We Two Together: A Novel

‘A heartfelt evocation of times past and places remembered, We Two Together beautifully captures the exquisite pain of first loves and first losses. The writing brims with passion for art, music, poetry and boys, and deftly portrays the formative experiences that build the foundations for a life.’

Michael Langan, author of Shadow is a Colour as Light is

‘An unusually honest and open-hearted welcome into an exclusive world on many levels. Freddie is a wonderful guide – engaging us in his coming of age and a love story, which changes the context of family history permanently and for the better. A rare achievement especially in a first novel.’

Leonora Rustamova, author of Stop! Don’t Read This

Copyright © 2023 James Lomax

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Matador

Unit E2 Airfield Business Park,

Harrison Road, Market Harborough,

Leicestershire. LE16 7UL

Tel: 0116 2792299

Email: [email protected]

Web: www.troubador.co.uk/matador

Twitter: @matadorbooks

ISBN 9781805146063

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

Matador® is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd

In memoriam M.C.F.L. (1950–1970)

In her journal she writes: ‘Out of extreme narcissism, I want to see my past set down on paper and in that way, be as I am not.’

Annie Ernaux, The Years

What could he do but accept the disturbing extent to which memory was fictional and hope that the fiction lay in the service of a truth less richly represented by the original facts.

Edward St Aubyn, Some Hope

Contents

Prologue

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Prologue

Giles reached for his mobile.

‘Hi Sam…Yeah, I’m good thanks. Look, I’ve found something and I’m not sure what to do.’

‘Something among Uncle Freddie’s things, you mean?’

‘That’s right. I’ve been going through all his papers. Not just as his husband. It’s my job as his executor. Anyway, I’ve found a stash of letters written to you and obviously never sent. Long letters. More than 20 of them.’

‘What! When did he write them?’

‘They start about five years ago, seemingly after you’d both been to an exhibition at the Hepworth in Wakefield. He says he promised to write to you after he’d had a ‘minor convulsion’, as he calls it, in front of one of the pictures.’

‘Oh, yes. I forgot all about that. But I remember it now.’

‘It must have been about the time Freddie and I first got together. I’d no idea what he was doing scribbling away in his study for hours on end, and never liked to ask in those days.’

‘Why on earth did he never send them?’

‘Search me. But I’ve got an idea – although I don’t want to share it with you until you’ve seen them. Then we’ve got to decide what to do: keep them here, or with you, or even destroy them – although I think that would be a pretty beastly thing to do. There are things in there…’

‘OK. You’d better send them by Recorded Delivery. Emma and I will have a look at them when we can.’

‘Will do. And please give my love to your mother. She was obviously very upset at the funeral. It was lovely though having you and the children here for a few days. Made the place seem like a real home again. I’ll be interested to hear your thoughts.

Bye for now, Sam.’

1

30th March 2020

My dear Sam,

I’m relieved to hear that you and Emma and the children have escaped London now that Lockdown is upon us. Being with your mother in Sussex should be much more sensible for everyone. Let’s hope we can all get through this crazy time unscathed.

Did she mention that I’ve got a lodger, and won’t be here on my own, thank goodness? He’s called Giles Harbord and we’ve declared ourselves an official Bubble for the duration. We met at a conference a few weeks ago when he told me he was looking for somewhere to stay while he finishes his PhD. Since we got on so well I’ve offered him a room here and in return he’s being very helpful in the garden and sorting out some of my things. He said he knew you slightly from Uni when you were both in the Art Film Society. It seems you had different views on Derek Jarman’s films – among other things! He’s been a great blessing as it’s turned out, since it wouldn’t have been much fun ‘socially isolating’ on my own, with only Tarquin here snapping at my heels for walks we’re not allowed to take. I’ve promised Giles a trip to Rome together, to celebrate, when it’s all over.

