Growing Pains Read online

  “How do you do?” said Stephen, keeping his voice even. He turned to gesture Richard, waiting politely to be drawn into the group. “This is Richard Fitzjohn, a friend of mine and Graham’s. He’s here to give me some moral support, but he’s here on his own account too. Graham taught him, and he was a good friend.”

  Richard, who was never to be seen in anything other than tee-shirts and trainers, and who only ever shed his jeans to put on shorts, was immaculate in an icy white shirt, black tie and navy blazer, dark blue slacks with razor-blade creases, and black town-shoes that glowed with polishing. Stephen could see immediately that he made a very good impression on the Curtises. He had no idea whatever what impression he himself had made. He soon learned.

  “You were Graham’s special friend, Stephen,” said Mrs Curtis, turning elegantly back from Richard. She saw various different expressions chase each other rapidly across his face, and smiled, a little less tautly than before. “Yes, we knew,” she said softly. “Or rather, we felt fairly sure. He never confided in us, about that or anything else. He was a very self-sufficient man. But we were meant to know: we were provided with the necessary information. I hope he was happy.”

  Stephen swallowed, moved more than he could ever have imagined he might be by such an unemotional little speech. “He was,” he said. “I… I think he was very happy. No. I know he was,” he ended, more firmly. “I’m very sorry,” he added, feeling very conscious of the inadequacy of the words. He shot a quick sidelong glance in the direction of Graham’s father, and saw that he was being appraised again, piercingly. The man saw that his observation had been noticed, and took a smart step forward. “You’re a cricketer, I believe?” Stephen nodded, too surprised to speak. “Mmmm. Graham talked of you. Said you were an off-spinner. Good to see that in a boy your age. Dying art, I’d have said. Good to see I’m not entirely correct.” He paused, and his prominent blue eyes misted very slightly. “He loved his cricket,” he resumed, staring through Stephen into some mental picture from the past. “More than almost anything else. He wasn’t a man of strong passions, or a boy for that matter. But cricket he loved.” Stephen thought he could have had something to say about the strong passions, but he wisely refrained from saying it.

  After that they found that they naturally paired off, Graham’s father, oddly, gravitating towards Stephen and talking about cricket, while Mrs Curtis talked quietly to Richard, and was unobtrusively charmed as they talked of Graham’s gifted teaching and his love of France. Before long she was speaking quite naturally to the quiet, somehow reassuring young man of intimate and personal aspects of her son. “He was quite extraordinarily self-possessed — even as a boy,” she found herself telling a perfect stranger. “He was… not secretive… but he made very certain that he kept the entire emotional side of his life completely to himself. We never knew what he was thinking, or feeling. Just occasionally he would become passionately concerned about something or other: he once half-killed a boy at school — a very much older and larger boy, we found out later — for bullying a friend of his. But for the most part, he contrived to live his own life, quite separate from us and the rest of the family…”

  “…remember the first time he played for the Vine First Eleven… He was sixteen. Drafted in at the last minute, someone taken ill. I happened to be at home on leave, and damned glad I was. Wouldn’t have missed it. Scored seventy-three in an hour and a half, and held onto a scorcher at cover point. Never saw him on a Saturday or a Sunday after that…”

  “…I’ve seen them together, and I’ve got no doubt whatever that they were happy. Blissfully happy, deliriously happy, I might say, if I’d read the wrong kind of literature and acquired a fondness for clichés…”

  “…course, we began to wonder if he might be… of the kind to prefer other men, but we never knew for certain. I feel sure that that was to spare us any possible distress. But I do wish he’d felt he could confide in us. I wish he’d known that we wished him only happiness, from whatever source he found it…”

  “…amazing how much he taught me — I don’t mean in class, though he was a brilliant teacher there, too. I mean, the amount of information he had stored up, about every subject that ever cropped up… there was more to it than that, though. It wasn’t only information, or even mainly. It was… I don’t know, culture I suppose. He introduced me to so many things: good food, music — he was very fond of classical music, you know…”

  “…startled when he declared that he was going to teach. Never wanted him to follow me into the service. Saw from the outset that he was too… too thoughtful for that. Got his mother’s brains. More than me, by a long chalk…”

