The Shell House (19 page)

They lurched across the orchard together, the boy breathing hard, tripping on the rough grass. When they finally reached the gardener’s cottage behind the stables, he gave Edmund a pleased look as they stood side by side on the doorstep, a look of complete acceptance and trust.

Baillie came to the door in shirtsleeves, startled to see his employer’s son at this late hour. Looking past him, Edmund saw lamplight, a fire in the grate, and a wooden table set with a teapot and a slab cake. Mrs Baillie got hastily to her feet and bobbed a curtsey.

‘I . . . was down by the lake,’ Edmund said, ‘and found the boy in the grotto. I was afraid he might fall in, so I’ve brought him here.’

‘Thank you, Mr Edmund, sir. That was very kind, I’m sure.’ Baillie grabbed the boy by the sleeve of his tweed jacket and pulled him indoors, ruffling his already untidy hair. ‘Come on in, Joe, you great gossoon! How many times have I told you not to go wandering down there? Thought he’d gone to the stables, to sit with the pony, sir,’ he explained to Edmund. ‘He loves that pony.’ Then, to the boy again, ‘Time you was tucked up in bed! Not roaming about, bothering Mr Edmund. You’ve to be up early for work tomorrow.’

‘Does he enjoy his work here?’ Edmund said.

‘Yes, sir.’ Baillie looked at him curiously. ‘He’s never going to find work nowhere else, not being like he is, so he helps me out here with what he can manage. He’s our only one at home now, with Jim in the army. Thank you so much for your letter, sir, after Georgie got killed. It meant a lot to both of us, that did.’ He gestured towards a photograph on the mantelpiece, a broad-smiling Georgie Baillie in uniform.

Edmund nodded, swallowed. ‘I’m very sorry.’

‘Joe here’s the only one of the three what’s a bit simple, like,’ Baillie said in a confiding undertone.

‘He doesn’t speak?’

‘Never has. He makes noises, and some of them we know what he means.’

Joe had sat in a chair near the fire and was rocking, his arms cuddled round himself, apparently quite happy. He gave little grinning noises at Edmund and his parents, chuckling. Edmund saw, in the warm light of indoors, the face that looked somehow out of focus, the eyes asquint, so that he could never quite tell whether the boy was looking straight at him or over his shoulder.

‘I’m very sorry you was troubled, Mr Edmund,’ said Mrs Baillie. ‘I’ll make sure it don’t happen again. Good night, sir.’

‘Good night, sir. Much obliged. And—good luck,’ her husband added.

Edmund nodded; the door was closed. He walked away slowly. For the last fifteen minutes or so he had had contact with another human being, had been taken out of his own preoccupations. The little tableau inside the Baillies’ cottage, the simple supper and the fireside chair, reminded him of the idyll he and Alex had planned for themselves in France. If Mr and Mrs Baillie had invited him to go in and sit down, he would have done so. He felt oddly moved by the glimpse of a family life that was lived in such close proximity to his own. But of course it would never have occurred to them to ask him. He was the young master of Graveney Hall, removed from them by wealth and social position.

Where to go now? Was there any comfort to be found anywhere?

‘You spent the night in the
stables
? For pity’s sake, boy, what’s got into you?’

‘I like it there. I’m very sorry if I spoiled your dinner party.’

‘You most assuredly did!’

They were in the book-lined study, Mr Pearson seated behind his desk, Edmund standing, feeling like a schoolboy again, summoned to account for himself. But his father was not so much stern as dismayed.

‘Should I send for a doctor? Should you postpone your return?’

‘There’s nothing wrong with me, Father.’

‘The way you’ve been behaving is hardly normal!’

‘I couldn’t stand it last night. The guests. Being polite.’

Henry Pearson put down his glasses on the leather-topped desk, and rubbed his eyes. ‘Edmund, I know you’re under strain. But snubbing Philippa like that was quite inexcusable.’

‘I’m not trying to excuse myself.’