*

You’ll remember I promised to write to you explaining why I had a minor convulsion at the Hepworth Gallery last year when we saw that picture and heard the poem. I told you it was a long story, so here is my opening shot. It will probably be the first of many letters; I don’t know at this stage just how many. I hope you will keep them. When (and if!) you eventually inherit the Queen Anne secretaire I suggest you stuff them into one of the internal drawers where the other family papers are kept. Who knows; if I get past Letter 1 and make a decent job of it this could be a contribution to our family’s history.

I hope that everything I’m going to write will be more or less accurate. Like a lot of people of my antiquity, my long-term memory seems to be getting better as I get older – or maybe it’s just my capacity for wishful thinking? ‘Recollection in tranquility’ indeed! But it’s perfectly true that I find it easier to remember things from over fifty years ago than from this morning – you need only ask Giles.

*

I wonder if I had a premonition as I was waiting for you to arrive off the London train that day a few months ago? I was a little early and walked to the end of the platform keeping Tarquin on a tight leash. From there I could see the relentless tides of traffic washing back and forth over the Calder Bridge. On one side was the medieval bridge chapel, all ogees, pinnacles and crockets, like a folly in an illuminated manuscript. On the other, the spartan blocks of the Hepworth, the symbol of Wakefield’s hoped-for Renaissance. Two temples, 500 years apart: one dedicated to faith, the other to art, each making their separate bids for immortality.

As you stepped off the train, I’m afraid the first thing I noticed was that you’d cut off your ponytail at last! You told me you’d done it to celebrate your thirtieth now that you’d joined the ranks of the ‘young middle aged’.

‘Welcome to the club,’ I said, and I caught you looking at me to check I was joking.

It often takes a little time for us to settle back into our banter, but we always enjoy sparring with each other in front of works of art, don’t we? That was why we’d arranged to meet to see the exhibition ‘Alan Davie and David Hockney: Early Works’. I’d hoped this show might be nicely provocative but, as you’ll remember, it completely knocked me for six.

That labyrinth of white spaces! We’d just about got attuned to the large semi-abstract canvases when we turned a corner to be confronted by a picture of shocking crudeness: two indeterminate figures attempting to kiss, one arm reaching out to grasp the other against the wall of – possibly – a urinal? It was splashed haphazardly with obscene slogans and love hearts. The picture was deliberately art brut, of course – a homage to Jean Dubuffet, maybe? And all the more startling coming from Hockney who draws as beautifully as Ingres. Then I saw the title: We Two Boys Together Clinging.

Oh my God, those words! I knew just where they came from. And a moment’s inspection of the canvas showed me that all the lewd graffiti were the lines from Walt Whitman’s defiant poem. I gasped inwardly in surprise and recognition.

‘What do you make of this?’ I managed to ask, playing for time.

‘Is it cottaging, 1960s style?’ you almost joked. ‘It’s raw… but quite tender… nice soft blues, pinks and greys – are they symbolic? … What’s all the graffiti trying to say?’

‘Let me read it for you.’

I knew it off by heart, of course. How could I ever have forgotten a single word?

‘We two boys together clinging,

One the other never leaving,

Up and down the roads going,

North and South excursions making,

Power enjoying, elbows stretching, fingers clutching,

Arm’d and fearless, eating, drinking, sleeping, loving.

No law less than ourselves owning, sailing, soldiering, thieving, threatening,

Misers, menials, priests alarming, air breathing, water drinking, on the turf or the sea-beach dancing,

Cities wrenching, ease scorning, statutes mocking, feebleness chasing,

Fulfilling our foray.’

All those participles came rolling out – all twenty-four of them, I remember now – in quick succession: ‘clinging… clutching… drinking… sleeping… loving…’ They sounded like hailstones dropping heavily into a basin of still water, making ripples, bouncing back from the edge, crashing into each other, creating a storm of confusion.

I had to sit down. You took my arm and helped me to a bench nearby. You asked what had upset me. Was it the picture? Or the poem?

