malcolm, arrayed along the mantelpiece. The dolls holding the typewriter had pride of place in the centre, but all were beautiful, all specially made for him. In the variety of figures and objects, it was a small-scale reproduction of the kind of display he had seen on Malcolm's bed.

To view it to best advantage, he switched on the dimmer bed-table light and put out the main light. He moved a chair from his writing table to what he had established, by trial and error, to be the best position to view it from. He loved to sit and enjoy the dolls. There were always new nuances of beauty to be found. He made a point of viewing them when he had any sort of problem – if he had come to an impasse in something he was writing, for example. He would blank his mind to the problem and open it to whatever thoughts flowed in. And when he returned to the problem, it would somehow be less thorny, he would see a way of thinking it out.

### 61 Marc

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The first thought that flowed in was unusually prosaic – there was no more room on the mantelpiece. If Malcolm kept on giving dolls, they'd have to go into odd corners of the dressing-table, writing-table or wherever – haphazard spaces in haphazard places. The effect of the dolls as they were now was perfect. Any more, and loveliness would be lost in clutter.

There was no sign that Malcolm intended to stop giving dolls. There had been a gift on every Saturday since the presentation of the typewriter ones. Martin had at first thought it an eruption of schoolboy enthusiasm, not likely to be kept up. But he had had to conclude that, through his encouragement of the doll-making, he had become specially significant to Malcolm.

How was he to tell the boy that he didn't want any more dolls, tell him without hurting him? Well, it was a case of pointing out that the dolls on the mantelpiece formed a complete display, a work of art in their own right. He'd ask him to imagine oh, a landscape painting, say; and then to imagine the artist being foolish enough to keep going back to it, doing some extra trees here, a hedge there, a cow in a corner. Or Wordsworth going beyond the last verse of "Daffodils" to say that, next day, he'd gone back and plucked a bunch to put in a vase. Yes, an artistic boy like Malcolm, who also had a sense of humour, would appreciate that.

It would be lovely to ask him to come and see for himself. But that might seem odd to the rest of the family, even though there was no reason why it should. Well, what about inviting both Malcolm and Penny? It could happen when the dolls were loaned back for the exhibition. Martin had insisted that this arrangement should extend to all of them, not just the typewriter ones. The Friends' Group had been taking ages to organise the event, but it now seemed to be coming together.

He had put forward the loan-back plan in the playroom, in a break between table tennis games. That was the place – the only place normally – where they could... well, have a real conversation. Malcolm had replied, "Well – yes, if you like, Martin. I didn't really make them for the exhibition, though. And there's masses of other dolls to use for that."

"Yes, but you'll have a lot of space to fill in the church hall, remember. And, you know, they're far too good for only one person ever to see. I love having them, but I don't want to be like a miser, keeping all the beauty to himself!" And Malcolm had smiled the especially happy smile that always came when Martin praised the dolls.

Martin often pictured that smile. In some ways, it reminded him of how some other boys smiled when they won fights or wrestles. There was the same radiance, but none of the hardness.

From all he had observed of Malcolm, he had no place for the sort of triumph which depended on someone else's humiliation. Triumph, for him, came from using his hands to turn shells and seaweed and 'old rubbish' into things of beauty, and then having someone to share that beauty with.

Martin recalled a question put to him by Helen one evening after Malcolm had gone to bed. "How do you feel about getting dolls in such abundance? If you find it a bit embarrassing, we could have a quiet word with him."

"Well, no, I can't say I do. They actually do a lot to improve my room. A room in digs isn't usually very much to come home to, but they make it something to come home to." This was before the limitations of the mantelpiece had become apparent! The only embarrassment, at that time, was that he was giving nothing in return. There was no sign that the kid expected this... but that wasn't the point.

Martin had been aware that only one kind of gift would be real reciprocation – his own writing, a story or a poem written specially for Malcolm. Preferably not just one – a serial story, perhaps? But he had never attempted to write for children, it had never interested him. He wouldn't know how to set about it, let alone keep it up. Then, sitting looking at the dolls – just as he was now – he had seen the answer: the adventures of a doll-making boy.

"A story about me!" Malcolm had exclaimed on reading that heading to the first of the stories.

"Well – I wouldn't jump to conclusions!" Martin had laughed.

Reaching the bottom of the first page, Malcolm said, "No, he's not the same as me." Marc was a shy and lonely boy who had no friends. His schoolmates were mad on football and fighting. They tormented him. His parents could have been taken for Helen and Quentin, but, again, not beyond the first page. They supported lots of good causes and were on all sorts of committees. It become obvious, however, that Marc wouldn't have dared call them by their first names. If he talked to them when they were busy, he'd be told to go out and play with his friends.

Several equally unhelpful characters appeared in the ensuing stories: a fault-finding-with-the-best-of-intentions big brother; a nasty, stuck-up neighbour; and assorted horrors of teachers (usually of maths). The only helpful characters were the dolls. Marc would make a display on top of his bed and wish that he, too, could dwell in the doll world. He wished so fervently that various dolls, from time to time, came to life. Between them, they had a great range of skills which could be drawn upon to thwart the hostile forces in whose midst Marc had to live.

Martin enjoyed listening to Malcolm's comments on the stories, in the playroom. He'd made only one criticism, which came as he read the first one. "You've spelt 'Mark' wrong. It's spelt with a K."

"It usually is, but it doesn't have to be."

More recently, Malcolm had said, "Marc sounds real, even though the things that happen to him aren't. Is he you as a boy, except for the dolls?"

"Yes. I didn't intend it, but it turned out that way. You see, the basic idea was the dolls coming to life and helping the boy out of scrapes. And when I tried to think up some scrapes, I thought of my own childhood and used a bit of that, mixed in with a generous dose of fiction!"

"So –" Malcolm smiled – "Marc is both of us really?"

"Yes, I suppose you could say that."

"Is that why you spelt it that way – to get a bit of both our names?"

"Well, the name came into my head as soon as I'd settled on that way of working. I could see it was rather silly, but I just carried on with it."

"It's not silly. It's a good name." Lowering his voice, Malcolm went on, "His parents – are they partly Helen and Quentin and partly yours as well?"

"In a way, but that's more of a jumble and the result's a good deal more fictitious. That often happens in fiction, I suppose – drawing on real people, but jumbling them up."

"I wonder," the boy said slightly mischievously, "what Helen and Quentin would think of the jumble if they read it! Do you think they'd be annoyed?"

"Oh, I doubt it, because they'd probably realise that it's not meant to be them. So you can safely let them see it if you like."

"Well, I might, but – oh, I think I'd rather keep the stories as something that"s between us. Oh – another thing I meant to ask you – why haven't you put Penny into the stories? You've given Marc a brother, but not a sister."

"Well, that was because there was no way to use her in these stories, no way to fit her into Marc's world."

Thinking of Penny broke the reverie, recalled him to the problem. Time for a fresh look at it. Hadn't he been getting into a panic about nothing? Nearly everything had worked out so far. How did he come to have these dolls, after all? Because he was a regular visitor there. And that was because of what he meant to Penny. The dolls were also a symbol of the vast improvement he had made. He was now capable of a perfectly healthy friendship with a boy.

So – on Saturday, he must tell her that he loved her. With no more typing lessons, they could now go on longer walks. He tried to picture the scene. She would be overjoyed. And he wondered what he would feel, because there was one... no, not problem necessarily, but one uncertainty. Given his particular history, perhaps it was only to be expected. There was still only limited sexual excitement about Penny. His efforts to masturbate about her never reached a climax. But there was intense excitement if ever he saw kids wrestling, though these occasions were infrequent – he avoided places where be would be likely to see it.

Dr Thomas had certainly been reassuring about his progress, had, indeed, discharged him from outpatient treatment, though he was to feel free to go back should he need further help. "These old stimuli may never completely disappear," the doctor had said, "nor can they be replaced by adult heterosexual ones as effortlessly as putting on a new coat. The important thing is that they're not dominant, you're not encouraging them: all your energy is directed towards Penny."

Martin now reminded himself that Penny didn't exactly leave him cold. There was some sexual excitement. Wasn't this sure to be increased by Saturday's developments... once they had touched, caressed, kissed... And, yet again, he felt unaccountably frightened. Though he had been about to go to bed, he went back to sit in the chair, look at the dolls, and let thoughts of Malcolm flow in.

### 62 Vocational Guide

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At the office next day, Martin could tell that Penny had something on her mind. His anxiety over whether she would want to continue their friendship returned. Towards lunchtime, she suddenly turned from checking a booking chart and said to him, "I was just wondering whether we could go over to the park with our sandwiches? There's something I'd like your advice about, your opinion."

Bruce cracked a joke about not understanding how Martin's advice or opinion, on any subject whatever, could be preferred to his. Morag said, "If you're going out, could you get some stamps?" She gave Martin some petty cash. "Fifty should keep us going."

"Just like them!" Penny said as they set off. "Sorry to drag you off like this – I could have left it till Saturday, but it's something that's been preying on my mind since Monday and I'd like to talk to you about it." (He thought, So it's not about last night.) "It's about my job-hunting progress – or lack of it." She told of her latest application. It followed the pattern he had heard about a number of times – she had achieved an interview, been seriously considered, but not selected.

"It's getting you down a bit, isn't it?" he said, as they found a bench in a quiet area of the park. "I was thinking, you know, that one possibility might be social work – like mother, like daughter, but not necessarily Child Guidance. I should think you've got the right temperament for that kind of work."

"Well, the trouble is it's often in the sort of over-regulated organisation which I have the wrong temperament for – remembering my nursing experience. The fact is –" She paused, frowned and, clearly under some strain, went on, "Most of the kind of jobs I'd like aren't in Edinburgh – or Glasgow, for that matter, or anywhere within easy travelling distance. They're in London. And – well – that makes things – obviously – more complex. But – what I've done – tentatively – is follow up a vacancy – it's for a secretary to a progressive publisher – that was advertised in Monday's Daily Worker. I sent –" She broke off as her eyes met his and she looked at him intently. He could make no pretence at composure. He felt panic and desolation. "Martin, it is only tentative." She pressed her hand upon his. "I haven't decided anything. Going to London would be a very big decision, not just about jobs. I don't want to part from you. Whether I'm in London or Edinburgh or anywhere, I want to be with you. And I think – I don't need to ask, I can see – you feel the same way, don't you?"

"Yes, I do." He couldn't add to that, any more than a nearly-drowned man could manage a speech of thanks to his rescuer.

"I love you, Martin."

"I love you, too."

When they embraced and kissed, he was surprised at how tightly she held him. Though she was slightly built, obviously not strong, it felt like physical strength. Felt exciting. They set off back for the office, engaged to be married. "You know, Martin, I was – it sounds rather cruel, but I felt so relieved when I saw how upset you were. I broke the London problem to you so clumsily! I didn't quite know how to put things to you. But – well, we seem to have muddled through."

"Yes. I hadn't helped you very much, because – I'd been far too slow, hadn't I?"

"A bit, maybe – I wasn't really sure about that. I tried to weigh up the situation and I weighed it up differently every time! I thought there might be reasons why you needed time to decide. The jobs question brought it to a head – I had to know whether the decisions were to be mine or ours. We've still to make them, haven't we? But we've made the big one."

"Yes. It's worked out. There's one much smaller decision, but it's very immediate. Are Morag and Bruce to be the first to know?" A light-hearted debate decided in the affirmative.

Morag greeted them, "You got the stamps, did you?"

"Oh!" Said Martin. "I forgot."

Penny put forward the extenuating circumstances. New Dawn Tours became New Dawn Carnivals from that moment on, even though Morag sent him back out for the stamps. However, she added a bottle of wine and a madeira cake to his shopping-list, having organised contributions from Bruce, Mr Douglas and herself. At the close of business, a little office party was held.

Penny told Martin that she hoped he could come home for tea with the family, it would be nice to announce it jointly.

"Yes, it would. I suppose I'd better phone my landlady and – oh, I'll tell her I've got an unexpected engagement."

### 63 Notable Occasion

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On the tram Martin harked back to the subject from which they had so interestingly digressed. "That job in London – I think you should follow the application through. If they did offer it to you, and you decided to accept, moving there wouldn't be a major problem for me. I'm hoping it won't be too long before I can work full-time on the writing. It does seem to be going that way. Ewan says I'm semi-professional already. There's no reason why I couldn't do that in London. And if it did take a while to reach that stage I could probably find a job to tide me over in a travel firm."

"Well, I wouldn't want you to give up New Dawn prematurely on account of me. But I'll see what happens with the application. It may or may not come to anything. We'll have to plan all that sort of thing together, won't we?"

"Yes. That's a happy thought!"

They exchanged happy thoughts all the way to the house. Then, the happiest of scenes within. A bit like Christmas before its time, Martin thought – wine at the office, now sherry suddenly produced here. There was no sign of Malcolm. Martin assumed he'd be upstairs, doing homework or maybe selecting dolls for the exhibition. He was surprised nobody called the boy down for the celebrations. When tea was started without him, Martin asked, "Is Malcolm out?"