‘I insist you apologize before you go back to France. Philippa was extremely upset. Worried for you. Your mother was hoping . . .’ Henry Pearson sighed, tapped a pen on the blotter. ‘But never mind. What in God’s name induced you to sleep in the stables?’

‘It wasn’t in God’s name!’

Edmund saw impatience and concern struggling for dominance in his father’s expression.

‘Must we have this constant quibbling? All right, then—what the devil made you go and sleep in the stables?’

Edmund laughed. ‘That’s more like it!’

He could not explain in any way that would make sense to his father. He had stood outside the Baillies’ cottage for some while, undecided, wondering whether to go back to the lake for the solitude he had longed for; but now he wanted not solitude but company. The warmth of another body. Nothing that could be found in the frigid spaciousness of the Hall.

He had wandered to the stables, without knowing why; he had looked at the scrubbed empty stalls and had mourned for the sleek beautiful horses whose care had required a team of grooms before the outbreak of war. Horse-riding was the one thing Edmund could do far better than Alex. On the fortnight of riding-school drill included in their officer training, Alex—to whom horses were merely a means of transport—had refused to be impressed by Edmund’s ability: ‘Of course, the young master of Graveney Hall would have been born in the saddle and ridden to hounds from the age of five,’ he teased. ‘I suppose you were a daring young thruster in the field? Had your face daubed with fox blood when you were in at the kill?’ The hunting days seemed long ago and the horses were gone: the lovely, spirited creatures had been taken on a bewildering journey across the Channel that even now could provoke Edmund’s pity.

Hearing a nickering whinny from the far end, he went to investigate. Baillie’s pony, a tubby black creature with eyes that peered through a bushy forelock, lay on its bed of straw, alone in the stables meant for pampered hunters. Its head raised, it was about to brace itself on its forelegs to get to its feet; Edmund let himself in, soothed and stroked it, buried his face in its neck. The pony nuzzled his back. Comforted by its warm animal smell, he settled in the straw next to it, thought for a while, then found, blissfully, that he was no longer thinking, and slept.

‘Maybe you’d better go to your room and get some rest,’ his father said now, at a loss as to what to do with him, ‘since it appears we can’t have a sensible conversation.’

Next afternoon the Reverend Tilley arrived for tea, summoned to find out what was wrong with Edmund.

Send/Receive

Greg’s
mental
snapshot:
Tanya in a leather
jacket, which she wears unzipped over a cropped
vest top. She stands, hands in jeans pockets,
leaning back from the hips. Her long hair is pushed
back behind her ears, with a strand falling over one
eye. She is looking directly at the viewer. Her lips
are pressed together in a sardonic half-smile.

Greg arrived home, panting.

‘Is that you, Katy?’ his mum called from the front room.

‘No, me. I’m going out again. Came back for the bike.’

He rang Gizzard’s number. Gizzard was out, of course, it being Saturday night. ‘He’s gone to High Beach with some friends,’ Mrs Guisborough told Greg. ‘There was a group of them going to the pub up there.’

‘See you later,’ Greg called to his parents, tripping over his father’s golf bag in the hall and ignoring his mother’s call of ‘Where are you—’

He had to keep moving, he didn’t much care where to. He pushed away on the bike, cursed it for not being his own, reached the main road and cycled hard, raising a sweat. He wanted mindless pub atmosphere, a few beers, head-banging music, to drive the last couple of hours out of his mind.

High Beach was a clearing in the forest, set on high ground, with an open hillside plunging into a tree-lined valley: a favourite spot for visitors, picnickers and bikers, with a pub and a summer café. Greg locked the bike and shoved his way into the Forest Tavern. It was packed, as always on a Saturday. A leather-clad biker holding two pint mugs above his head dripped froth down Greg’s sleeve, and smiled at him, amiable, unconcerned: ‘Sorry, mate.’ Hopeless, trying to find Gizzard in this lot. Anyway, they might have gone on somewhere else. Greg gave up trying, bought himself a pint and drank it at the bar. ‘You on your own, then?’ the bloke next to him asked, another biker, twentyish, with a ponytail. He looked Greg up and down, as far as he could manage in the crush.