It had been me, the sound of my own voice bringing up those words and images from so long ago, which had confounded me. They were coming on too quickly to focus: moments of joy, and then one of inexpressible sadness. There we were again, We Two Boys, dressed up to the nines, standing in front of the mirror before my eighteenth, my arm across his shoulder, saying nice, sweet, boyish things to each other; then he and I lying in the grass, me overwhelmed by his beauty, his closeness, and the sound of his voice, so rich and gritty.

As we passed through the foyer, there was a video with Andrew McMillan reciting the Whitman poem in his strong South Yorkshire voice and with a twinkle in his eye. I remembered how I had envied those boys in the poem, and still do – especially now! How brazen they were! They’d been so happy with each other and their adventure; they didn’t give a damn about where they were heading, or what they were doing. But we, the readers, are left hanging in the air wondering. What was their story? Did they get away with it? How did it end?

We took our lunch trays into the garden and sat ourselves on the paved terrace surrounded by raised beds carefully planted with shrubs and spring flowers. Huge, empty, Piranesian warehouses loomed over us.

‘Come on, Uncle Freddie, I want to hear about that poem,’ you said. You added, smiling, with a hint of forgivable prurience, as if to coax me further, ‘I’m very broad-minded, you know.’

I laughed and said you’d certainly need to be once I got started. I told you how the poem had been adopted by me and my first love as our special ‘motif’ or ‘national anthem’, all those years ago. How the two of us had dreamt that we might be like those two boys, living our own picaresque adventure, creating a self-contained little world without caring about anyone else.

As I was speaking, I felt an overwhelming need to articulate something, almost anything, to express what I was now feeling. Then I heard a voice in my ear, barely a whisper:

‘Go on, Freddie, tell Sam the whole story. You must do it. Remember that last night when you were together. You thought your love had made you immortal; here’s your chance to tell it.’

Now I come to think of it, perhaps it was the voice of my long-suffering guardian angel who I’d been neglecting for the past half-century.

*

And so, Sam, let me take you back to the third week of September 1966, the year England famously won the World Cup. The autumn term at Upton Abbey School was just beginning. Most of us who lived in the South were on the specially chartered train – with some of GWR’s most battered carriages – leaving Paddington for Stroud via Cheltenham. My friends, all of us sixteen-year-olds in Ambrose House, had purloined a whole vacant compartment for ourselves, locked the door and pulled down the blinds on the inside. The banter and bragging were only to be expected after two months’ holiday as we put our feet up on the seats and puffed away on our last ‘legal’ cigarettes – ‘gaspers’ or ‘fags’, we called them. The atmosphere soon became agreeably warm and fuggy.

My offering was a typically pretentious bottle of lukewarm duty-free Asti I’d brought back from Sicily where I’d been staying with Galbraith’s family in Taormina. We prised it open with a loud plop, to great acclaim, and then handed it round, everyone drinking straight from the bottle trying hard not to be outwitted by the resurging bubbles.

‘Is your sister still seeing Waybrook?’ asked the ever-hopeful Scrope.

‘You’re telling me,’ I replied. ‘He came to stay for a whole week’s sailing at the cottage. I had to share my room with him and his revolting socks. He and Pippa were going around together all the time. But I think she’s getting fed up with his moods.’

‘Perhaps I could start writing to her?’ he asked, looking expectant.

‘You could try, but I’m not sure she’ll answer. She can be very picky.’

Poor old Scrope had been waiting in the wings for the past six months. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that with his glasses and terrible acne he wasn’t exactly your mother’s type. As for Waybrook, I always thought he was an arrogant smoothie. He probably despised me equally as an irredeemable pervert. But we had to put up with each other as our mothers were like sisters.

