Part 2 (1/2)
”Get your rocks off then?” he asked without looking up.
”Not this time. They wouldn't let us. But, my G.o.d, Nilo, we could, you know, we could. We've got to fix something up.”
Niles felt a vast relief. Just feel-ups then. Big b.l.o.o.d.y deal.
”Here,” Holland said. ”Almost forgot. A message from Alison. Wey-hey!” With a flourish he handed over a lilac envelope. Niles felt his throat contract. He opened it carefully.
”Any clippings?” Holland asked with a sn.i.g.g.e.r.
”Hardly,” Niles said. Holland had a French girl-friend who used to send him cuttings of her pubic hair. They were cherished and pa.s.sed round like sacred relics. This fact had single-handedly boosted Holland's reputation to near-legendary heights.
”'Dear Quentin,'” Niles read. ”'I was wondering if by any chance you would like to come and have tea tomorrow (Sunday). I realise this is short notice but if I don't hear from you I'll expect you at four. I hope you can make it. Sincerely, Alison.'”
Niles felt his pulled muscle twitch spasmodically in his thigh. ”I hope you can make it.” That was good. But ”sincerely”? Really!
”What is it, for Christ's sake?” Panton asked.
”Tea,” Niles said. ”Tomorrow afternoon.”
Holland shook his head admiringly. ”You got it made, Quent boy. You are home and dry.... We must get something fixed up, though. For all of us. After the last performance maybe. Jesus, the b.l.o.o.d.y show's over in a couple of weeks.”
Alison's house was a grey sandstone bungalow at the better end of the small Scottish county town near the school. Niles cycled the six miles there through a fine rainy mist and arrived damp and chilled. He met Alison's parents-Mr. and Mrs. McCullen-and her fourteen-year-old sister, Diane. They sat in a warm, immaculate sitting room and ate scones and pancakes. The family were kind and genial and Niles relaxed almost immediately and made them laugh with anecdotes of school life. He was a great success with Diane. Alison sat quietly for most of the time, occasionally pa.s.sing round plates or pouring out more tea. She was wearing jeans and a tight pale-blue sweater that gave her a firm breasty look. It was the first time he'd seen her out of uniform and the first time he'd seen her with her hair down. It was long and wavy, dull and thick. It made her look less severe. He felt buoyant with l.u.s.t and desire, as if he were over-inflated, as if his lungs were crammed with extra capacity of air. He had a sherry before remounting his bike for the long ride back. He reached the school in time for supper.
”I undressed her very slowly,” he told the dormitory. ”As if she was, sort of fragile, or very weak. I unfastened her bra and I kissed her b.r.e.a.s.t.s gently. Then...then I pulled down her pants and I told her to stand there while I looked at her. She was very slim. Her b.r.e.a.s.t.s were firm with almost perfectly round nipples...” He swallowed, gazing up unblinkingly at the ceiling as he elaborated his fiction. Even Fillery was silent. ”Then I undressed and we got into bed. I ran my hands all over her body. I wanted to make love but, well, we couldn't because I...I didn't have a johnny.”
”I've got dozens,” Fillery said. ”If you'd only asked me.”
”How was I meant to know it would happen?” Niles protested. ”That her parents weren't going to be in? I thought it was just an invitation for tea, for G.o.d's sake.”
Niles, Holland and Panton stood at the back of the a.s.sembly hall. They were wearing cadet-force naval bell-bottoms rolled up to mid-calf, singlets and red-spotted neckerchiefs. In front of the stage Prothero was trying to get the school orchestra in tune. On stage Mr. Mulcaster, the art teacher, was applying final touches to his backdrop depicting the p.o.o.p deck of HMS Pinafore Pinafore. Mulcaster's initials were T. A. M.: Thomas Anthony Mulcaster. He was known as Tampax Tony.
”Christ almighty, look at Tampax,” Panton said scornfully. ”It's pathetic. I think he's actually painting in a seagull.”
”Ah, now that's an original touch,” Holland confessed. ”Almost as good as his rigging and halyards.”
”A seagull,” Niles said. ”What's it supposed to be doing? Hovering in one spot for the entire course of the play?”
”Oh, no. He's painting in a s.h.i.+p on the horizon. A three-master, me hearties, ar.”
”We've got to work something out,” Holland said seriously. ”We must have something arranged for after the cast party. Think of something, for Christ's sake.”
”I've already told you,” Panton said. ”It's got to be the squash courts. They're ideal.”
”Not a chance, mate,” Niles said. ”Do you know what would happen to me if we got caught?”
”Yes. You'd lose your squash colours,” Panton said with heavy sarcasm.
”Jesus, Nilo,” Holland pleaded. ”You're captain of squash. You've got the keys. We can lock the doors behind us. No one'll know.”