"Yes," said Helen. "Thursday's his Woodcraft Folk night. He gets an early tea and dashes out. It's something he decided to join. I don't know if you've heard of the Woodcraft movement? It's –"

"Yes, I've heard a bit about it. Like the Boy Scouts but less military, isn't it?"

Quentin observed, "Less military and less boy – they have girls and boys together. More informal than the Scouts and more emphasis on co-operative games."

It was towards suppertime when Malcolm returned. When the doorbell rang, Penny said to Martin, "Do you want to let him in, give him a surprise, tell him he's about to acquire a brother?"

At first sight, the boy at the door seemed not to be Malcolm, a combined effect of the green shirt and yellow badge and of how much he had been growing lately. "Hi, Martin! I didn't know you were coming tonight."

"Neither did I!" Martin laughed. "But something special's happened. Penny and I have got engaged."

"Oh – that's GREAT, Martin! That's lovely!" As he turned from closing the door behind him, his arms shot forward and hugged Martin around the shoulders. "That'll make you my brother!" Held thus, Martin couldn't see beyond Malcolm's face and head. And he realised that the boy had grown to be just slightly taller than he.

Penny called through, "That's all very well, but are you going to congratulate your sister?"

"Yes! Of course!" He did so, adding, "I hope you'll be happy. Oh – you will be – with Martin. When's the wedding to be?"

"Steady on!" she laughed. "The engagement's only eight hours old. We haven't even spread the news very far yet. Martin's brother and sister-in-law have yet to be told – and there are your aunt and uncle in Aberdeen, aren't there? Not to mention all our relatives, scattered around the country. We're going to have a lot of notifying to do."

"You more than me! I can do mine in a couple of phone calls. I'll do that as soon as I get back to the digs."

Quentin said, "You can phone from here right now if you like."

What this did to the Wilcox phone bill Martin didn't dare think – Pearl was determined to hold a party, a chance for the two immediate families to meet. Everybody except Malcolm had a turn at the phone. The planning was complicated, because, some time during the next two weeks, Quentin would be at the Daily Worker office in London for discussions about a Soviet Union assignment. He suggested deferring the party, but Pearl prevailed on everybody to bring it forward to Saturday – the day after next! A flurry of calls between Edinburgh and Aberdeen roped in Uncle Frank and Auntie Teresa. And then it was time for a belated supper.

Supper these days was more homely, at the kitchen table, not in the sitting room. As Martin took his usual seat, between Penny and Malcolm, he impulsively glanced down at the boy's knees. Yes, they did reach a bit above his. Starting supper, Martin said, "You've fairly shot up, haven't you, Malcolm? You're taller than me now."

"Oh – well – a bit, perhaps. I've shot up too much really. I think it's what's called outgrowing your strength. And I didn't have much in the first place!"

Helen observed, "Your strength will catch up. Outgrowing your clothes is more to the point. I seem never to be away from children's outfitting departments!"

Martin thought about Malcolm's idea that he was outgrowing his strength. Hadn't felt like it in that hug! He'd been pulled up against Malcolm and held fast... but that would happen in any hug, of course... the kid hadn't become at all hefty, he had a slender build... there was nothing brawny or muscular about his knees and legs.

On Saturday, Martin went to the Wilcoxes's at his usual time. He and Penny didn't want to miss their Saturday walk, though it would have to be a short one, because Quentin would soon be driving them all to the party. "Do you fancy going to the valley?" Penny asked. "Back to our old routine, but strictly no sitting down!"

Helen said, "Malcolm's gone there with Eddie. Could you make sure he comes back with you, in case he loses track of the time?"

"It's usually him who makes sure we're on time," laughed Martin. "I bet he comes running after us!"

Entering the valley, they came upon Malcolm and Eddie trying to hold a race with little clockwork cars which kept overturning. Penny said, "Hallo, Eddie. Malcolm, you're remembering about the party? We'll need to be getting back in about twenty minutes."

"Yes, I'll be ready. Hi, Martin. Oh – forgot to tell you, Eddie – I can't stop long, 'cos we're all going out to a party."

"Party?" Eddie was obviously put out. "Who's having the party? Hey, is that why Donald and Ken aren't here? No one told me anything about a party."

Malcolm replied, "Oh, it's not anyone round here. Not anybody you know. Remember I told you Penny and Martin had got engaged? Well, it's a party for that, at Martin's brother's house. It's just our family and Martin's family. There'll be us, and Martin – well" (laughing) "it would be a kind of funny engagement party if there wasn't Martin – and Martin's brother and sister-in-law and his aunt and uncle. That's everyone, isn't it, Martin?"

Eddie interjected, "What about his mum and dad? Aren't they going to be at the party?"

"My mum and dad are dead, unfortunately."

"What they die of?"

"Eddie!" gasped Malcolm. "That's not a very nice question! And it's none of your business. I mean, I wouldn't ask Martin a thing like that, and I know him well. Sorry, Martin – he didn't mean anything."

"It's O.K. Don't worry," Martin brushed it aside. "You'll be ready –"

"I only asked what they died of! Must have died of something!"

"That's true," Martin retorted, "but it's not a piece of information you need. You'll be ready to come with us on our way back, Malcolm?"

Eddie scowled. Malcolm, with an obvious effort to make everything sound normal, said, "Yes, I'll be ready the minute you get here. I won't make you late."

As Penny and Martin moved away, Eddie said, "Oh, don't make him late! Crikey, what does she see in him?"

Martin wasn't going to look back, but had to when Eddie went, "Aaah, leggo!" Malcolm had him by the neck, trying to pull him down. Penny looked back and said, "Well, I never!" Eddie, grown much sturdier than Malcolm, shook him off and started pushing him backwards, saying, "Would you? Would you?" Martin felt the impulse to intervene in some way to protect Malcolm, but before he could decide between that and sensible adult behaviour, Malcolm somehow thrust himself behind Eddie, and the surprise return of the neck-hold and the surprise knee in his back got Eddie down on the grass. But Eddie grabbed Malcolm's legs and brought him down. "Heavens," Penny gasped, "Not a fight!" Eddie looked like getting on top in the wrestle on the ground. Then Malcolm made a sudden lunge and a sudden spring which must have caught Eddie off guard. He put his knees on Eddie's chest and pressed his hands on Eddie's wrists. Martin kept his look on Malcolm's knees. Mud on Malcolm's knees. His knees on Eddie's chest. And Malcolm's out-of-breath voice commanded, "Say you're sorry!"

Eddie was making sounds, something like giggles, something like squeals. Martin could tell that he was enjoying it, under Malcolm's knees. In between these sounds, he'd cry, "No, I won't! I won't!"

Then Malcolm simply got up – a thing Martin had never seen happen in any comparable situation.

Malcolm's voice was angry, choked, almost tearful. "It's nothing to laugh at! I don't mean say you're sorry to me. I mean say you're sorry to Martin – and to Penny. I don't want anything more to do with you if you don't."

Eddie had got himself into a sitting position. Only now did he appear shaken. "Malcolm, it was only a joke!"

"It wasn't a joke! There's nothing funny about saying horrible things to people. And for nothing! They've never said horrible things to you, have they? What did you say things like that for?"

"Only a – didn't mean it. I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Martin. I'm sorry, Penny."

"It's all right," Penny and Martin said together.

Malcolm said, "Well – right – all right, Eddie." But he still looked terribly upset. He seemed, in a disorganised way, to start searching for the overturned toy cars.

Eddie rose and said, "I'll – I'll be getting home now. See you – I'll be seeing you, Malcolm?"

With an effort, Malcolm replied, "Yes – right."

Eddie walked quickly away. Malcolm went on searching. He didn't see that the cars were close to his feet. Martin moved swiftly to pick them up, bursting with excitement as he looked close at Malcolm's knees. But when he looked at Malcolm's eyes, what he saw were tears, and not the shine of triumph which he longed to see. The boy said, "Thanks, Martin" in a whisper as the cars were put into his hand.

"Thank _you_ Malcolm!" That came out in a tone which made Martin afraid to add anything.

Malcolm looked at the cars and called after Eddie, "This one's yours." It took two more calls to make Eddie hear.

Eddie called back, "It's all right, I don't want it. They don't work, anyway. They're no good." He walked faster than ever out of the valley.

Penny asked, "Are you all right, Malcolm?"

"Yes – well –" He looked from her to Martin, then looked down at the cars.

"You shouldn't let someone like that upset you," she said, "It was very unfortunate, very unpleasant, but none of it was your fault."

"I know – except –" He rubbed the cars together. "Can I come with you on the walk? Just this time?" He seemed to be asking Martin in particular. Martin said, "Yes, of course you can, Malcolm."

"Yes," said Penny, "come with us. Oh, we haven't much time left, have we? Well – we can have a short, brisk walk."

It turned out a short, slow one – none of them seemed to be feeling brisk, though there was one brisk action by Malcolm when he threw the toy cars into a rubbish container. Controlling his voice, Martin said, "Penny's quite right, you know. You shouldn't be upset – because you really did sort him out, didn't you?"

"Oh I hated it! Martin, I don't know how anyone can say things like that – for no reason at all. I mean, that wasn't just being backward. He is backward, but that wasn't because he's backward. He just said all that deliberately. I don't know if I want any more to do with him, even though he said he was sorry."

Martin replied, "I know what you mean." And indeed he did, because of a vivid memory which those words had called up. It was of his own feelings after he'd pushed the McHugh boy off the wall for saying wicked things about Daddy. That was the way to see it, Malcolm had acted just like him. They both had felt sudden fury and had acted out of character. Only by taking those stronger boys by surprise could they ever have won. Therefore, sexual excitement about Malcolm made about as much sense as sexual excitement about himself.

He had lost track of the conversation – Penny was trying to console Malcolm. "...so really, you know, you handled it very well, especially the way you handled it after the fight. You showed a lot of –"

Malcolm broke in, "It wasn't a fight, was it? Not really a fight? I mean, there wasn't any hitting or anything. I felt like hitting him when he said that, but I made myself just grab him by the neck instead. It wasn't a fight really, was it?"

"Not exactly a fight," said Martin. "There was no real violence. Stopping yourself from hitting him, even though he'd made you so angry, was quite an achievement. Not many boys would have been able to do that, or have even thought of it. Are you against fighting, then, Malcolm?"

"Oh yes, 'cos it's wrong. There's nothing clever about hurting people, whatever they say or do."

"Have you never hit anyone?"

"No, I never have." Malcolm paused. "You've never hit anyone, have you, Martin? You're against fighting, too, aren't you?"

"Yes I am. We're alike that way. But I can't say I've never hit anyone. One was a boy who had the same effect on me as Eddie had on you just now – he made remarks about my dad that I thought were horrible. The other was someone very different. He meant me no harm at all and I should never have hit him. But I was going through a very unhappy time, and I took something the wrong way. So – you did better than I did."

"Oh! well – but –" Suddenly Malcolm smiled. "Twice isn't very often, is it?"

"No." Martin smiled back. "I'm glad to see you looking a bit cheerier. You're going to a party, after all."

"Yes," said Penny, "and we'd better be making tracks. Malcolm, you'd better wash those knees of yours, or you'll have Martin's relatives thinking, 'What kind of scruffy family is our Martin marrying into?'!"

"Gosh – yes – they're filthy! Hey, I'll run on ahead and get them done. Then I won't hold everybody up."

Penny said, "You found just the right sort of thing to say to him, thank goodness. He was very badly shaken. You see, for a boy like Malcolm, an incident like that could have been really traumatic, because..." She gave quite a few "becauses", but Martin didn't hear them – his mind's eye saw Malcolm washing his knees. As he washed them, certain thoughts were bound to come to him, schoolboy-through-and-through thoughts. Like what he'd done to get them dirty. Like the knee in Eddie's back. Like the knees on Eddie's heftier chest, holding down the heftier boy who'd been so nasty to Martin.

Then would come the pride he'd been too upset to feel before. He'd think, "Made good use of them!"

Martin thought, Went down like a ninepin when Malcolm dug his knee in! If he did it to me – I would, too! Wonderful that would be... Was there some way to be alone with Malcolm, ask him...?

Fascination froze into horror. What was happening to him? This was deadly danger... total relapse... he must try to pull himself together... be on his own for a minute...

He sought to do this in the little makeshift toilet which adjoined the Wilcoxes's kitchen. Malcolm had just vacated the main one, but that was out of the question for this. For the first time ever in this house, Martin smoked. Must not think those thoughts, he told himself. Must be nipped in the bud, or I'll lose everything. But this was the most powerful sexual excitement he had ever known. Worse than a total relapse. Penny had not changed him. Dr Thomas had not changed him. God...? Please, if it means anything, if I can be helped. If it means anything. He must somehow try to keep a grip on himself, to weather this. He must not look at Malcolm's knees. He must concentrate on Penny, fix his attention on her words, her touch, her whole personality. But could that possibly work? I don't know, he concluded. But I've got to try.

He emerged into the kitchen. There stood Malcolm on his own. "Oh, Martin – your doll. I nearly forgot all about it! Suddenly remembered while I was washing my knees. I won't have a chance to give it to you later. It's a golfer doll. He's supposed to be taking his swing. The club's pathetic!"