This group was what I called my ‘mainstream’ friends, some dating back to my time at prep school and mostly from the extended Catholic cousinhood, which, even at this late date, provided a certain tribal identity. My other, more exotic, half-foreign friends must have been returning to school by alternative routes. Our talk was all about girls, parties, water-skiing, where we’d watched The Match on TV and all the rest. I was thankful to be part of this, although in the back of my mind I wasn’t always comfortable with everything this camaraderie represented. It was simply that I knew I was a bit different from the others, and to be fair, most of these fellows recognised that. No one seemed to mind, since by now we’d all become very used to each other. I knew perfectly well what my difference consisted of but didn’t know yet where it was leading. Whether or not I’d be able to stand up to the inevitable consequences was still an unknown.

No one else in that compartment knew it, but there was one person in particular whom I was truly aching to see again. My heart beat faster every time I thought of him as we drew closer to Upton. Might he have changed in the past two months? What would be his attitude now he’d become Head of House?

The windows had steamed up so much that even with the blinds raised it was impossible to see the passing landscape or the towns that hardly any of us would ever visit by choice. A raucous sing-song got going, including the ‘Eton Boating Song’ with some alternative and highly improper lyrics.

How different this was from my train journey home from Sicily a few weeks ago, entirely on my own, after my father – your dear grandfather, Sam – had refused to buy me an air ticket because of the additional cost. I well remember feeling indignant but could hardly complain. I spent most of the journey standing in the passage, my imagination in overdrive as we tore past places with such romantic associations: the Bay of Naples, the Roman Campagna, the Ligurian Riviera, then over the Alps via Milan and Domodossola (what a beautiful name!) and on to Paris. How familiar that route was to become in a few years! Just as exciting was the unfamiliar frisson as I let those dark-eyed Italian boys brush past me, especially the young soldiers, giving me a courteous ‘Permesso’. I couldn’t resist taking a backward glance as they strode down the passage with supreme assurance, admiring their elegant figures, so tantalising in their neatly pressed khaki trousers and shirts.

After being decanted into the waiting coaches at Stroud for the last leg of the journey, this unwieldy cargo finally disgorged itself into the main quad at Upton. The sun was getting low but was still strong enough for the fine Gothic-revival buildings and the abbey church to cast their long shadows over the gravel. Just at that moment the familiar sound of the triple peals for the Angelus rang out – the call to midday and evening prayer reminding us, and the world, of the Incarnation:

The Word was made flesh

And dwelt amongst us.

Alas, that day its sublime message was lost in the prevailing confusion.

By the time everyone had orientated themselves, found their new rooms or dormitories and unpacked their trunks, it was time for supper. This was followed by an extended free time until the bell for the bedtime routine. In Ambrose all seventy boys assembled in the main dormitory, a big open-vaulted interior, standing beside their bed-cubicles. My new berth this term was almost de luxe, with its own side window and fitted chest of drawers, situated about three quarters of the way around the perimeter, thereby reflecting my recent advance in seniority. Those who slept in the adjoining juniors’ dormitory, or the older boys with their own rooms, crowded around the two doors. A background hubbub prevailed, with some light ragging among the more spirited individuals taking advantage of the duty prefect’s distraction.

A general hush descended as the housemaster, Dom Gabriel, adjusting the cowl of his monk’s habit, entered the dormitory accompanied by Fitzpatrick himself, the new Head of House, and the six house prefects.

At last; this was the moment I’d been waiting for. My heart leapt as he came into view – the boy, now surely a man, with whom I’d been smitten last term. Those feelings of intense admiration came rushing back. He seemed to have become even more untouchably handsome since I had last seen him over two months ago, if such a thing were possible. Now he was sporting his new dove-grey double-breasted waistcoat – a sartorial detail of immense prestige, endowing him with an aura of heroic glamour. How often I had dreamt of the day when I might be able to wear this prized item reserved only for this most senior of roles. His acolytes, the house prefects, looked utterly pedestrian in their equivalent versions in black. Everyone else had to make do with standard single-breasted black waistcoats worn under our morning suits: plain black jackets, pin-striped trousers, white shirts, stiff collars and black ties.