  “…getting over it pretty well, I think. I’m doing all I can, and I’ve got a very wise father and a mother with a bedside manner that would be worth a fortune. And the cricket is starting very soon, and I think that will be the best tonic of all…”

  “…time to go into the church, I think. Perhaps we can squeeze a drink in afterwards…”

  “…be delighted…”

  * * *

  They went into the vast church together, but separated once inside. Graham’s parents wished to sit alone for the service, and said courteous goodbyes to the boys just inside the doors. Richard and Stephen set about finding a familiar face among the crowds that had by this time gathered. After interminable edging and easing through knots of chattering people, Stephen finally caught sight of Bill McKechnie’s battered features, and they barged through the crush as if to a long-lost brother. Bill, looking surprisingly at home and comfortable in a dark suit and tie, led them with an efficient mixture of tact and brute force through the milling multitude to where the cricket club had annexed a couple of pews. The dozen club members and players who had turned up waved and grinned.

  Before the boys went to squeeze in among the others Bill grabbed them for a moment. “We’re all goin back to the club after,” he said in an oddly subdued version of his usual conversational bawl. “Thought we’d have a private do of our own after this show’s finished. You’ll both come, a course?” The boys assented immediately. “Good,” said Bill. “It won’t be anything special — just a small private remembrance of an old pal, you know?” He looked down on them and smiled, an uncharacteristic, shifting smile in which sadness and his usual mischievous twinkle were strangely mingled. “Course, it’s gonna be a piss-up, really. But I don’t s’pose Graham’da minded that, do you, our kid?” he added, looking very closely at Stephen.

  Stephen smiled, a slightly guilty smile. “I think he’d have approved thoroughly,” he admitted. “But we’re supposed to be meeting his parents after the service. We said we’d have a drink with them…

  “Okay,” said Bill, leading them back to the cricket club pews. “Maybe we’ll all come. Otherwise, you go and have a drink an a chat with em, an we’ll find a boozer somewhere an wait for you, if they wanna be alone with you. I’ll fix it. You can trust me to be tactful.”

  “I know we can,” said Stephen. He felt a sudden surge of affection for the hulking, ugly, kindly Bill. It found expression in a beautiful, sad, lost smile, in which admiration had a large part. He never knew how appealing it made him, so he never knew either how it brought a lump to Bill’s throat that threatened to choke him for a moment. Nor did he know that Graham’s mother, watching the little scene curiously from her seat, saw the smile and understood a great deal about her son that had been hidden until that moment. But Richard saw all these things, and his heart swelled alarmingly as he reflected on the fact that he was now the recipient of that smile, beneficiary and custodian alike.

  “Okay,” said Bill, giving the boys a conspiratorial wink as he shepherded them into their seats. “By the way,” he added, turning back and bending low to murmur to them. “You’re both okay for the match on Saturday, are you? You’re both selected.” They beamed him simultaneous grins, unable to help it. Then they turned to each other and exchanged slightly guilty looks. Bill saw, and understood, both, and pause
d before striding off to gather in the remains of his party. “He’da wanted it this way,” he said softly. “Don’t feel guilty about it.” Then he was gone, leaving Stephen still reeling under the impact of the great wave of love that had engulfed him, and Richard, cooler, feeling none the less an immense admiration for the man’s sensitivity and perception — qualities he was well equipped to judge, being possessed of both in good measure himself.

  They sat waiting for the proceedings to get under way, looking interestedly about them at the appointments of the great church, and studying the still thickly flowing crowds of mourners curiously in search of familiar faces. “Hey!” whispered Richard a few minutes later. “There’s Jack Page. And Inky Knight. And Bill Williams and Killer Collins… Half the school’s here. Half the staff, anyway. Haven’t seen any of the blokes yet. Hey! There’s the HM. They must’ve called an extra half-holiday, I should think. Can’t be enough masters to go round, with that lot here.”