"Oh – yes – thank you." Malcolm should be told why more dolls would spoil the display, but Martin didn't feel able to go into that.

"Here's a paper bag for it," the boy said. "It'll fit into your pocket. It's quite a wee doll." Martin looked at Malcolm's hands wrapping the doll – slender, sun-browned, artistic hands. As Martin took the gift, Malcolm put a hand on Martin's arm. In a lowered voice, he went on, "Thanks for what you said in the valley – after what happened I feel a lot better about it now."

From the hall, Helen called, "Malcolm, where have you got to now? We'll be going in a minute."

"Yeah, right, Helen, just coming." Malcolm pressed Martin's arm before lifting the hand. He smiled and said, "You're always saying things that make me feel better!"

Thoughts of Malcolm's knees receded as Martin dwelt on the hands, the voice, the smile. But in the back seat of the car, he looked across Penny to the boy's knees reaching quite high above hers. It had been beautiful to see the one time this gentle boy had got fierce.

He looked away from Malcolm's knees and held Penny's hand, but knew it was futile. On the day of this party to celebrate his engagement, he had fallen passionately in love with the girl's kid brother. And he hungered to be pulled down and held down by the kid brother's knees. For such was consummation.

### 64 Love and Cruelty

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On Thursday morning, the engagement notice appeared in The Scotsman. In the evening, Martin appeared at Dr Thomas's out-patient clinic. "Martin!" The greeting was partly welcome, partly concern. "Well, how are things with you?"

"Not too good – in spite of – I don't know if you've heard – Penny and I getting engaged."

"No, I hadn't. So – well – congratulations on that. But I take it the old trouble has recurred?"

"Not exactly the old trouble. There's been a development. It's to do with Malcolm – Penny's young brother, you remember?"

"I do – the boy who makes dolls as a hobby. And he's – twelve, did you tell me?"

"Thirteen now."

"Thirteen. Yes?"

Martin told of Malcolm defeating Eddie; the encounter in the kitchen; the party he didn't know how he'd got through; the torment ever since, all the unanswerable questions around being in love with Malcolm.

"What of Penny, then?" asked Dr Thomas. "There has been a relationship significant enough to lead on to an engagement. Are you in love with her?"

"I don't know. That sounds ridiculous, but I don't. I spent the whole of the day after the party – Sunday – racking my brains, trying to make sense of the situation. I've never felt a lot of sexual excitement about her, and since Saturday, Malcolm has absolutely possessed me. I got to wondering if she had ever meant anything to me in her own right or if she'd only been a likely girl to cultivate because I was under doctor's orders to go in that direction. I'm sorry to put it that way, but –"

"It's all right. It has a degree of truth. Go on."

"A degree of truth, but not the whole truth, because, thinking back, I could see there was more to it. When she told me she'd applied for a job in London, and I thought it would mean losing her, I felt desolated. Then she said she didn't want to part from me, and it felt like salvation. I must have been in love with her then, though it seems remote now. God, seems remote and it's only been a week!"

"You know, Martin, looking back to when you left hospital, I would never have dared to imagine that you'd become engaged so soon. It's a remarkable achievement. Yes, it does seem remote to you at this point. It hasn't taken you as far as you'd like sexually – not as yet. It seems all but extinguished by these very clamorous emotions about Malcolm. But it _is_ a tremendous achievement and it's vitally important for you to recognise that, to remember how far you've come, how much is already there for you to build upon. That is what you need to sustain you through this crisis. It means making the most of Penny's company, however much Malcolm is on your mind. It would obviously help if the Saturday visits to the house could be minimised, if you could spend the whole day out with her instead. How practicable is that, do you think?"

"Well, I could probably get her to agree." On the wider question, Martin pondered for a moment, hovering between hope and doubt. "Malcolm will be on my mind. That's putting it mildly."

"Indeed he will be, though I would hope to see that lessen as you persevere in your relationship with Penny. There's no easy answer. It's a matter of what our medical jargon calls the management of your condition. It will be an uphill struggle. But it is a hill worth climbing. With Penny, you can have a future. With Malcolm – well, there is no socially acceptable means of fulfilment, is there?"

All through the session, Martin had been undecided about the advisability of confiding his ideas on this, but he badly needed to test them out. "Well, that's something I want to discuss with you, because maybe there is in this particular situation. There's a – a possible course of action which I've been debating with myself. It wouldn't be any sort of offence against him. It wouldn't even seem especially odd – or I don't think so. He'd see it as a piece of harmless fun. I'd have to be alone with him – I don't mean luring him away, I mean in the house, on the normal Saturday visit, but out of earshot of the others."

Martin frowned as he realised this sounded furtive. Dr Thomas said, "Yes, I understand that. Go on."

"Well, he keeps his collection of dolls in his bedroom. He once had me in there to see a display of them. I could quite easily ask him to do another display – he'd be bound to agree. So, after I'd seen it, I'd get him into conversation." Again Martin frowned. "Well, that would happen anyway – getting into conversation. I'd ask him if he'd made it up with Eddie. It would be a quite natural thing to ask him. That would lead to talk about his wrestle with Eddie, and I'd say something like, "You did very well in that." Then I could say, "Digging your knee into his back was very effective. It's a really good way to get someone down. I might go right down, too, if you did it to me. Would you like to try it on me and see if I do?" I think – well, he might be a bit surprised, but he'd probably agree. So it can all be worked in perfectly naturally, and I can't see any harm in it. It would satisfy the –" He'd have to use the word, it was unavoidable "– longing for it, and give me some relief. That might free me to concentrate on Penny. After it, we could start on a stretch of Saturdays on our own. So – well – what do you think? Do you see any harm in it? Any practical, specific harm?"

"I need some clarification first, I think. Are you assuming that he would succeed in getting you down, and, if so, would you then ask him to kneel on your chest, just as he did to Eddie? Or do you reckon he would do that of his own accord?"

"The answer's 'no' to all of those. He might or might not succeed. Thinking back over the incident, it's clear that Eddie was taken by surprise, and I don't think Malcolm's particularly strong. I'd be trying to stand firm against his pressure – it wouldn't mean much just to let him get me down. I can't imagine that he'd kneel on my chest of his own accord. I wouldn't ask him. I'd like to, but it would definitely seem odd if I did that."

"You haven't had any wrestling, any horseplay of any sort, with this boy before?"

"No."

"So – right – it would be presented to him as a sort of novelty piece of fun. And – yes – he might well accept it as such. But, as such, mightn't he remark upon it to the others? 'Martin and I had a bit of a wrestle.' Could that be a problem?"

"I rather think he wouldn't remark on it. He'd just see it as something done between the two of us. There are things we do together, you see – table tennis, talking and joking in between games, and – well, things like that. But even if he did mention it, it would only sound like mild horseplay. And – well, they'd think it a bit unusual in me, but that happening just for once wouldn't worry them."

"Just for once? Do you really think so?"

After a pause, Martin said slowly, "I can't be sure. I hope that once would be enough. It's hard to think beyond the immediate situation. I've tried, but I can't. But – the point is a –" There came a much faster flow of words. "It's at me non-stop, it won't go away. If I don't do this thing, I'll still be thinking of it all the time. So if I can do it, and it isn't going to harm anybody, and might just make me something like normal again – what sense is there in not doing it?"

"It has got you into quite a state of desperation, hasn't it? So something that looks like a quick solution is bound to be very attractive. The trouble is, it's most unlikely to make you something like normal again. If he succeeds, aren't you going to want the thrill and delight of it repeated? One experience would not satisfy you for long. Sex-thrills don't work like that – sex-thrills of any kind. If he doesn't succeed, well, he's a growing boy – as soon as he's a bit bigger and stronger, wouldn't you say to yourself, 'Yes! Now!'?"

"Probably," Martin said quietly. "Yes – probably. So –" He began to take in the implications.

Almost echoing Martin's thoughts, Dr Thomas said, "It would be a series of requests to see a doll-display, wouldn't it? Or you might avoid an excess of doll-displays by devising other ways to be alone with him – going for a walk or some kind of outing, for example. But I infer that that wouldn't normally happen?"

"No. It – would seem odd to suggest that – just he and I and not Penny."

"I'm sure it would. The sheer practicalities are quite formidable, aren't they? Ways and means could probably be found – contriving to meet him as if by chance, for example. But all of these, always accompanied by a proposal to wrestle, would seem rather odd, and, cumulatively, they would seem distinctly odd. And, then, is he the kind of boy who would enjoy having regular wrestling contests with you?"

"He probably wouldn't particularly."

"So, all in all, don't you think he'd become rather worried?"

"Yes. He would."

"You asked about practical, specific harm. He'd be worried about someone whom he had always felt completely safe with. It would be terribly damaging. It is always damaging to children when trusted adults suddenly switch to any kind of unaccountable and frightening behaviour. Any kind – doesn't have to be physical ill-treatment, doesn't have to be sexual offences. The shattering of the trust is itself an act of cruelty. It causes severe disorientation and lasting difficulties with trusting people and forming relationships. I cannot imagine that you would want to do that to Malcolm."

"No. It's out of the question. I'm glad you said that. It needed to be said."

"I'm glad to get that response from you. Very glad. So the stretch of Saturdays with you and Penny on your own will be starting, if at all possible, this week?"

"Yes. It should be possible. I can tell her that now we're engaged, it would be a good idea to spend more time together. Or – well – I don't know, but maybe I should try to explain. It wouldn't be easy, and I certainly couldn't tell her in full what I feel about Malcolm, but if I said nothing, I'd be concealing something so crucial about myself, wouldn't I?"

"There's a strong ethical case for openness – you've just put it perfectly. But it's not without risk. If she felt she couldn't go through with the engagement, it would be a terrible setback for you. There are risks in concealment, too, as you obviously realise. Penny seems to be an enlightened and sensitive woman, and it may be that you would benefit by having her support and understanding in this matter. You must form the best judgment you can – you have the feel of the relationship, I don't."

Martin nodded. "This talk has been a great help. When I came in, I was a nervous wreck, with no powers of judgment at all. Thanks for putting so much straight for me."

"Well, but you have been responsive. And now, Martin, you must go back to Penny, because, on the whole, she can give you much better therapy than I can!"

Outside, the drizzly autumn rain felt refreshing on his face. When he slithered on soggy leaves and steadied himself by stepping into a puddle, it made him smile. Simple enjoyment had come back along with his faith. The tormented Sunday when praying had felt like meaningless nonsense seemed to belong in another life. He could again believe that God helped people to learn from nightmares, to bring goodness from them. He decided that, save for the words 'in love with Malcolm', he would tell Penny everything.

### 65 Opportunities

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He saw that timing was going to be a problem. Next day would be Friday. Any proposal to re-arrange Saturday would have to be put to her during their lunch-break, – preferably away from the office, in that little park again. But that would be hopeless as an opportunity to confide the real explanation, with time so limited and no guarantee of privacy. He would have to make do with the superficial reason – that they should now spend more time on their own – but only till Saturday came.

The office day began with an important piece of news. Penny was granted a day's leave for the following Wednesday to attend a job interview with the London publisher. At lunchtime, it was she who suggested the park, obviously wanting to have a talk. On their way, she asked, "Same seat as last time, if we can get it to ourselves?"

"Oh, it'll have to be! The careers advice seat!"

"Plus matrimonial agency!"

She said as they sat down, "I'm not exactly confident. I know next to nothing about publishing. But if they offered me the job, are you quite sure you'd be happy to move to London?"

"Yes, I'd be – prepared to move – quite prepared. I'm sure I could cope, as I've already explained." (He was thinking, Hardly happy to part from Malcolm. But it would make life a lot easier.) He passed on to advocate that Saturdays _en famille_ were perhaps not such a good idea now that they were engaged.

"Great minds think alike!" she laughed. "I was thinking of putting that to you. Helen and Quentin would certainly understand.

So tomorrow – do you want to come at your usual time, and we could go straight off somewhere?"

"Well – what about meeting in town for an early lunch?"

"H–mm, why not? The De Luxe? Oh, where else? We've never tried it at lunchtime, have we, Martin?"

"No. Let's do that. And then a country walk would be nice, wouldn't it?"

"It'd be lovely. Then back to the De Luxe for tea – or somewhere for tea – and then maybe the pictures. Well, don't need a blueprint, do we? We'll see how we feel."

"Yes," he agreed, wondering how would she feel.

"You could come back for a late supper if you like. You're not taking it to the lengths of seeing me home and running away at the front door?"

"Hardly!" By then, he calculated, Malcolm ought to be in bed.

"Malcolm's going to be a bit put out, you know. You've become the highlight of his Saturdays! I'll just have to tell him that when he gets to our age, he'll understand. It won't console him one little bit! Oh well..."

Penny placed a small paper bag before Martin at their table for two at the De Luxe. "Doll from Malcolm," she said. "Also a little note."

This, he had half-expected. He wasn't sure whether to explain about the over-full mantelpiece by way of a return note or by way of Penny. He examined the doll. "A man eating a sausage, is it?"