The task for the Head of House was to carry the silver asperges bucket containing the holy water, walking behind the housemaster as they processed around the dormitory blessing the assembled company. Dom Gabriel would dip the aspergilium, or sprinkling brush, into the bucket from time to time, then wave it in the air in different directions, hoping everyone would receive a good dowsing. It was a symbolic cleansing of our sins of that day before we proceeded shortly to our bodily ablutions in the washrooms below. A side-benefit – it was hoped – was that we might be strengthened against the nocturnal temptations of the Devil.

As he set forth Dom Gabriel began the ‘Miserere’:

‘Have mercy on me, O God, in your kindness…’

We all took up the rest of the psalm, reciting it from beginning to end by which time he had circumnavigated the whole dormitory. Dom Gabriel’s new liberal regime had recently ordained that it should now be said in English instead of Latin. That was a shame, in my view – an early example of my highly selective counter-culturalism and weakness for lost causes.

As the little procession approached my cubicle I tried to catch Fitzpatrick’s eye. Last term, more than once, he had reciprocated my longing glances with truly beatific smiles. Today…

Oh no! What a disappointment! What cruelty!

All I got was an icy stare.

That night I fancy my pillow was wet through with the tears of rejection and my bedclothes dishevelled with the restlessness of fury. Alas for the disappointments of youth!

More to the point, it is Dom Gabriel who is the more significant player in this story. I admired him very much, although I had been a bit shy of him in my first year or so. He was still youthful, even in our eyes, and with his dark curly hair and knowing smile, was one of the most popular and charismatic of the school’s seven housemasters. He smoked a pipe, and his panelled study, with its deep leather easy chairs, always reeked deliciously of his favourite St Bruno brand. Of course, the pipe was a subterfuge and a thoroughly un-monastic affectation. But it allowed him a moment of drama as he paused to relight it during a tricky conversation, using slow deliberate hand movements, sometimes stealing a glance at his now-flummoxed interlocutor. Before he’d become a monk he’d read English at Cambridge, supervised by the great F.R. Leavis, and been Secretary of the Union.

Most boys understood implicitly how his celibate monastic status gave him a unique bond with each and every one of us. All his paternal instincts were directed towards us, his adopted family. Some boys just never ‘got it’, however, and thought all the monks were closet paedos. In those more innocent times, strangely enough, there were no serious grounds for anyone to believe that. Thirty years later, of course, the evidence began to stack up. Most of us still believe it was just a case of one or two ‘bad apples’. But it’s been enough to ruin their reputation forever.

Depending on each boy’s ‘attitude’ – which could be pretty volatile – Dom Gabriel would be acknowledged with signals varying from a guilty glance to broad grins. I’d just learnt I was to be in his and Dom Benet’s group for my second-year sixth-form English: Milton (Comus), Shakespeare (The Tempest), Yeats, E.M. Forster and Henry James. I was raring to go.

*

Next morning at precisely seven o’clock the duty house prefect burst through the double doors into the dormitory, switching on all the lights simultaneously, and ringing a large brass handbell with sadistic vigour. The chorus of groans and whimpers emanating from under the crumpled bedclothes expressed a predictably adolescent response to this unwelcome reveille. After a third warning by the exasperated prefect the worst and slowest offenders would have the sheets and blankets summarily ripped off their beds. There was more than a whiff of testosterone and other suspicious rancid smells, which the prefect did his best to dispel by throwing open the nearest windows. Only the most determined ephebophile could relish such a scene.

An equally unsightly routine now followed as the entire school made its way from every direction towards the abbey church for Mass. The yawning, resentful teenagers, some with stiff collars left undone, others with shirt-tails hanging out, were sprawled across the rush-bottomed chairs trying to make themselves as comfortable as possible. If anyone had their head in their hands, they certainly weren’t praying.