”It's all very well for you. I'll get the b.l.o.o.d.y boot.”
”Come on, Quentin. Think of the orgy we can have. I've got blankets, booze. Look, I promised the girls we'd have a party. They're expecting one. We haven't got much time. It'll all be over after Sat.u.r.day night. Gone. Finished.”
Niles was pondering Holland's use of the word orgy orgy.
”Okay,” he said. ”I'll think about it. But I'm not promising anything, mind.”
Alison wore a long, flouncy dress that looked as if it were made out of mattress ticking, and a bonnet. Niles stood beside her in the wings. He could hear the audience taking their seats.
”Like the costume,” he said. ”Nervous?”
Alison c.o.c.ked her head. ”No, I don't think I am, actually.” Niles looked more closely at her. She grew daily more inscrutable. They had seen more of each other during the final run up to the play but he felt that the bizarre intimacy of their first encounter had never been approached. The prospect of inviting her to the party seemed an awesome task.
”Listen,” he began. ”Some of us are having a little 'do' after the cast party on Sat.u.r.day night. Wondered if you'd fancy coming. You know, select little gathering.”
”Sat.u.r.day night? After the cast party? Yes, okay.”
”And I want you lot to think about me this time tomorrow night,” Niles told his cowed and quiescent dormitory, ”because”-he paused, exultation setting up a tremor in his voice-”because this time tomorrow night I shall be making love. Got that? Making love to a real girl.”
Niles gazed transfixed across the stage at Alison. The final performance of HMS Pinafore HMS Pinafore was almost over. Mr. Booth, the physics master, as Captain Corcoran sang to b.u.t.tercup-a pre-p.u.b.escent boy called Martin-that wherever she might go, he would never be untrue to her. was almost over. Mr. Booth, the physics master, as Captain Corcoran sang to b.u.t.tercup-a pre-p.u.b.escent boy called Martin-that wherever she might go, he would never be untrue to her.
”What, never?” Niles and Alison and the company wanted to know.
”No, never,” a.s.serted Captain Corcoran.
”What...never?” the cast repeated. the cast repeated.
”Well...” ad-libbed the Captain. ”Hardly ever.”
”Hardly ever be untrue to thee-ee-ee...” the cast echoed at full volume.
”I mean, be honest,” Holland said to a.s.sorted members of the cast. ”It's pretty b.l.o.o.d.y, really. I mean, how these people turn up year in year out and pay good money to see that c.r.a.p I'll never know.” He ate some more of his cream bun and put his arm around Helen. ”Ah, Quentin, old son,” he said as Niles came into the dressing room with a paper cup of c.o.ke for Alison. ”A word in your ear.” Niles came over. ”I think we can make our move now. Discreetly, though. See you outside the squash courts in five minutes.”
”Be careful,” Niles said to Alison. He held her arm supportively. ”Watch out for these paving stones.” Alison's high heels seemed to ring out with unpropitious clarity as they walked across the courtyard to the squash courts. It was cold and dark and their breath hung in the air long enough for them to walk through the thin clouds before they dispersed. Alison's hair was down and Niles thought she had never looked so beautiful. Her proximity to him and the thought of what was waiting suddenly seemed to make the simple act of walking hideously complicated. He felt as if a sob were lodged in the back of his throat, ready to spring from his mouth at any moment.
”I'm okay,” Alison said, and he released her arm.
Holland and Panton were already there with Helen and Joyce.
”At last,” Holland said. ”What've you two been up to? Couldn't wait, eh?” Everyone giggled. Niles bent his head more than he needed to unlock the door into the squash courts.
Inside number three court they spread rugs on the boards and sat in a circle round a solitary candle placed in a jam jar. Holland unpacked the picnic. There was some Gouda and Ryvita, a piece of Stilton, slices of salami, gherkins and two long, k.n.o.bbled Polish sausages. From his coat pockets Panton produced a bottle of South African sherry and half a bottle of gin. Paper cups were distributed and the drinks pa.s.sed round.
Niles drank some neat gin. ”To Gilbert and Sullivan.” He toasted the company.
”Ssh,” Holland said. ”Keep it down, Quentin. Your voice, I mean.” There were sn.i.g.g.e.rs at this. Niles didn't dare look at Alison's shadowy face.
They ate their meal with a certain urgent decorum, conscious of the fact that it had to be got out of the way-but in no unseemly rush-before the night's real business could commence. Eventually, after a prearranged nod from Holland, Panton said, ”Quiet. I think I can hear someone outside.” Then he leant forward and blew out the candle. This act was followed by a m.u.f.fled squeal from Joyce and a flurry of whispered instructions, scuffles and collisions as Holland and Pan-ton, Joyce and Helen, gathered up rugs and paper cups and groped their way out of the door to their respective squash courts, leaving number three to Alison and Niles.