"Oh dear!" Penny laughed. "It's supposed to be your Uncle Frank smoking his cigar. I'm afraid it's not one of his best ones."

The note said:

Dear Martin,

Here's this week's doll, it's an Uncle Frank doll. I'm sorry it hasn't come out very like him, but I hope you'll like it. Penny told us you won't be coming so often, so I'll have to send your dolls with her. But I hope you'll be coming sometimes. Will you still be coming to the dolls exhibition? You said you would be. It's going to be next Saturday. The Friends' Group has just got it arranged. It will be at Lauderdale Church Hall from 11 a.m. to 4 p.m. but you don't need to be there for the whole time. You could just look in. Also, you said you wanted to lend me back the dolls you've got. If you're coming, you can bring them with you. If you can come a bit before 11, it would give me time to arrange them, if you don't mind making it as early as that. I hope you can come because it would never have happened if it hadn't been for you.

Please could you let me know through Penny whether you'll be coming or not?

Yours sincerely,

Malcolm

"H–mmm" was the voice of Martin's mixed feelings. "He's worried that our new Saturday routine might stop me going to his exhibition. Well, I'd never intended missing that. So I suppose we could meet there and see the start of it and then –" He stopped as he perceived the difficulty of planning next Saturday in view of what he had to tell her this Saturday.

"Oh of course – no problem at all. The problem would be if you didn't turn up, he'd be so disappointed."

"Right – well – I'll be bringing my own lot of dolls for him to fit into the display, so I think I should get there for ten-thirty."

"Yes, do that. Helen and I will be getting there early, so just walk in. If the caretaker asks any questions, say you're one of the family. That's hardly a lie, is it? The one misfortune is that Quentin's going to miss it. He's got his big Soviet assignment all fixed up now. These are very eventful days in the Wilcox household, Martin!"

The one event weighing heavily on him was the confession he had set himself, but, striving to match her lightness of tone, he said, "Yes, they are, aren't they? Big things happening for all of you. Well, all of you except Helen, it seems. Nothing exciting happening for her, then?"

"No, there isn't really, apart from the vicarious excitement. Child Guidance is a worthy calling, but it's not particularly strong on excitement! In fact, Helen will even have to miss the one event of a kind that the clinic is putting on – a retirement party for the receptionist, who's been there even longer than she has. Oh – you may remember her. Miss Watson?"

He cast his mind back to the Child Guidance waiting-room. "Yes, I do. A cheery, bustling woman, with rather a lilt to her voice. So why is Helen having to miss it?"

"It's on Wednesday night. I'll be travelling back from London, Quentin will be in Moscow, and there'll only be Helen to be in with Malcolm. She's being professionally over-cautious, you see. She knows he's most unlikely to come to any harm on his own for a few hours – he's thirteen, after all – but if by some mischance he did and it was serious, she'd be in a very difficult position as a Child Guidance worker."

"Heavens, that makes it sound as if she cares more about her job than about him, but I'm sure you know what I mean. And, anyway, she's not altogether sorry to find she'll have to forgo it, because she's got doubts about retirement parties. There's this great gush of appreciation and then you're left on your own, forgotten about. I think she's right." She continued on the theme, but he didn't take it in. He was telling himself that, obviously, his idea was out of the question.

He realised she had stopped talking. "Oh, sorry, Penny, I was mind-wandering just then. What was that again?"

"Just that I don't think I'd like a party when I retire. I'd sooner go without any fuss, wouldn't you?"

He smiled and replied, "I can't honestly say I've given the matter much thought!"

Then they discussed where to take their walk. She agreed to his suggested country route – one he knew was nearly always quiet. But over dessert, his idea came back to him and he thought, It could so easily be arranged. And asking him to do it could be worked in so naturally. But it was ridiculous to keep thinking about it when, today, he had something better to put his mind to. As they divided out the bill, he thought, Once I've told her, I couldn't very well make any such offer. It put him into turmoil. He was astounded that he should be seriously contemplating it. He called to mind Dr Thomas's warning – it could never be left at one incident, there would follow a series of odd and alarming encounters. But this turn of events had not been foreseen at their session – it wasn't like the sort of thing they'd been talking about – it wouldn't be in the least odd or alarming.

As they headed out of town, he let Penny do most of the talking as he analysed the situation. There'd be no luring of Malcolm away from the others, he'd be alone with the boy by the very nature of the occasion. They'd be in a relaxed, carefree mood, Malcolm overjoyed to get more of his company when he'd expected less. And couldn't it be limited to just this occasion? By a freak piece of luck, he could – just this once – bring it about in a perfectly harmless way, knowing full well that repeats – bizarre behaviour that would be far from carefree – must of course be ruled out.

At the approach to their country walk, he said, "You know, it's occurred to me – Helen doesn't need to miss that party, because I could stay with Malcolm for the evening."

"Malcolm," said Quentin, "you should have been asleep ages ago!"

Malcolm, in the dressing-gown now a bit too small for him, replied, "Well, I heard Martin come, so I thought I'd come down and say hello. Hello, Martin."

"Hello. I got your note – and your doll. Thanks very much. Congratulations on the exhibition. I'm really looking forward to it."

"Oh! You're coming to it, then?"

"Yes. And I'll be bringing my family of dolls with me – the loan-back ones."

Helen said, "Now that you're up, you might as well join us for a late supper. I hope you're not going to be as restless as this on Wednesday night. Martin has very kindly offered to stay here with you so that I can get to Miss Watson's party."

"Have you really, Martin?" Malcolm's smile was happy and affectionate. "Gosh, that's great! We'll have the whole house to ourselves!"

And time and again, up till Wednesday, Martin wondered what Malcolm's smile would be like if he did succeed in getting him down. He knew Malcolm wouldn't be cock-a-hoop, but, as the boy-strength downed a man, there would surely come a surge of pride? And that would give a very special glow to a smile that would still be affectionate. Martin pictured himself down on the floor, looking up at Malcolm's knees, from the knees to the smile, and he'd say, "Haven't outgrown your strength at all, have you?"

Oh, Malcolm, he kept thinking, please win! Please do it to me!

### 66 Minding

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Algebra, thought Malcolm, is another word for torture! He was in the sitting room, struggling with his homework. The last thing he wanted was equations getting in the way of his enjoyment of a whole evening with Martin. Martin had already arrived, was in the kitchen having the meal which Helen had served for him just before she left. A burst of diligence produced what Malcolm hoped were the correct solutions. He had just done the last sum when Martin knocked. Brilliant timing! Malcolm thought as he called, "Come in, Martin. There's no need to knock!"

"Oh – well – I thought you might still be busy with homework." He sounded nervous.

Malcolm said reassuringly, "Oh no, I've got it all finished." He told of the brilliant timing. "Did you enjoy your tea?"

Martin said, "Yes, I did thanks" and sat down, he seemed to be looking at Malcolm's knees, though Malcolm couldn't think why he should – weren't dirty, were they? A glance down told him not. Martin probably hadn't been, really. He asked Martin, "Did Helen tell you the arrangements?"

"Yes. Supper at nine o'clock, bedtime quarter to ten. She called them suggestions."

"Oh, she always does," Malcolm laughed, "but you're not supposed to suggest anything else! And the other suggestion – well, this one really is an order – is that because of you coming specially, I've to do the supper and the washing-up. You're not supposed to help me."

"Oh – right if that's how she wants it. By the way, there's something I've been meaning to ask you. Did you make it up with Eddie after that row?"

"Yes, I suppose I did. I've seen him about and spoken to him, anyway. He seemed really glad I did speak to him. I think he's realised how stupid he was."

"You did really well, winning that wrestle, you know. He's heftier than you, but, in spite of that, you got him down and he finished up with your knees on his chest!"

Malcolm felt startled – Martin had sounded so excited saying that. And he was definitely looking at his knees now. "I was very lucky to win," Malcolm said emphatically, "because he's much stronger than I am. I only won 'cos I was a bit quicker and I managed to take him by surprise. The way he was pushing at me, I was lucky he didn't get really angry. I might have got beaten up and my glasses broken if he had. I got really frightened then."

"Frightened? Yes – yes, I suppose you must have been." Martin didn't sound excited now, he sounded as if he knew what Malcolm meant. "It's like a fight I nearly had. It didn't come to it, but I had my glasses off, expecting it, and I felt that way. But with you," looking at the knees again, excited again, "I'm glad it came to it and I'm glad you won! Getting your knee into his back was great! I bet you could set me down that way. I'm smaller than you, after all! Would you like to have a try? See if it works on me?"

The question utterly surprised Malcolm. Bewildered, he asked, "How do you mean – sort of wrestling with you?"

"Well, yes in a way, but not exactly." Martin seemed to have become calmer. "Just testing out that particular wrestling trick. It was so effective, it would be interesting to do that. You'd come at me from behind and get your knee into my back and your arms around my neck. All I would do is try and stand firm against your pressure – I wouldn't be trying to throw you off or anything like that."

"Yes, all right, Martin. I'll have a try at it." He rose, so did Martin. "I don't think I'll manage it. You'll be much stronger than me, although you're smaller. You're only about an inch smaller, anyway. That's not going to make much difference!"

"Well, you might surprise yourself. You never know. You might get a very pleasant surprise."

Martin had said that in a funny, breathless sort of way. Malcolm felt a bit worried, but laughed it off – "Oh, I doubt it! Now – whereabouts are you going to stand?"

"Well, if we can find a clear bit of floor somewhere –" Martin was looking around the massed mounds of paper which always cluttered the floor of this room.

"A clear bit of floor in here! I know, we could do it in the playroom. There's much more room in there."

As Malcolm opened the partition, he wondered why Martin wanted such a silly thing tested out. Must be because he was interested in wrestling – yes, getting so excited, he must be. Funny he'd never mentioned it before. Well, coming at someone from behind would give you an advantage, even if it was someone stronger and expecting it. But you'd still need a lot of force in the pounce, a really strong grip round the neck and really whamming the knee into his back.

"I can stand anywhere here, I suppose," said Martin. "If I go to the far end, it'll give you a good run at me." He took up that position.

Suddenly, Malcolm didn't like having to do this. You could hurt someone's neck or back, throwing yourself on him like that... and not only that... He said, "Martin, don't you think you'd better take your glasses off? Just in case they – well, I'd try to keep clear of them, but they could fall off in the struggle. I'm going to take mine off. It'd be an awful shame to get glasses broken."

As Malcolm spoke, Martin dropped his standing-firm position and turned and faced him. But he didn't reply, just looked at him in a strange way. Malcolm wondered if he had said something wrong. But Martin didn't look annoyed. What he looked was sad. Why should the taking-off-glasses idea have made him sad? He sounded sad when he did reply. "Yes, all right then. That's very sensible. You're very thoughtful, Malcolm." He lifted his hands to the legs of his glasses, but didn't immediately remove them, as if not sure whether he should.

As Malcolm took his off, he thought about saying, "Martin, do you mind if we don't do it?" Well – bit late for that now. Best just get it over as soon as possible. He wanted Martin back to how he usually was as soon as possible.

Martin, his glasses off, looked around the playroom. Malcolm said, "We can put our glasses on the table-tennis table." As he placed his there, he added, "It's not very clean, though. Have you got a case to put yours in?"

"No. Not on me. I didn't think of it – I – I mean I don't usually carry it around with me these days. Oh, they'll be all right here."

With their glasses laid side by side, they went back to the actions they'd left. Malcolm decided he was definitely not going to put much force into it – just enough to make it look as if he were trying to get Martin down. He wouldn't keep it up for long – he'd say, "I can't, I give up" and let go.

Martin held himself very steady against the attempts to bend him slightly backwards. The knee came and went from his back – it was safer to have both feet on the ground as Martin swung him in regaining an upright position. Would he suspect that he wasn't really trying? Malcolm increased the force just slightly – he was going to give up in a minute and he didn't want to be asked to try again. To his surprise, he got Martin much further backwards this time and, before he knew it, had got him down. "Oh! I did it. You must have dropped –"

"Malcolm! That was wonderful!" It came in a wild shout. "That was great, Malcolm!" He turned and lay on his side and kept looking up and down, gazing at the knees, gazing at the face. Malcolm had never seen a look like that. "I went over like a ninepin! I was helpless! You're stronger than me! That's why I'm down on the ground looking up into your knees! Which knee did you do it with – left or right?"

"R–right."

Martin knelt at Malcolm's knees. He put a hand on the right knee. He was speaking, but Malcolm couldn't take it in. He picked up "strong" and "boy" and "shorts" several times. He felt Martin's other hand on his other knee. Then both his knees were being clasped against Martin's mouth. They were being kissed. They were going weak and he was falling over. He knocked into Martin's head and shoulder and landed, face downwards, to the side of Martin. He tried to get up, but he felt too weak. He managed to turn over and sit on the floor by Martin. Then he found he was sitting on the floor well away from Martin. Had Martin moved away, or had he? Had Martin kissed his knees? Yes, he had kissed his knees. Malcolm realised he didn't have his glasses on. Funny, that. And Martin, kneeling on the floor over there, didn't have his glasses on. That was funny, too. He couldn't see Martin very well, but he could see that his mouth was gaping wide open. Not like Martin usually was.