After what seemed like an age without sustenance, we’d be ravenous for breakfast, usually consisting of vast quantities of hot porridge, bacon, eggs and baked beans, bread and marmalade, all washed down by gallons of sweet milky tea. (Consult the Jennings books for the general picture – or even Harry Potter.) By which time most boys had pulled themselves together sufficiently to gather in their house dayrooms for a short assembly.

In Ambrose this was another huge draughty room with a ping-pong table at one end and a billiards table at the other. Around the sides the robust Arts and Crafts panelling contained built-in lockers while the space between the windows was filled with a dusty trophy cabinet. There were a couple of big lumpy sofas, battered easy chairs and window seats, and two large oak tables on which were strewn the daily newspapers and a few carefully vetted glossies including The Illustrated London News, Punch and Paris Match. Dim portraits of ecclesiastics and a giant crucifix clad the upper walls. The house record player, an indestructible Dynatron capable of truly ghetto-blasting volume, and the single black and white television were the most prized fixtures. Their use involved an impenetrable Byzantine protocol.

For the morning house assembly everyone ranged themselves in a wide arc centred on the housemaster who would stand with his back to the trophy cabinet. Tradition decreed that the most junior boys stood to his right and the most senior to his left, with everyone else taking up their places in between. My position in this unofficial placement was therefore towards the centre, veering slightly towards the left of Dom Gabriel.

Within my sightlines I could distinguish a wide gamut of youthful physiognomies. They were principally Anglo-Saxon but with a few Latin, Asian and African variations, reflecting the school’s catholicity. Near to me was Lee from Hong Kong, short, wiry and inscrutable – incredibly bright, with a scholarship for Harvard in the offing, and a sprightly little hooker in the scrum. Next to him was his close friend de Courcy, nephew of the French Prime Minister, tall and handsome with classical features, beautifully mannered and obviously destined for the Quai d’Orsay. In total contrast was Clementi, congenitally obese but transparently good-natured. His father owned a string of ice cream vans in Scotland and was the generous sponsor of our periodic ‘feasts’. The urbane but tough Lascelles, from Barbados, had had a difficult start but was now becoming our star turn in the inter-house boxing tournaments.

Fitzpatrick was there of course, next to Dom Gabriel. I could hardly bear to look at him after last night. But, summoning up courage, I raised my eyes to take him in. To my relief, there was nothing at all – no rush of affection, no swelling of the heart, no impulse to grab his attention. Instead, all I saw was a medium-sized boy, fumbling about with today’s agenda, definitely out of his depth in his new role. Pathetic! How blind I must have been, how foolish. Thank goodness that was all over with.

But I had a lesson to learn: nature abhors a vacuum.

I continued looking around me. Other examples of youthful expression included the cheeky subversiveness of Langton, positively proud of having been overlooked as a prefect; the air of supercilious entitlement of the elder of my two cousins in the school, Scarisbrick Ma, one year older than me; or the painful timidity of some of the younger ones, like sad little Dodsworth, standing opposite, always seemingly on the point of tears, poor boy.

Yet the overall impression was one of resignation; most people would probably admit to being not-entirely-unhappy and prepared to make the best of it. Ambrose was well known as a liberal and easy-going place. Its civilised, even quite sophisticated, ambience was largely Dom Gabriel’s personal achievement. Floggings by him were now almost unheard-of and the prefects were no longer allowed to administer physical chastisement at their own discretion. Without bragging about it, we Ambrosians were quite proud of our overrepresentation among the past and present holders of prizes in the music, art and literary fields, as well as our better-than-average ratings in the inter-house sports ladders. No wonder I’d done my utmost to switch to this house having heard of unpleasant tales in the one to which I had originally been assigned.