‘Looking for a mate,’ Greg said.

‘Well, here I am,’ said Ponytail, with a lascivious grin. ‘Look no farther.’

‘Stuff that!’ Greg downed his beer; he’d never finished a pint so quickly. He moved away, out to the door. Bloody queers! God, what
was
it about him tonight? Was he wearing a pink badge or something?

What now?

He went outside. It had been so hot in the pub that the air struck cold at first, but really it was quite a mild night for early October. He didn’t want to go home, but neither did he feel like going on a crawl of all the forest pubs in search of Gizzard; anyway, it wasn’t long till closing. He stood for a few moments by his bike, looking at the cloud-lightened sky and a half-moon above the impenetrable darkness of forest, thinking of Graveney Hall standing beyond on its rise of ground, isolated in moonlight, forbidding. Maybe he should have gone there. Then he heard a yell from across the road: ‘Oi, Frogspawn!’

It was Gizzard, sitting with two girls on the curved shoulder of trodden grass that looked down the hillside towards the lights of Waltham Abbey below. ‘Thought you must have left the country,’ Gizzard called as Greg walked over. ‘What you up to?’

‘Looking for you.’

‘Hi, Greg,’ said Sherry/Cherie, giving a rolled-eye look at the other girl.

Tanya. It would have to be, wouldn’t it? She wore a zipped leather jacket and was cradling a pint mug; she eyed him, aloof and unsmiling. ‘Do Mummy and Daddy let you stay out this late all by yourself?’

‘It’s not my bedtime yet,’ Greg said. ‘But any time’s yours, isn’t it?’

‘Ooh! Sharp,’ Tanya said. ‘For a schoolboy.’

‘Sit down.’ Sherry shuffled up to leave a space between herself and Tanya, and patted the grass. ‘It’s all right, she’s just sharpening her claws.’

‘Don’t let me interrupt your cosy threesome,’ Greg said, looking at Gizzard.

‘In my dreams,’ said Gizzard. ‘I’m not that lucky.’

Sherry raised clenched knuckles to his chin. ‘Sex on the brain!’

‘And not only on the brain—’ Gizzard pulled her towards him, hands roving octopus-like.

‘Gizzard’s always been known for his subtlety and romantic charm,’ Greg remarked.

Tanya laughed. ‘Better watch, Greg. You might pick up some useful technique. Don’t know why I bothered to come out with these two—gooseberry fool, that’s me. They need me like they need a cold shower.’

‘I expect you could pick someone up in the pub if you put your mind to it,’ Greg suggested.

‘You think so?’

‘But now here’s Greg, like the genie of the lamp,’ Sherry said, shoving Gizzard aside. ‘Chance for you to win your bet, Tan?’

‘Oh?’ said Greg.

Tanya looked at him archly. ‘You’ll find out if you’re lucky.’

‘When you’ve finished sniping,’ Gizzard said, ‘I was about to ask if anyone wants a refill while I’m getting a beer in for my mate Greg.’ They all had glasses from the pub, but only Gizzard’s was empty.

‘Cheers,’ Greg said.

‘Why do you let him call you names all the time?’ Tanya asked, when Gizzard had crossed the road.

‘Greg
is
my name.’

‘Clever! I meant Frogspawn, Dungheap, Cowpat—all those things.’

‘Gives him a chance to show off his verbal ingenuity,’ Greg said. ‘Anyway, you ever tried stopping him?’

‘Sit down if you’re staying,’ Sherry said. ‘I’m getting neck-ache craning up at you.’

Greg sat, and Tanya moved in. ‘So, why are you out on your own on a Saturday night?’ she asked, shuffling up to him. ‘What’s happened to St Ursula—at home polishing her halo?’