When Malcolm tried to think what had happened before Martin kissed his knees, he found he couldn't think. He couldn't think of anything to say. If only Martin would say something! Then Martin began to speak. Oh, thank God for that!

### 67 Uncertainties

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"Malcolm! I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I didn't mean to upset you. Didn'tmean to frighten you. It was just a way – a way of praising you for doing so well." He was finding it difficult to speak, wasn't seeing Malcolm distinctly after the boy's frantic jerk backwards. But he saw how stiffly he sat, how gaping the mouth. "It was very silly of me. But that's all it was. Just a way of praising you. Nothing to be frightened of." He saw Malcolm becoming less taut.

"What happened?" Malcolm sounded dazed, but not terrified, not hostile.

"Well – I got – over-excited, you see. You'd done so well. You'd demonstrated the hold – the grip – so well that I – I admired it, you see. And that was just a way of praising you. It was a silly way."

"Oh – you asked me –" Long pause. "Did you ask me to try and get you down?"

"Yes. You'd – you'd forgotten?"

"Yes. Yes – I did forget. It's coming back to me now."

There was a pounding inside Martin's temples, a hot dryness in mouth and throat. What had he done to Malcolm? A state of shock that deranged the memory! And... now... it was coming back to him. "So – has it – how much can you remember now, then, Malcolm?"

"The glasses! We both took our glasses off before we started. In case they got broken. And we put them on the table tennis table." Slowly he rose and went over to the table. "These are mine, these are yours. I think," and he peered at them. "Yes, these are mine. Here's yours, Martin." He lifted them carefully and held them out. Martin stood up shakily and approached the table. As he took them, he looked at the slim hand offering them. Malcolm's hands were so definitely not the hands of a fighter. Martin felt tears coming, and, hurriedly, for the sake of saying something, he said, "Are you very short-sighted without them?"

"Not very short-sighted exactly, but quite short-sighted. I can read and write without them, but my eyes would get strained if I kept it up and they'd start watering. Are you very short-sighted without yours?"

"Oh – yes – quite a lot."

"How long have you worn glasses, Martin?"

"Since – I think I must have been six or seven. A teacher at school noticed I wasn't seeing the blackboard properly."

"That's what happened to me. I was about six, too."

For quite some time, they stood at the table, talking thus – how teachers must often be the first to notice, it was part of their job, in a way, and perhaps they were taught to look out for it when they were at teacher-training college. A silly conversation, statements of the obvious gravely agreed upon, but Martin didn't want to think beyond it. Malcolm seemed much more composed now. That was a relief, as far as it went. How far? That was the huge cloud of uncertainty that hung over it all.

At last the statements of the obvious dried up, and Malcolm said, "Would you like some supper now?"

"Yes – all right, then. Shall I give you a hand with it?"

"Oh no, you're not to, remember. Helen said I was to do all that. I know where everything is."

Martin recalled she had also said it was to be at nine o'clock. He couldn't judge how much time had passed, but surely it was nowhere near that? He didn't contradict, though, or look at his watch, for fear of upsetting Malcolm's composure.

The boy was saying, "I'll go and make it. Just have a seat in the sitting room and I'll call you through when it's ready."

Back in the sitting room, Martin sat down, while Malcolm closed the partition. Then Martin was alone, desperate for a cigarette. But Malcolm would know from the smell that this highly unusual thing had occurred. No – he must try to keep things as normal as possible.

Twenty-five past seven by his watch. Malcolm would see that on the clock on the kitchen wall. So why wasn't he coming back to say they'd got the time wrong? Was he... all right in there? If the state of shock had come back... shouldn't he go through and check? He was the minder, after all. Minder! Oh yes! Was Malcolm afraid to come back? Best not to interfere at this point. But he couldn't stand the silence and the stillness and the nothing. He went out into the hall and called through, as blandly as he could manage, "Everything O.K. Malcolm? Are you sure I can't give you a hand?"

The boy opened the kitchen door. "Yes, it's O.K. I won't be very long now. Oh – Martin – do you mind gingerbread toasted?"

"Gingerbread toasted?"

"Yes. I toasted some by mistake, instead of the bread. The ordinary bread. I don't know what it'll be like."

"Oh – well – don't worry. We'll try it and see. Are you quite sure you don't want some help?"

"No, I'll manage. I've got to do all that. You've not to be given things to do. It wouldn't be fair, 'cos you came specially to help us out. I'll get the real toast on now."

Martin returned to the sitting room, tried to think. How could so much remain so tranquil? He had molested a child, done the evillest thing he had ever done in his life; yet Malcolm talked about glasses and teachers, and attended to supper, and was grateful to him for 'helping out'. As if the kiss had never happened. Could that be one part of the incident that had not come back to him? Or had he accepted the explanation? If it had not come back to him, but things gradually were coming back, would the terror return, Malcolm shrinking away from him? Or was he terrified now, but concealing it? In any event, his normality was not total – there was the aberration about time, there was the toasting of gingerbread. And meanwhile, they had to get through the evening, he and the child he had damaged. All he could do was to take it as it came.

Or was that all he could do? Just leave him to be damaged? Couldn't he attempt some kind of explanation – an honest one this time? But what did he mean by that? How could... all that... how could that be spoken of? But perhaps some of it, enough to reassure Malcolm that, through no fault of his own, he had been caught up in – in what? – In problems, in difficulties, in peculiarities, of another person.

Please, he prayed, help us through this. But he had betrayed the help he had already had. He'd opted out of honesty with Penny because it had stood in the way of a sex-thrill. For the sake of a sex-thrill, he messed up lives. He'd break down, he'd weep, if he tried explaining to Malcolm, frighten him even more. The boy needed help, but not tainted help.

He heard Malcolm's footsteps in the hall, steeled himself to appear calm, but then heard him going upstairs, to the toilet presumably.

The untainted help would have to come from Child Guidance, he supposed. He would have to alert Helen. Nice story for her to come home to, he grieved. Nice story for Penny at the end of her journey, finding Helen waiting up to break that news. It'll mean the end of all that, of course. I can't let Malcolm find me in this state. I'll have to – somehow – blank my mind for now. Blank it as far as possible. Doesn't look possible at all, but I've got to.

He heard Malcolm coming downstairs, calling, "Won't be long: now, Martin. I've just the tea to make now."

"Yes, right, Malcolm. No hurry."

### 68 Pyjamas

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To begin with, Malcolm found it hard to keep his mind on what he was doing – made silly mistakes like forgetting to fill the kettle before putting it on, and toasting the gingerbread instead of the ordinary bread. He was wondering what he should do with the toasted gingerbread, when Martin called through, "Everything O.K., Malcolm? Are you sure I can't give you a hand?"

That would make it easier, he thought, as he made for the door... but, no, that wouldn't be fair on Martin. But he asked Martin about the gingerbread, and Martin told him not to worry.

Malcolm saw it would be better to take a quick breather from the supper things while he tried to remember more of what had happened in the playroom. It was miles too early for supper anyway, he'd got the time mixed up as well... didn't really matter, he'd started it now, Martin would be expecting it, but there was no hurry. He turned off the gas and sat down.

He soon got it pieced together. Martin had asked him to try and get him down, he'd managed to get him down – hadn't expected to, but he had – and Martin had kissed his knees. Now – Martin had said he was sorry about that. That was when they'd both been on the floor, first thing Martin had said when he started speaking. Now – what else had he said, again? Yes, Just a way of praising him for having done it – a silly way, but nothing to be frightened of.

Well... that was all right...a way of praising him... that was all right. Malcolm reckoned there wasn't really such a lot to praise, because you definitely had an advantage over someone you came at from behind. It was a funny way to praise him. And, before that, Martin had seemed to be looking at his knees quite a lot – well, maybe not really, he wasn't sure. Men didn't usually kiss boys. If men did kiss boys – well, but Martin had said it was just a way of praising him – there was nothing wrong with that.

He resumed supper-making. As he started on the real toast, he thought about how they'd spend the evening after supper. He hoped there'd he no more about wrestling or Eddie or anything like that. He must try to keep Martin off all that, get him on to other things. Yes – ideas for jobs for when he left school. He'd begun to think about this lately, especially whether he could turn his doll-making into a job. After talking about that, they could play chess. Martin had been quite keen on it when they'd played it instead of table tennis sometimes. Chess was a better game really, though table tennis, with him and Martin together in the playroom, was more fun. Well, tonight they could have a chess game all to themselves.

He'd got nearly everything ready, when a fresh worry came upon him. He didn't want Martin to keep looking at his knees. It was silly to worry about it, because maybe Martin hadn't been. It wouldn't have been a worry at all if only Helen had bought him a pair of long trousers when he'd asked her to. Weeks ago that had been and she still hadn't done it! She'd made that daft joke: "Well, Malcolm, at the rate you've been growing, this month's long trousers could be next month's short ones. Perhaps we should wait till after the spurt." He'd said he wasn't growing all that fast, and quite a lot of boys got longs at thirteen, at least for special occasions. She'd promised to keep an eye open for any bargain ones. That had told him that money was tight just then, but surely there must have been some bargain ones in the time that had passed! "Thirteen," he now fretted, "and not a pair of long trousers to my name. Except pyjama trousers. Well, they're no use till bedtime – though..." Yes, that was an idea! Bedtime could be a bit after quarter-to-ten if he was already in his pyjamas and gown. Being ready to get straight into bed, he could stay up till – oh, ten-past-ten, maybe, and not really be any later. It'll leave us more time for chess, he thought. I bet Martin'll think it's good idea, too!

With toast, scones and biscuits laid out on the table, it looked like a nice supper – apart from the toasted gingerbread. He tasted it. Only one thing to do with it – jam. Lots of jam. Hope there is some. The food cupboard offered jam and marmalade and syrup. I could ask him what he prefers with his toasted gingerbread. That should make him laugh. It would be good if I could make him laugh. With the two jars and the tin put on the table, there was only the tea to make. He'd do that after he'd got into his pyjamas and gown, and then everything would be ready.

Upstairs, undressing, he remembered that Martin had – well, he'd gone a bit mad as soon as he'd been brought down. He'd gone on and on about a strong boy, shorts... oh, he couldn't remember much of it, it had come out in such a rush. Martin had called it getting over-excited. Well, some people did get over-excited about games they were especially keen on – it happened with football and rugby quite a lot. And Martin was especially keen on wrestling. But if he took such an interest in it, it was funny he didn't know that getting someone down from behind didn't prove anything about being stronger.

Malcolm couldn't help looking at his knees in raising them to remove his pants. Martin had only meant to praise him, of course – but he rushed to pull his pyjama trousers over them.

Going downstairs, he called, "Won't be long now, Martin. I've just the tea to make now,"

"Yes, right, Malcolm. No hurry." Gentle voice. Nice of Martin to say that. And it had been nice of him to offer to help with supper.

Martin, called through for supper, seemed to get a fright on seeing the dressing-gown, but when Malcolm explained that it would give them more time at the other end, he agreed it was a good plan. "The toasted gingerbread," Malcolm announced, "is disgusting. I sampled a bit. But you can smother the taste with either jam or marmalade or syrup. So – how would you like your toasted gingerbread?"

With a glimmer of a smile, Martin said, "Choice of menu, then?"

"Oh yes, we have a choice of menu here. Like a posh café. Like the De Luxe! I bet you don't get toasted gingerbread on their menu!"

Martin did laugh a bit then. "Well, what does the chef recommend? I'll go by that."

"Chef recommends syrup."

Malcolm's ideas for keeping Martin off anything to do with wrestling worked well. Talk about jobs got them through supper. Martin suggested occupational therapy as one where you could use handicrafts to help people who were ill. To the chess proposal, he said, "Yes, all right, then. I don't think I'll give you much of a game, though. I don't feel very bright." Back in the sitting room, Malcolm drew the curtains and poked the fire, while Martin set up the chess pieces on one of the little chequered tables.

Malcolm enjoyed the game more and more as it went along, even though neither was playing at all well. He was careless at times – made Martin a gift of two bishops, a knight and several pawns. But Martin kept missing attacking opportunities. The result was positions which should never have happened, but were exciting. "But," thought Malcolm, "I'm about to be massacred now! He'll trap my queen next move." Martin missed that. Instead of the deadly move, he made a pointless one, as far as Malcolm could see.

"You could have checked me with your knight," said Malcolm, "and threatened my queen at the same time."

"Yes. Yes, I could have, couldn't I?"

"Didn't you see it?"

"I did – notice it, but I thought I'd bring the bishop out of that corner."

Malcolm saw that Martin had not wanted to demolish him. Martin was like he usually was again. It had been stupid, getting so worried. Martin would never harm him. He was like a brother.

They started playing more cleverly, but neither gained any advantage. Malcolm asked, "What's the time?"

"Five past ten."

"Just five minutes left! We'll never get it finished, will we? Shall we just call it a draw?"

"Well – we'll have to, won't we?"

"What we could do is keep the pieces in place and finish it on Saturday – if you're coming back after the exhibition, that is. Or will you and Penny be going out somewhere?"