  Stephen craned his neck and watched the school contingent as they made their way up the aisle, clearly scanning the packed pews for known faces. He saw the sudden broad smile of recognition dawn on Jack Page’s face as he spotted Bill McKechnie, Colin Preston and the rest of the cricketers. He saw Page immediately jab a bony elbow into the ribs of Inky Knight, head of the chemistry department, and watched as the entire group of masters swung round in a well-ordered phalanx to descend on the remaining empty seats in the cricketers’ enclave. Several of them paused to greet Stephen and Richard, and one or two, Stephen felt half-sure, lingered to offer him sympathetic glances before passing on to their seats. He saw Bill take a moment off from directing traffic to lean sideways and whisper in Jack Page’s ear; and he saw Page nod vigorously. Then he glanced rather uncertainly in Stephen’s direction.

  Stephen saw a very uncharacteristic expression pass over Page’s face, distinctly apprehensive, even a little shifty. He understood clearly that the man was remembering how he had been in part responsible for Graham’s troubles the previous year, ending in his discreet but rather precipitate departure from the school staff. But Page had made amends as best he could, and Stephen felt no animosity. He smiled and raised a hand in an amiable wave, and Page’s face immediately cleared. He grinned and waved, and made his way to a space in the row behind. He bent over to whisper in Stephen’s ear as he squeezed along the row. “See yew later, at the club,” he said. “I’d like a chat, if you’re willin.”

  “Of course,” hissed Stephen, risking a crick in his neck to twist round and whisper back. Page nodded and passed on.

  The headmaster also looked directly at Stephen, and gave him a serious, austere look, which just turned into a brief, curtailed smile before he passed on, parting the crowds in his customary majestic fashion, like an angular heron picking its way fastidiously through a mob of chattering sparrows. Stephen managed to restrain the bitter, ironical smile that rose unbidden, and stared seriously back for an instant before the man went out of sight. “Hypocritical bastard,” he muttered to Richard, who gave him a worried glance. A moment later the service got under way.

  * * *

  The headmaster was waiting for them, however, an hour later as the crowds streamed out into the mild Spring sunshine. “Stephen,” he said, materialising beside the boys. “I wanted to say to you personally how very sorry I am.” He waited.

  Stephen, tall though he was, had to look up at the man. He stared into his face, momentarily at a loss. The headmaster’s directness had had the unexpected effect of temporarily defusing Stephen’s deep and contemptuous bitterness towards the man he blamed above all others for Graham’s downfall. It didn’t take long for it to find its way back to the surface, however. “I don’t see how you can be that sorry,” he said icily. “I’m surprised you could find the gall to turn up here, frankly. It was your action in sacking him that drove him to France in the first place, and if he hadn’t been there he’d never have been on that plane.” He caught a motion out of the corner of his eye, and saw Richard, visibly wincing, slipping away a few paces to wait out of earshot.

  The headmaster was not a shirker, and for all his air of slightly chilly aloofness he was a man of honour and some moral courage. He looked quizzically down at Stephen for a moment, then cleared his throat and said “I can understand your taking that attitude, Stephen. But I was in a difficult position. I liked Graham, personally, very much — as almost everyone did. I had the greatest respect for him professionally, as a teacher, and I recognised his great personal integrity. I also made it abundantly clear to him that his private sexual nature was of no concern to me. But when I was faced with a potential scandal which would have affected every boy at the school, to say nothing of my staff and the school itself, I had very little choice in what I did. In fact I had no choice at all. I hope that you will come to understand that some time. But there was nothing personal in it: I should hope that my presence here was sufficient indication of that. Please accept my deep condolences.” And with that he gave Stephen a slightly frosty, but obviously sincere smile, and passed rapidly out of sight amongst the clearing crowds of people.

  Richard, who had been hovering anxiously on the fringe of earshot, came up quickly, and a little breathlessly. “Stevie, you didn’t…?” He left the question unasked. Stephen gave him a faint, rather rueful smile. “No, I didn’t bite him,” he said. There was a curiously adult and equivocal look about him. “He’s got more guts than I’d have credited him with. It took some pluck, to come and face me like that. I’ve got a feeling I misjudged him, you know.” The worried expression on Richard’s face cleared and was replaced by one of relief. “You do have a bit of a way of doing that, old chap,” he said gently. “You can sometimes be a teeny-weeny bit hasty in your judgments, you know. I’m not criticising you. Wouldn’t dream of it. It’s the way you are, part of your strength. But just sometimes you do tend to be a bit…” He sought for the word. “A bit… rigorous. A bit uncompromising. Almost pitiless sometimes.”