Greg almost asked, ‘Who?’ before remembering his lie to Gizzard. ‘Oh, that. Bit of an on-off thing.’

‘Which at the moment?’ Tanya asked.

‘Off.’

‘You mean you dumped her at a party?’

Sherry giggled. ‘I’m not sure Tan’s going to forgive you for that.’

‘I might,’ Tanya said, ‘depending how things turn out.’

Greg’s mother woke him with a mug of tea.

‘You were late last night,’ she remarked, opening her curtains. ‘This morning, rather. Where did you get to?’

It was a second or two before Greg tuned in; then, remembering, he felt hot and cold prickles all over. Would she be able to tell by looking at him? He pulled his duvet up to his chin.

‘Oh, nowhere much. Met up with Gizzard and some friends.’

‘And?’ She picked up his jeans from the floor and folded them over a chair.

‘Had a couple of drinks. Hung around a bit after.’

‘Was Jordan with you?’

Oh, God.
Jordan
.

‘No, only for the swimming meet. Why d’you ask?’ He peered at her suspiciously.

‘His father rang, very late. Said Jordan came home for his bike—just like you did—then went off again without saying where. He was a bit worried, his dad, I mean.’

‘What time was this, when he phoned?’

‘Gone midnight—I’d already gone to bed. I assumed Jordan was with you, so I told him that. I’d have checked when you came in, only I’d dozed off by then.’

Greg sat up blearily and swallowed some tea. ‘How’m I supposed to know where he went? I’m not his keeper, am I? Went to the pub with the swim team, most like.’

‘His dad said he seemed upset.’

‘Yeah, well, he lost his race, that’s why.’

His mother gave him a shrewd look. ‘Have you fallen out with him or something?’

‘No! Why would I?’

The phone rang downstairs; she went down to answer it, spoke briefly, then came back up to the bedroom. ‘It’s all right—that was his dad again to say sorry for bothering us so late. Jordan got in just after.’

‘That’s OK, then.’

‘I’m cooking bacon in about ten minutes. Come down if you want some. Oh, and Faith rang last night as well. Said she’ll see you at the Hall today.’

She left him to get dressed. Greg lay back and stared at the ceiling.

Last night. God, what a mixture! He was dizzy with memories: jealousy, longing, relief, anger, resentment, bewilderment, frustration, lust, ecstasy, triumph—he’d been through the lot, on fast-forward. And now? He was a washed-out wreck, with a head that felt as if six radio stations were playing simultaneously.

He had done it. With Tanya.

Seen Dean Brampton in Intensive Care. Been harangued by his Scud Missile of a Mum.

Quarrelled with Jordan. Walked off and left him.

He shoved all but the first of these out of his head. He had done it. Pulled. Scored. Proved himself not a poofter.

After the pub closed, to a steady roar of motorbikes away from High Beach, Gizzard and Sherry found they had urgent business to conduct under cover of the trees behind the Conservation Centre. ‘Can you two amuse yourselves for half an hour or so?’ Sherry said, giggling.

‘I’m sure we can think of something.’ Tanya’s fingers were already intertwined with Greg’s; she was
paddling his palm
, as Greg had read somewhere. ‘Greg’s too much of a gentleman to clear off and leave me waiting on my own.’

‘See you
soon
,’ Sherry called suggestively.

And for the second time Greg found himself being led away purposefully by Tanya. She was seeking not the cover of trees but the open hillside, a dip of ground some distance from the road. She went straight to it, making Greg think she had used the place for the same purpose before. ‘It’s better in the open. You going to play this time? Might as well, there’s nothing else to do.’

‘Wait—are you serious? I haven’t got a—’

‘Don’t worry, I have.’ She reached into her jeans pocket and pulled out a condom in its packet, which she dangled in front of him. ‘You ought to be better prepared. You never know how things’ll turn out.’

No, you never did.