Martin said, "Saturday?" sounding sort of dazed.

"Martin, you hadn't forgotten, had you?"

"No – not really – I – I'd not been thinking of it."

"Oh, Martin, don't forget! You did say you'd come. It's at eleven o'clock at Lauderdale Church Hall. And you said you'd bring the loan-back dolls. Remember you called them your family of dolls?"

Martin looked so surprised that he must have clean forgotten everything about it! He said slowly, "Yes – yes, I did, didn't I? Well, yes – there's that, of course."

"Good job I reminded you! Oh – but Penny would have reminded you. Well, what'll we do about the game – call it a draw or finish it on Saturday?"

"I – I don't know. What do you think?"

"You really won it. If you'd taken the queen, you'd have won it. But it's an interesting position, so maybe we should keep it and see what happens. It'll be my move. I'd better put this table in the playroom, 'cos it might get knocked into in here."

"I'll open the partition for you," said Martin, still sounding dazed.

"Right, thanks." As soon as he got into the playroom, Malcolm felt unsteady. It took an effort to keep a firm hold on the table. There was something frightening about the room, something weird. He found a corner for the table and rushed back to the warmth and light across the partition, back to the Martin who was like a brother.

"It'll be safe there till whenever you want to play," said Malcolm. "If not Saturday, it can be next time you come. I'd better disappear, Helen could be back any minute. Goodnight, then, Martin. See you on Saturday – at the exhibition." He smiled and added, "Our exhibition."

He couldn't sleep. He hoped the playroom wasn't always going to feel like that. It would mean he'd have to do doll-making somewhere else. It was all very silly, because nothing had happened in there that was anything to worry about. And it had been a lovely evening after he'd got into his pyjamas and dressing-gown. Being with Martin was great, best person he knew to talk to. So long as there was no talk of wrestling and strength and knees. Especially knees.

### 69 Honesty

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Helen could be back any minute. Martin's mind could not remain blank. Though the talk and the chess had ruled out total blankness, he had, as far as possible, blanked his mind to the tragedy. But was it a tragedy? From the moment of serving supper, Malcolm had appeared to be his usual self. The boy seemed to be taking it for granted that there would be further visits, that nothing was going to change.

The only abnormality had been the pyjamas and dressing-gown. He had doubts about Malcolm's explanation. Almost certainly, the real purpose had been to cover his knees, which meant that he remained troubled to some extent. Damage had been done, Martin decided, but much less than he had supposed. Helen would still have to be told... back any minute... he rushed to light a cigarette. How to put it? how would she take it? If only he'd put it to Penny in time! How would Penny take it? Could all that still go on? That question could not yet be answered. All he knew was that the situation could have been much, much worse. And it was amazing that it wasn't. He'd given in to evil at every turn – yet evil had not come out of it. Could it be that, in the midst of the evil, God had been present? If He had, it must have been for Malcolm's sake rather than his. But he should keep some faith alive in facing what was to happen.

So – now – any minute – how to put it? Perhaps start by mentioning his Child Guidance days? Saying that those troubles had not completely vanished. And, in particular, there was a sexual aspect... Helen, on hearing that, would begin to see the frightful drift of it. Better, then, to start with the incident?

Perhaps: "I'm afraid I did something that upset Malcolm to some extent. I suggested a sort of wrestling game. This was because –"

Did this have to be told tonight? There couldn't be a more impossible time – right at the end of Helen's day, home, tired but happy, from her party. Couldn't he leave it for a day or two? The situation was not, after all, desperately urgent. Then it struck him that if he delayed, Helen – and Penny – might first hear of it from Malcolm. He might feel he needed to tell someone; or they might well ask, over breakfast, how he and his minder had spent the evening. The answer, if he were candid, would be "Talking, wrestling and chess." They'd think he was kidding over wrestling. He'd explain. They'd ask further questions.

Outside, there was the sound of a car stopping, and then voices nearing the front door, Helen's voice, a man's voice. Helen was saying, "Do you mind if we're very quiet going through the hall? Malcolm's such a restless boy sometimes." Martin braced himself to conceal his agitation. How long was this person going to stay?

As they entered the sitting room, he rose, forcing a smile. Helen said brightly, "Well, Martin – all serene?"

"Yes. Malcolm's in bed."

"That's a relief. This is Derek, who works with me – or Dr Derek Tipman if we're going to be professional, which we're not. And this, Derek, is Martin – fiancé to my daughter and childminder to my son."

"Hello, Martin." They shook hands. Derek was a tall, bearded young man with a pleasant smile. "In a sense I already know you. I've read a lot of your stories. I always enjoy them."

"Oh – well – really?"

"The two of you can talk about all that in the car," said Helen. "Derek's been giving everybody lifts and now he's going to give you one."

"Well – thanks – but –" This had to be declined. He must stay on, tell Helen. "I was going to walk it. I enjoy walking, you see. So I needn't take you out of your way."

"It's a cold night for walking," said Derek. "You live in Liberton, I gather. It's not too far out of my way."

Martin hesitated. Would it seem rude to insist on walking? He could resolve it if he said: "Well, actually, I want to stop on a bit. There's something I want to talk to you about, Helen."

Derek was saying, "What part of Liberton is it?"

Derek would leave him with Helen... then...

Martin said, "It's near where Liberton Road meets Captain's Road."

It wasn't just remorse and anxiety that kept him awake that night. He had bouts of ecstatic masturbation in recalling the knee in his back, the knees being kissed. Then he asked himself how, after all the harm he had done, he could still wallow in the evil which had brought it about. Nothing, nothing, nothing ever changes it. Nothing and nobody and no God.

The sleep which came at last was from exhaustion. He overslept and was late for work.

"Ha! Night out on the tiles, then?" was Bruce's response to Martin's apologies.

"No," laughed Penny, "night out childminding my young brother. That's much more exhausting! Did he tire you out that much?"

Morag said, "Martin, you look like death warmed up! Go and make yourself a coffee before you start."

One question had been answered, he inferred in the little kitchen. Malcolm had not mentioned the incident. Otherwise Penny would not have joked that way. Possibly he didn't want to talk about it. But the only certainty was that he hadn't done so yet.

What a mess I've made of everything! Martin thought. And yet again, he had made the mess even messier by running away from being honest. Last night's cowardice hadn't even been any good as cowardice. This crushing burden of procrastination could not go on. He must – today – tell Penny. For Malcolm's sake, for his own sake, for everybody's sake.

He wondered, as he returned to the office, what he meant by his own sake. Safeguarding the engagement? Penny could do better for herself than the kind of man you read about in the News of the World. But then he thought, Hold on – that's not the only way to see it. I've got to try and remember that.

Penny asked, "Do you feel all right, Martin? You don't look at all well."

"I'll – I'll be O.K." He gulped some coffee and said, "How did you get on yesterday?"

"I think it went quite promisingly. No formal decision, but – I think, promisingly. I'll tell you all about it at lunchtime. Do you fancy lunch in the park today?"

Bruce said to Morag, "They plot revolution there, you know. It's not as innocent as it sounds."

Martin's concentration on his work was better than he had expected. The routine soothed him – it was a bit of a sanctuary, while it lasted. He again considered the limitations of the lunch break in the park, and decided that all he could tell Penny there was that he'd like a longer talk after work. And where would they have it, he wondered. Back to the park? It would be cold and dark by then. The De Luxe? Oh, for God's sake... "Somewhere, somehow," he dismissed it. "Hardly matters where."

"Feel a bit better now?" said Penny as they set off at lunchtime.

"Yes, a bit."

"Did Malcolm tire you out? Was there so much table tennis you could hardly sit down?"

"No, there wasn't table tennis. He wanted to play chess. No, I had a restless night, but that wasn't Malcolm's fault."

"It was very good of you to help. Oh, by the way, did he say anything to you about long trousers?"

"About – long trousers?"

"Evidently he didn't. I thought he might have, because he had so much to say about it over breakfast. Had quite an argument with Helen on the subject. He insists on having long trousers now that he's thirteen and got into such a tantrum about it, which isn't at all like him. He asked her to get him a pair today. Just like that – today." They had reached the park. "Oh good, it's nice and quiet. We can have our special seat all to ourselves." As they sat down, she began, "Well now – the interview," but he said, "What kinds of things – just to finish off what you were talking about – was he saying about having long trousers?"

"Oh – that – yes. Well, mainly that he just had to have them for the exhibition on Saturday, because it was a special occasion, and why hadn't she remembered, because he'd mentioned special occasions when he'd asked for long trousers weeks ago and –"

"Oh! So it's not anything new, then?"

"Well, the state he worked himself up into was certainly new. Last time he'd asked, it hadn't been easy to afford them, which he'd seemed to realise. He's always been very good that way, never one of these clamorous, importunate children. But he became one this morning – Helen could hardly get a word in, the way he went on – about how unfair it was to have to wear shorts at thirteen. Oh well – thirteen's an awkward age, isn't it? Anyway, that's enough on that subject! I've my ordeal by interview to describe! Well, it wasn't that really, because –"

"Penny! We can't leave that subject!" She stared at him. "I've got to tell you something. I know why he went on like that. It's not that he's at an awkward age. He's going to need a lot of help. It's –"

"What do you mean? Did he – he did say something to you, then?"

"No. Please try and listen to me, Penny. This is something that's very difficult. I did – something that – that badly upset him last night. There's a lot I never told you – about – all those problems of mine – when we talked about the mental hospital. It was – just so difficult to talk about." He closed his eyes, not wanting to see how her expression would change. "I'm not sexually normal. I've always –"

She made a sound, partly a gasp, partly cry. "But surely you don't mean –" She left it unsaid.

"I mean perversion, paedophilia, evil. I'm sorry, but it's what I am. What's in me. It's all to do with – oh Christ! I don't know where to begin."

"You'd better begin with what you did to Malcolm – and for God's sake open your eyes! You terrify me like that."

He opened them, saw the consternation in her face, and lowered them to see on the ground her partly-eaten sandwiches in their cake-box. She seemed not to know that she had dropped them. "I didn't do what – the kind of thing – you may be thinking of. It wasn't that." He told her what he had done, how he had gone further than intended and how Malcolm had taken it – the terror immediately afterwards, the difficulty in remembering, and then the recovery of what had seemed his usual self, except for the gown and pyjamas. "The only long trousers he had. The only kind of protection he knew. I should have told Helen when she got back, but I ran away from it. And I ran away from telling you about my real problem. Twice. The first time – it hadn't come to a crisis then – it was when we had that talk in the valley – I began to try to tell you, but I couldn't face spelling out the details. The second time – it was evil – I'd absolutely made up my mind I had to tell you because my feelings about Malcolm had – well, become a danger to us all. But when I heard about Helen's childminding problem, I knew that if I told you, I wouldn't be able to make use of it. Yes, it was premeditated."

He raised his eyes. She looked terribly shaken, but no longer in panic. "You let it take over, then. That was bad. But – evil? From what you've said, I take it that it was the wrestling episode that was premeditated, not the kissing of the knees?"

"No, that wasn't foreseen. I fooled myself into thinking it could be kept within limits. Closed my mind to foreseeing it. Oh Penny, I'm sorry! What a terrible thing to break to you and to break in this way – after damaging Malcolm and messing up all our lives."

"Well – well now – let's try to take it steadily, though I don't feel steady, any more than you do. I'll need time to take it in, sort out my feelings. But let's try to sake sense of some of it. Yes, Malcolm has been harmed and he will need help. I shall have to tell Helen and Quentin. But it could have been much worse. Much worse things have been done to children. And children who have had much worse things done to them have been helped. We know about it in time, you haven't concealed it. If you had been evil, you would have done. Now – your problem – you will need help, too. And – well – you were helped before – and – surely – you can be helped again, helped further?"

"No. I can't be. That's the point."

"But you don't know that, Martin. You feel that – in the state you're in now – you're demoralised – you're bound to be, just after it all happening. But when you're in a better state of mind – well, remember how you were able to respond to treatment, how you got insights from it. You used them to help me. None of this cancels out all the good you've done."

Suddenly, he was weeping. Condemnation would have been easier to take than this blind, innocent, ignorant faith. She said, "Don't, Martin" and put her hand on his. He moved his hand away and said, "No, there can't be that any more." Her hand wavered in the air, but she didn't try again. He became aware of her sandwiches, still on the ground. It felt absurd to do it, but he picked them up and placed them on her lap. She stared at them and went "Oh–h" and that seemed absurd, too. She said, "You haven't touched yours at all. There's no point in not eating, Martin."

"Yes, I must eat to live. Live for what, I wonder."

"For a great deal more than you give yourself credit for." Her vehemence startled him. "You're full of your weaknesses and blind to your strengths. Exactly what you saved me from! As for 'There can't be that any more', as you put it just now, I don't know whether there can be or not. I'd like to think there can. It's something we need to think about, talk about – and in a state and at a time when we can do it more calmly, try to be rational." She glanced agitatedly at her watch. "It's impossible here and now. Let's get together after work, have a talk."

"It wouldn't serve any useful purpose. You don't understand – how could you? – what it's like to have this problem."