  Stephen turned and stared at him. After a moment his expression relaxed, and he laughed. Richard’s heart jumped as he realised that it was the first time he had heard Stephen’s old, natural laugh since they had been in Holland together on the tour last summer. “I know what I’m like,” said Stephen, giving his friend a fond smile that caused several passing mourners to stare briefly before turning to friends and making comments. Neither boy noticed. “I think I need someone like you, Richard,” Stephen went on. “You’re too good for me, but I need you. You calm me down. Graham did, too. I’ve had an idea.”

  “Oh?” said Richard. “What’s that, then?”

  “I think,” said Stephen, reflectively, speaking softly but clearly close to Richard’s ear, “it would be a very good idea if, after this do at the cricket club, you took me back to your place and fucked a bit of sense into me.”

  Richard stared at him for some moments in mingled disbelief and delight. Then he said “You’ve got a deal, partner,” Suddenly, the world was back to normal.

  5

  They found Bill and the cricketers waiting in a thirsty-looking group at the foot of the huge sweep of steps up to the front doors of the church. Then they looked about anxiously for Graham’s parents. After a search they found them talking gravely to a number of other mourners in the lee of a vast pillar. They hovered nearby until the little group broke up and the Curtises were left alone. Then they approached diffidently, wondering if the earlier atmosphere of warm comity had survived the lengthy, rather cold impersonality of the service.

  It had. In an unrehearsed swap of partners, Richard was promptly annexed by Graham’s father, while Stephen ran back to ask the cricket club contingent to kill an hour in a nearby pub, then returned to walk beside Mrs Curtis as they went purposefully, led by Mr Curtis, to a small and semi-deserted restaurant and wine bar down a nearby back-street.

  There Mr Curtis quietly took control of the proceedings, piloting them to a secluded table in a remote corner of the subterranean restaurant, ord
ering with no more than perfunctory reference to the boys or even his wife, and opening the conversation with the arrival of grissini and a bottle of Barolo.

  “Tell us about Graham,” he said without preamble as soon as the waiter had left them. “Tell us about the last year or so,” he elaborated. “We didn’t see very much of him,” put in his wife sadly, toying with her glass.

  And so the boys, hesitantly at first, then with gathering confidence under Mr Curtis’s tactful management, told the Curtises the full story of the last two years of their son’s life. When they had talked themselves to a standstill the four of them sat, all by some common instinct devoting their attention to their plates for a few minutes, almost as if in prayer. Graham’s father broke the moment. He looked up, patted his lips briskly with his napkin, and said quietly, “Thank you. Thank you very much indeed.” Everyone looked up then, and the table became animated again. He went on, a little awkwardly, “I’m glad to have heard the account of my son’s final year from such close and devoted friends, who had his interests so much at heart.” He looked at Stephen, and said, “And I’m glad he was lucky enough to find someone as loyal and steadfast as you, Stephen, if I may say so. He might have done almost infinitely worse. He could hardly have done better.”

  The words, unforced and without a trace of affectation, made Stephen blink rapidly from sudden emotion. He could think of nothing to say except a whispered “Thank you.” Richard, who had very quickly conceived a great liking for Curtis senior, and was also privately, and a little guiltily, admiring his distinguished looks, smiled from simple admiration at the generosity of the words. He was thus a little flustered when his own turn came. “And you are equally lucky in your own friend here,” Mr Curtis went on. Turning to Richard he said “You’ve been a tower of strength, my boy. You seem to me to have acted in the most conspicuously honourable fashion throughout these dreadful episodes.” He hesitated. “I’d have liked to have had you serve with me.” There was nothing to be said in answer to that. Richard dropped his head to conceal the deep flush of pleasure the words brought to his face.