She had to win her bet, Tanya explained afterwards. She won it spectacularly: taking charge, guiding his hands, doing the most breathtaking things with her own. No clothes, she insisted, chucking his jeans and underpants away down the slope, throwing her own after them; you feel more naked in the open, beds were for prudes, she said. True, he had never felt so stripped naked: the cool air and the darkness, the sweep of her long hair brushing his skin, her teasing fingers touching him everywhere, all stirred him to a pitch beyond his imaginings. His erection was a salute to the night sky. ‘Don’t forget this,’ Tanya said, tearing open the condom packet with her teeth, fitting it for him with practised deftness while he almost burst with restraining himself. She pulled him over on top of her, reversing their positions, and parted her legs and guided his fumblings and there was no need for restraint, all rational thought swept out of his head by the urge to thrust, the bloodheat inside her, her body writhing beneath his, her sharp teeth nipping his ear, her hands clawing his back and oh oh oh oh
ohhhhh
— a spasm of mindfuzzing cockthrobbing limbtingling delirium.

He lay still, breathing hard against her hair.
Stu f
you, Jordan!
he thought, when capable of thought.
Get
out of my head.

‘Mmmm,’ Tanya went, a sound he took for approval; then she laughed. ‘Not bad for a beginner.’

‘You could tell?’ he said shakily, his mouth in her hair.

‘Guessed. Doesn’t matter. I won’t tell Gizzard, don’t worry.’

They found their clothes, brushed grass and leaves off their skin, dressed. In Greg’s case rather drunkenly, they made their way back to the pub car park. Tanya, now that the intimacy was over, was brisk and matter-of-fact. She zipped her leather jacket right up to the neck; they walked without touching.

‘Well?’ Sherry was already in the front seat of her car, Gizzard beside her, grinning at Greg man-to-man.

Tanya held up five fingers of one hand and two of the other; then, considering, flicked up a third.

‘Not bad, then,’ Sherry said approvingly.

‘You owe me.’

In the shower, Greg looked down at himself with new respect. A major initiation had been passed, after all, and quite creditably. But even now Jordan was irritatingly inside his head.
You have to be sure what you
want. It’s too important to be thrown away at the first
chance. It ought to mean something.

Fuck off, Jordan.

Jordan
would
say that, wouldn’t he? Greg was all too aware of what Jordan wanted: an exclusive blood-brotherhood, a soul-baring two-in-one, a let’sdiscuss-everything openness, a binding tie. Jordan had offered to share the sea and the stars, darkness and dawn; Tanya had offered only sex, but for the moment sex was enough. Jordan wanted love; he had as good as said so. More than Greg could give, or take.

Greg
had
been sure what he wanted, and last night he had wanted Tanya. What about Jordan’s
will to
live
? The will to live had never been more rampant, and Greg had followed where it led. Jordan couldn’t have it all ways.

He got dressed, went down and ate his bacon, and wondered why he felt suddenly morose.

‘You going to the Hall, then?’ his mother asked, assembling flour, eggs and sugar, going into Julie’s Party Cakes mode. ‘You don’t seem in much of a hurry.’

‘No. Don’t feel like it today.’

‘Faith’s expecting you.’

‘Thought I’d just go out on the bike for a bit.’

‘Why don’t you go with Dad to the golf club for a change? It might cheer you up, and you know how chuffed he’d be.’

Greg shook his head; his mother darted an anxious glance at him. He knew she knew there was something wrong, but she did not pursue it. Fifteen minutes later, cycling away down the road, he saw another cyclist coming towards him through early mist. He looked, did a double-take. Jordan. He was angered by the thump of pleasure in his chest, swiftly converting it to irritation.

Blast! Not knowing how to avoid him, Greg pulled over to the kerb. Jordan swerved across the road and stopped with the bikes head to tail. He looked at Greg, looked down at his foot on the pedal, and back again, quizzically.

‘Look, I’m sorry about yesterday.’

Greg shrugged in a way calculated to annoy. ‘Doesn’t matter.’

‘It does.’

‘Where d’you get to last night?’ Greg asked.

‘Where did you?’