"If it's as bad as that, then put that to me when we talk. But talk we must. It's something you owe to yourself as well as to me. Please, Martin. Let's look at it together."

"All right, then. But I can't face going back to the office. Can you tell them I'm unwell or something? We could have a talk at the digs, I suppose, if you want to come after work."

"Well – but I don't like you going off on your own. Not when you're overwrought like that. Please come back to the office. Don't be on your own right now." She put a hand on his arm.

"Penny, I'm not suicidal. I can see you're thinking that, but I'm not. I'd be terrified to die, in spite of everything." He pressed her hand, then moved it away. "It's time you were getting back. I'll see you tonight."

He knocked on his landlady's kitchen door. "Oh, excuse me, but I won't want tea. I'm going out. I'm leaving this letter and a parcel in the hall for a young lady who'll be calling. Would you mind telling her that I'm very sorry not to be in for her, but that the letter will explain it?"

Dear Penny,

When I spoke to you, I fully intended to have the talk you'd asked for, and I hate sneaking off like this. It isn't really that, though it must seem like it – but I'm going to try and explain. I know – know positively, having thought very hard about it since we spoke – that a talk would achieve nothing, indeed worse than nothing. I'm no longer 'overwrought', I'm completely lucid, I know what I'm doing, know what I'm saying.

You wanted this talk so that we could 'look at it together' and try to decide rationally whether we could make a life together. Let me say right away how much I respect you – inadequate word – for wanting to have a talk. Other reactions from other women can easily be imagined. So I'm not ungratefully brushing it off, believe me. The trouble is that you have no conception of how much of a blight my sexual nature is. It's as if I had never grown up. There are certain images and desires – you got a glimpse when I told you what happened with Malcolm – which I ought to have outgrown, had I been normal, around the age of 14. But they still dominate my sexuality – they are my sexuality, really, and it is specially complicated regarding Malcolm. It all adds up to an impossible situation. I would be unable to consummate the marriage.

So – why can't I say all this to your face? Well, although you said that you have yet to sort out your feelings, it was obvious that you are strongly biased towards saving our relationship. I can almost hear the kinds of things you'd say. You'd be resisting all the way and you'd still be loving me. If I held out, it would feel like cruelty. And so I would go back to wishful thinking, to kidding myself that some way out of this mess of a condition can be found. That's what I meant by 'worse than nothing'. It would be kidding you, too – being cruel to you in the long run. You see, sex and love can never be anything but pain as far as I am concerned – pain to me and to others. All I can do is to make the most of those aspects of my life from which some good might possibly come.

I must ask you not to try to make contact. It wouldn't help either of us. I'd have to refuse to talk to you, and I don't want to be forced into that position. I'm leaving New Dawn – without notice, I'm afraid. You must realise it would be agony for both of us to go on seeing each other.

dolls for the exhibition. Obviously I can't now come. I was thinking of putting a note for him in with them, but I find I can't bring myself to write it. Perhaps, anyway, it is best left for you and Helen to judge how to explain all this to him. I was thinking of saying in the note that I'm truly sorry for what I did; also sorry that I can't come to the exhibition because I'm unwell, but I wish him the best of luck with it, and because it may well lead on to further exhibitions in the near future, it would be a good idea for him to hold on to the dolls in readiness for them.

Finally – if it's any use – I feel sure that sooner or later, you will find your niche in London and the happiness you deserve. You will make new friends, people who share your views and sympathies. I hope that doesn't sound hollow – it's not meant to. What I mean is – you need someone like that, but who is not also a bundle of unmanageable problems. For all the ways in which you've been kind and helpful and loving, thank you.

Martin

### 70 Retreat

[Back to table of contents]

"Hey! See that guy over there?" The boy had stopped in his tracks, grasping the other boy's elbow. He pointed across the road to a man who was walking with a woman. "That's the guy who asked us to wrestle with him!"

"Yeah! Yeah, that's him!"

Hoots and whistles shattered the decorum of George Street. The man and woman turned to look, then continued their progress.

"Let's go up to him!" the first boy said.

"Well – there's that lady with him."

"So what? That makes it better!"

"Hold on! He's a nut-case, that guy – a pervert."

"But he can't do nothing to us here. Come on!"

Alongside the man, they set up a clamour of "Hey, Mister... hello... want to wrestle, Mister?" The couple slowed down, taken by surprise. The woman was frowning. The man's mouth gaped open, but no words came. His eyes seemed to glaze over. "Remember you talked to us in the Queen's Park?" said the bolder of the boys. "We were playing football and the ball shot over to –"

"No!" the man burst out. "I don't play football."

The boys dismissed that with a scornful "Aaah!" One said, "Is that your wife?"

The woman said, "We don't know you. You've already been told you've got the wrong person. All right?" She spoke calmly but very firmly.

The instigator began a retort, but his pal said, "Aw, shut up! Come on!" and pulled him away.

"Cheeky devils!" said Rosalind. "Do you think they thought they knew you or just wanted to make nuisances of themselves?"

Martin forced himself to appear unconcerned, though he was near to trembling. "Bit of both maybe." Had they gone or were they still hanging round? He didn't dare look back. "Let's have some lunch in here, shall we, Rosalind?"

She looked doubtfully at both him and 'here', which was one of Edinburgh's most expensive hotels. But Martin wanted to disappear off the street, into the first place to hand... that these particular kids should be in this particular area at this particular time! He hadn't even planned to come into Edinburgh that day, he'd driven in only on hearing of Rosalind's flying visit. She eyed the menu in the doorway and said, "Have you seen the prices? Or have you acquired very expensive tastes? So much for this modest living you claim is all you make as a writer!"

"Oh – well – but it's just this once."

"I don't think I could relax with you in a place like this, Martin. I was going to suggest we try that new home-bakery place that's opened in Stockbridge. I'm told it's very good. It'd certainly be cosier."

"Well – yes –" From the doorway, he rapidly scanned the street. They'd gone. "Yes, it would be better really. Do you want to walk or drive? I've got the car parked a bit further along."

"Oh, walk, I think. It's a lovely day. You used to be fond of walking. Haven't lost the habit, have you?"

"Oh no. Not at all." He made an effort to be conversational as they set off. "I go for quite a lot of country walks when I'm at home. I normally only use the car for coming into town. It's such a poor bus service, and the village is off the bus-route, anyway. There's the car there. Want to have a look?"

"The estate car? My, my!"

"It's only a second-hand one, but it's ideal for shopping trips, when I pick up all the things I can't get in the local shop."

"Yes, they're really good for that, aren't they? Well, I must say I'm impressed, Martin – estate car, even if only second-hand, country seat, lunch at the best hotels. You know, I never would have dreamed that the boy who asked me if he could get a cup of coffee would one day try to hustle me into that hotel! Martin, don't look so embarrassed! Have I said the wrong thing? Have I been dreadfully tactless?"

"Oh – no – it's all right." He forced a smile and said, "Well, now that you've seen and admired it, let's move on. You were rather wide of the mark with all that. I've never been in that hotel in my life. And country seat! Heavens, you should see it – well, I hope you will one day. But it's only an ordinary two-storey terraced house that looks exactly like all the others in the village street."

"I bet it's picturesque, though. I have every intention of descending on it one of these days – when we organise our holiday a bit better. But it's so short this time. And, of course, having two young children in tow is quite a limitation. If I branched off somewhere for a whole day, I can't see Graham coping."

"You could bring them all if you like."

"Wouldn't four of us be a bit overwhelming for you?"

"No, I don't think so. I could even cook a meal for the occasion, believe it or not – though once upon a time, boiling an egg was about my limit. I do occasionally have people round."

"You've broken quite a few limits, haven't you? Learning to cook, learning to drive, running your own house unaided. I'm getting a mental picture of you at home – the writer hard at work in the seclusion of his own little kingdom."

"Kingdom – hardly that!" He lit a cigarette, which drew from Rosalind, "Martin, really! Can't you wait till after lunch?"

"Well – I thought I'd like one now." It was to steady his nerves. The encounter in George Street, throughout the small talk, was still on his mind. It was no comfort to tell himself that his approaches to boys were few and far between, that he had never repeated the grotesque behaviour he'd inflicted on Malcolm. With the urge to have these wrestles getting harder to control, how long before his rules of the game were swept away? There was danger enough as it was. He could imagine those two boys being more tenacious... a nasty scene... a policeman... the utter collapse of what Rosalind had called his kingdom. He inhaled deeply and turned the conversation to her and her family.

He got a vivid sketch of life at the vicarage. Just lately, they'd been through a spate of childhood ailments, accidents and misadventures. Petrona was six, Ralph four. "And we've been staggering from one minor crisis to another – though they didn't seem minor at the time. How any church work ever got done, I don't know! Well, some of it wasn't done, or was done pretty scrappily. You know, I think Graham would envy your working environment. You probably manage ten pages in the time it's been taking him to get down ten lines of a sermon! I'd better not tell him too much about your little place, in view of the 'Thou shalt not covet' commandment!"

He laughed, but suddenly an intense irritation came upon him. Here was a couple who had had sexual fulfilment, something they could get whenever they wanted it. It was the source of all those things she'd been describing. And then she spoke of Graham envying him.

He braced himself for more irritation to come: she never failed to question him, directly or indirectly, on remaining a bachelor. Sometimes he had had transient successors to Penny to tell her of, but that was all finished now. He'd have to endure or parry Rosalind's sisterly interest as best he might. "Writing," she said as soon as they began lunch, "must be a very lonely occupation."

"I don't know if I'd put it that way. I'm alone, of course, but, if I'm struggling over how to express something, I don't suddenly stop and wish that I had someone to talk to."

"Yes, I can see that, but don't you have a sort of double dose of isolation – not only the writing, but living out there in the wilds with –"

"It's not the wilds!"

"Well, but you know what I mean – being on your own in your leisure time as well as while you're at work. Aren't you lonely then?"

"You make me sound like a recluse! I come into Edinburgh from time to time, remember? And not just for shopping! I might look in on Ted and Pearl or on Ewan and Hilary. I'm going on to them for tea today, by the way."

She enquired after all these people, and he thought he'd successfully diverted her. No such luck. She asked, "Any other friends here, besides Ewan and Hilary?"

"Yes, one or two."

There now came what he called 'the interrogative look', a most disconcerting mannerism which she had acquired. She would look straight into his eyes with an intent and expectant air. It forced him either to elaborate on whatever he'd last said or to lower his eyes and sit through a hot and bothered silence. "I know them through what I suppose you'd call my outside interests – Esperanto and Oxfam. I'm rather a veteran Esperantist, as you know, – and rather a novice in Oxfam. Something I saw on television got me interested. Not that I'm deeply involved in either, but I'm semi-active."

It opened up a safe and sensible conversation. But she said, over coffee, "I'm glad you have those interests and a social life to go with them. Have you met any particularly interesting people?"

"If I ever do," he said wearily, "I'll tell you. It's not at all likely, but if it were to happen, I would of course tell you. So, if I don't tell you, you can take it for granted that it hasn't happened. And, then, perhaps, other things that we talk about won't keep coming back to it."

"I'm – sorry – Martin. I didn't think that –"

"No, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to jump down your throat like that."

"I suppose I do rather harp on it. I overdid it, or chose a bad time to do it, obviously. But one thing – you mustn't say it's not at all likely to happen, because that could be a self-fulfilling prophecy."

"Well – I don't see it in that way. Could we drop the subject? If you don't mind."

There was a heaviness over the lighter topics they moved onto. They outstayed the lunchtime crowd as they lingered over additional cups of coffee. It made him think of Penny and the De Luxe, and her joke about a YCL committee meeting, and related subjects. He shivered inside and momentarily lost the thread of the trivia they were chatting about. Rosalind's concentration seemed to be not much better. There came a lull in the conversation. She said, "Martin, I've known you for years, and I have to say this to you. This is the unhappiest I've ever known you. You've been edgy, and obviously under some cloud all afternoon. We don't meet all that often, and perhaps we could do better than pretend the cloud isn't there. Would talking about it help? It does sometimes, you know."

That fairly jolted him, but then he found he was relieved. Pretending was a strain. "Yes, there is a cloud, there's a lot of unhappiness. Talking about it wouldn't help. Thanks for offering. I don't want you to think I don't appreciate that. But it's something I must live with. It's there, it always will be, and I get by as best I can. I'm not permanently miserable. Today's been – well, some days are more difficult than others. It's unfortunate that you caught me on a bad day. So – well – not much more I can say."

"You seem to have made up your mind that it's no use talking about it and that it can never be solved. Another self-fulfilling prophecy, perhaps? It's closely related to the other one, isn't it? To how things have never worked out with women. And yet there is so much you could give to – to the right woman."

"Rosalind," he told her gently, "I really have to insist on dropping the subject."

"But one last point – I promise it will be. You weren't always pessimistic. Is there no hope you can find in the faith you once described to me? Remember all you said about learning from what had gone wrong, about the potential for good in situations that seem hopeless?"

"I was very young and very shallow when I came out with all that."

"I didn't think you were shallow. And older isn't necessarily wiser. So there it is for what it's worth, Martin."