As if to compensate for the uniformity of our school outfits, it was the way we lavished attention on our hairstyles and sideburns that betrayed our individualism and general trendiness. Most of us wore our hair as long as the recently liberalised rules allowed, unthinkable only five years ago: Buttricks and some of his cohort had adopted Beatles-style mop-tops or ‘curtains’ since last term – not very flattering in my eyes. One or two, like Kutchinski and Acton, had cultivated a suave swept-back poetic look, which I rather admired, imitating Rupert Brooke or even Oscar Wilde. At the opposite end of the spectrum, a very few ultra-conservative types, including Dillon and O’Brien – probably anticipating their future in the Irish Guards – wore their hair super-short with a sharp parting, slicked back with hair cream shining as glossily as their shoes.

Close beside me were my contemporaries, in mid-career. On the whole we were an unremarkable lot, most of us now having reached our full height but some still needing to ‘fill out’, as my mother would say, leaving us looking slightly disproportionate. I myself had long legs, well-formed thighs and a fleshy, rounded bottom, which seemed to attract some not-always-unwelcome stroking and pinching in the showers.

Don’t be too shocked, Sam; such gropings were par for the course and quite flattering, I suppose! Perhaps my easy acquiescence of such attentions was a discreet acknowledgment that I was a not-entirely-closeted Homo. Although I never went so far as to positively invite admiration, unlike some.

*

My amour propre – at least concerning my appearance – had received an unexpected fillip during the holidays. I was on my way home from Hurlingham on the Underground still wearing my tennis kit. Sitting opposite me was a tall, hippyish fellow, with long blond curly hair, who kept smiling at me and looking me up and down. His hand was embarrassingly just a little too close to his crotch and I tried not to look. As he opened and closed his manspread our knees would knock and I’d feel a nice little shudder pass through my body and something moved under my jockstrap. I kept trying to look away, but it was no good and I found myself smiling back.

As we approached Earl’s Court he stood up to leave. He leant over towards me, giving me a wink, saying softly,

‘Bye for now, gorgeous.’

I felt so flattered that I couldn’t resist giving him a winsome little smile. Perhaps that was why, just as he was stepping off the train, he looked round at me again and blew me a kiss. For a split second I was tempted to get up and follow him; what an adventure that might have been! It became a subject of many nocturnal fantasies! But panic set in, and I stayed put. Later I realised he was obviously stoned, but even so I felt tremendously heartened. I swore to myself I’d never be so feeble again.

*

Since this was the first assembly of the new school year, I was not the only one keen to inspect the new intake of boys, now ‘fags’, who had moved up from their year in the Junior House. The lineup of a dozen boys standing opposite me in different profiles and attitudes briefly resembled the sculptured frieze of a classical temple.

For goodness’ sake, Sam, don’t confuse the word ‘fag’ in this context with the American meaning of the word, or, heaven forbid, ‘faggots’. Or even how it was used as slang for cigarettes. In the English public school tradition ‘fags’ were the junior boys who were assigned to the seniors and prefects – their ‘fag-masters’ – to do small errands like cleaning shoes, making tea and so on. It was supposed to give each a sense of responsibility for the other. In principle it was quite a good idea but it often led to resentment, or alternatively to some quite overintense relationships. The question of whether institutional ‘fagging’ – excuse the inelegant phrase – should be abolished was a perennial one in the school debating societies.

Among the new boys standing opposite me there was one who immediately stood out: shortish, smooth-skinned, fine jet-black hair, an oval face, and big, inviting doe eyes. He was looking directly across at us with a cheeky smile, suggesting he knew all about his potential charms. He was indeed a prize ‘lush’, as these particularly attractive pubescent boys were known, capable of ravishing or breaking many hearts by granting or withholding real or imagined favours. My overly precocious friend ‘Pips’ Phillips, standing next to me – evidently having stolen his sister’s eye-liner (later confiscated) – saw the direction in which I was looking and whispered loudly in my ear,

‘My dear, he’s called Rowse – pronounced Rose, don’t you know. ‘What a pretty boy! Such an impertinent air! as the divine Marcel once said.’

My other friend, Williamson, overhearing him added, imitating a Cockney rudeboy,

‘Cor! ’E’ll be the new ’owse tart alright. Looks as though ’e’ll