Walking around the shopping centre after parting from her, he felt appalled that he'd turned what should have been an enjoyable get-together into sheer misery for both of them. But it was no use thinking about it. He had something more practical to think about, some special shopping. He wanted to buy a little present for the four-year-old son of Hilary and Ewan – their only child and his own namesake, for they had named their child after him. He'd teased them about this bad start in life, but it had moved him to know that he meant as much as that to them. On what would be a suitable toy for that age, he was extremely vague – what a fool not to have thought of asking Rosalind! However, he had plenty of time for window-shopping and browsing. He could, as a last resort, ask the shop assistant's advice.

In between shop windows, and even at shop windows, the talk with Rosalind kept coming back to him. It had gone wrong because they had been talking at cross-purposes. The problem, as she saw it, was simply "how things had never worked out with women". She assumed he had some kind of personality problem over women which held him back from turning a potential relationship into a lasting one, and a further problem of letting himself get too hurt, too disheartened, when a relationship broke up. Given those assumptions, her comments on self-fulfilling prophecies and on the right woman were perfectly reasonable. Given the reality, they were facile. He knew that from experience, it wasn't as if he had made no effort. The pain over Penny and Malcolm had never left him, but, as it became less sharp, he had had doubts about his extreme pessimism and had again dared to hope. And so there had been spasmodic attempts to build something up with particularly interesting women. Sometimes it had seemed quite promising, but had led nowhere. He'd never got the length of declaring his affection and felt hardly any sexual excitement.

These attempts, he reflected wryly, had not been without their uses. He had gathered that assumptions broadly similar to Rosalind's were held by everyone who knew him at all well. Pearl and Ted occasionally came out with variations on the 'more fish in the sea' theme; Uncle Frank had lately told him that at the age of twenty-nine, he really ought to be thinking of settling down. It was just as well that everybody saw it thus – as an unfortunate, but wholly respectable, state of affairs. It wouldn't be at all out of place on the _Woman's Own_ problem page.

The difference with Rosalind was that she made such an issue of it. Well, that was due to the particular kind of friendship that had developed between them. But he could have wished he'd never told her about his erstwhile religion. As if he hadn't been upset enough without having that echoed back to him. God was someone else there had been spasmodic attempts to build something up with. There had been times when he had thought back to Miss Shand's view of people helping each other by means of the gifts God had given them. But that left sex out of account. That, for him, had much more to do with harming than with helping – harming both others and himself. It was a burden that, in one aspect or another, weighed upon him more and more nowadays. Religion was just irrelevant to a thing like that. Attempts to pray had drowned in a flood of doubt. He'd now given up bothering about whether there was God or not. God, if He existed, was not for the likes of him.

He came upon a toyshop whose window-display included useful little notices. One read: "Funfair Musical Box. Age-range 2-4. Every toddler's delight!" It had miniature fairground horses, complete with tiny riders clad, curiously, in fur coats. Looking more closely, he saw that they were teddy bears. Ridiculous! he thought. No, not to a kid, though. This seems just the thing. When it was parcelled up, he wrote on the wrapping-paper To Martin J. from Uncle Martin. The courtesy title had been Hilary's idea. The J had been Ewan's. It was short for "Junior" and was used to avoid name confusion on Martin's visits.

Those visits were what he most enjoyed about coming to Edinburgh. The flat was in a maze of side streets off a main road – "Quiet, but central, too," as Ewan had described it on the first visit. Martin had laughed, "Yes – when you actually find it!" He could now find it as easily as his own village street.

There was a nice surprise this time – Ewan's mum, now in her mid-fifties, was there... "This being Monday, and Monday being my family night. How are you, Martin? It's lovely to see you again. Oh, and I did enjoy that book of stories of yours."

"I think we can all endorse that," said Ewan. "Well, all of us who can read." He smiled in the direction of Martin J., who was half-under the table and poring over brightly coloured marbles. Though Martin J. seemed to be in a world of his own, he didn't miss much. "I can read!" He crawled out into full view. "I can read, Uncle Martin."

"Now, I think that's just a little bit of a fib," said Hilary. "You can't really read the words in your books, can you? You know what most of the things in the pictures are, but that doesn't mean you can read yet."

"Won't be long, though," said Ewan. "School next year. They'll have you reading in no time."

Martin smiled and said, "Treat in store, but here's one to be going on with." He held out the parcel to the boy, but then asked, "Oh, can he open things himself?"

Hilary, neatly intercepting it, said, "Will Mummy open it for you? We wouldn't want to be careless and damage anything, would we? Isn't that nice of Uncle Martin? Now, what do you say?" With Uncle Martin duly thanked, she went on, "Look, he's written something on the parcel, too. Well, now, if you can read, what does that say?"

Martin J. looked intently at the writing. "It says 'Martin'!" he cried triumphantly. He jabbed a finger on the two places where it did. "It says 'Martin' twice. It says 'Martin Martin'."

"Well, it says a little bit more than that!" Hilary read it out while unwrapping. "Oh now, isn't that beautiful? See, it's a little funfair. Remember when we went to Portobello and you went round and round on the horse? Well, this is a funfair you can have all to yourself. He's really going to like this, Martin. Thanks very much. Only don't make a habit of such things!"

"It's actually a musical box, too. Turn that little key there, Martin J., as far as it will go, and see what happens." It made the rod from which the horses were suspended rotate. They went round and round. And from inside the base which held the rod, there tinkled out the tune of _The Teddy-bears' Picnic_. It kept Martin J. enthralled till teatime.

Hilary cooked vegetarian meals. Martin enjoyed them, had managed some passable ones himself, with the aid of a cookery book, when they had been his guests. She'd complimented him, but hers were much better. She was a good hostess, attentive to everyone's needs, fussing a little over Martin's – did he have enough of this, or want some more of that? The meal passed most agreeably. Martin J. was fascinated by his grandmother's recollections of Ewan and Martin being pals when they were boys. There was a great deal of laughter about Ewan's den. He remarked, "I've got a den here, but I don't let anyone see it. I know the kinds of things they'd say!"

"I've seen it!" announced Martin J. "There's a huge pile..." As he described it, his father groaned and put his head down upon his hands on the table. By now, Martin was a lot more relaxed. He felt so at home here.

Then the boy had gone to bed, the talk turned to Martin's writing, as adult and child. "Ewan and I," his mum recalled, "must be your two earliest readers – outside of your family, that is. We are, aren't we, Ewan?"

"Yes, I'm the first earliest and you're the second earliest."

"Slight correction," said Martin. "You both read those Weekly Searchlight stories before my parents did. They weren't terribly impressed by them!" Then he remembered that Mrs McQueen had been the first person to tell him he was gifted that way and should keep the writing up. "What a happy memory," he thought. "It really is!"

They chatted, reminisced till quite late. Martin came to feel like one of the family, he had a sense of belonging with them. Loneliness and isolation seemed far away.

At the end of the evening, be offered Mrs McQueen a lift home. Taking their leave in the hall, he stood smiling pleasantly while she gave her son and daughter-in-law parting kisses. And all at once, disillusion struck. He saw that he was in no sense part of their family, in no way belonged with them. He had been a guest – a well-liked guest, but only a guest – of three generations of one family, two generations of sexual fulfilment. He was the outsider, cut off from that.

He spoke very little on the journey. She said, "Tired, Martin? It must be a long day for you when you come into Edinburgh."

"H–mm. Yes. It is rather."

He declined to pop in for a cuppa. Didn't feel he could face doing that. "Don't be shy about ringing the bell, Martin, any time you're this way. Or I might see you again at Ewan's. Why don't you make it Monday more often? It's been a real treat to see you again, made my day. And thanks ever so much for the lift."

He said to himself, driving off, Oh, come on, cheer up. It isn't all bad. He was sure she'd meant that, about making her day. His visit had been something good for all of them. And sexual fulfilment wasn't the only kind of fulfilment, for heaven's sake! What about his writing? And hadn't he done a fair amount of good in his other activities?

These thoughts failed to console him. His problem wasn't one that could be put aside by dwelling on the more positive things. It brought permanent insecurity. And it made him an oddity. There was oddity enough in being close on his thirties and still a bachelor, but that was only the surface oddity, the public oddity. Its real nature had to be kept to himself. It isolated him in a ghastly secret world and cut him off from the rest of humanity. Even from other paedophiles. They, too, wouldn't dare to tell anyone. They, too, would be trying as best they could to pass for normal. He wondered if there were any who managed never to act it out. No way to know. You knew about what you read in the News of the World and you couldn't know about much else. He strongly suspected, from what little he had picked up, that his form of paedophilia was his alone. So talking to another wouldn't help much, he thought. Except that it would make a change to be with someone and not to feel that I'm an alien being. Well, well, well – there's no way it can happen. It could only happen if he added prison visiting to his other good works – or else, of course, prison full stop. That meant to be a joke? he asked himself. Humour had often made his fits of misery slightly more bearable, but not such humour as that.

He could tell that one of his really bad depressions was about to engulf him. He tried, as usual, to blank his mind against it and, as usual, failed. When he reached home, the recurring theme of these depressions was in full spate – What a goddamned mess of a personality I've got!

On the glass above the door, the gold lettering of the house's name was caught in the moonlight. A past owner had seen fit to call it The Retreat. Martin said, "Yes, aren't you just!" as he took out his key in the sleeping village. This predecessor could never have dreamed of the connotations of the name for the present owner. He had stretched all his resources to secure this location, including the sale of the parental home, previously let furnished, and taking on a sizeable mortgage, which he was still paying off. And all for the sake of retreating: living here placed a barrier in the way of temptations to get involved with boys. In a village, everybody, adults and children, knew everybody else. He couldn't be anonymous, couldn't risk anything. His trips to town were the fewest practicable and fully timetabled with commitments to call on people or to be at meetings or events. It was intelligent management of his condition. Dr Thomas would have been impressed. Didn't always work, though...

He'd missed the late-night television news – probably couldn't have taken it in, anyway. He got himself some tea and biscuits, then lit a cigarette, ignoring the biscuits. Always, in these moods, he went over the same old ground – never anything new to think, never any way forward, never any way out. Well, how else could it be? His condition would drag on thus, with greater or lesser pain, all his life. There was no constructive thinking one could do. He had tried being philosophical about it, seeing it as a handicap. But there wasn't much consolation there, because it was so different from all other handicaps of any kind. Handicaps were funny things, some got you sympathy, some turned people against you. Paedophilia got you hated. It was the unmentionable of unmentionables.

He wasn't even sure about the word handicap. Applying it to paedophilia, part of whose etymology was love, produced some difficulties. He had felt love for Malcolm, even though it had ended in disaster. There had been such a strange mix of feelings there – the love had got caught up and mangled in all that pain and rubbish from his childhood. Pointless, he thought, to go over that affair. I suppose – yes – I'll phone the hospital tomorrow and get an appointment.

This was something he did from time to time – got himself some out-patient treatment. Dr Thomas had long since left and Martin had seen a succession of psychiatrists. He did this for one purpose only – to be able to talk to somebody about the mess. Because it was only to doctors that you could. He had no expectation of being helped. They'd tried some electrical treatment, then they'd tried tranquillisers. Nothing had worked, but he hadn't had any hopes, anyway. All he'd wanted was another human being to talk to.

And with this person, he'd go over the same old ground as he went over with himself. Again, no way forward, no way out. But a kind of oasis.

After a month or two, the psychiatrist would terminate the treatment, telling him to return should he need further help. And so it went on... so it always would. He could at least be grateful that society had set up this special class of human beings who understood these things.

Well, that was the most he could expect, wasn't it? Couldn't be talked of to anyone else. Couldn't be expressed in his writing. Or... well, of course not. He reflected that his writing and his paedophilia were the two defining features of his life. One gift, one blight. One drove him outwards to communication, the other, inwards to isolation. Never had he doubted the necessity of keeping them in separate compartments. Only now did he conceive of communicating the isolation.

He thought hard about it and decided that he would. He had no idea whether it would help him or help anybody. But it would be quite some betrayal of the gift if he didn't try.

###

### Praise for Joe Solomon

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'If there was ever a contest to find the Nicest Bloke In Bristol, they'd have to disqualify Joe Solomon before anyone else would bother entering. Poet, stand-up comedian, ex-communist, animal rights and anti-racist activist, anti-death penalty campaigner, and enthusiastic devotee of Robert Burns. Edinburgh-born Joe... had a succession of manual labouring jobs before being accepted as a mature student at Bristol University. His social sciences course opened his eyes to the gulf between rich and poor, and after graduation he went into welfare rights advice work...

He was active in the Anti-Racist Alliance and Campaign Against Racist Laws, organised two 'Poets Against the Death Penalty' events in support of a charity which assists poor people in capital cases in the US, and had a penfriend on death row...

His other pet project, The Shellfish Network, came from Joe's early experiences as a kitchen porter. One of his tasks was to carry tanks of live lobsters to the kitchen, where they would be plunged into boiling water. He campaigned against such barbaric practices through the national Network which he founded.'

Robin Askew in Venue's 1998 honours' list of the'100

most important people from Round These Parts'
