Dance on My Grave Read online

  AND THEN HIS BIER HAD HIM

  16/Back—again—to bed. The next thing I knew, the vacuum was scurling outside my room. My mother performing her daily spring clean with the electronic bagpipes. The paintwork on my door was sacrificed to a fistful of battering biffs disguised as vigorous dusting: a sign of my mother’s anxiety at my continued somnolence. Not that she was conducting the same campaign as my father. On the contrary, my mother’s preference is always that I should do exactly what makes me happiest—and if that is lying in bed ‘all the hours God gave’, then so be it. The reason she was thus indicating a desire for me to get up was entirely the result of her fear that my father might for some unexpected reason arrive home and still find me ‘lazing about the place’. In any case, she knew he would question her when he got in from work about every last detail of my day’s activities, including the very hour and minute of my arising.

  I took pity on her.

  17/I spent fifteen minutes in the bathroom inspecting The Body Beautiful in the mirror, trying to see it through Barry’s eyes.

  To be honest, I have never been completely satisfied with my knees.

  The bathroom mirror is only half full size, and is fixed to the wall at a height convenient for shaving. In order to inspect my lower quarters therefore I must either stand on my head, which causes certain features to dangle in an unflattering manner and is difficult to maintain long enough for a proper look, or I must balance myself on the edge of the bathtub. This is a moderately dangerous exploit as the rim of our tub is narrow and curved so that I have to perform something like a tight rope act, risking broken bones if I lose my balance and slip into the tub, or worse if my feet skid off in opposite directions causing me to fall with my legs astride the tub rim.

  Knowing, of course, that I would shortly be called upon to display my knees—that indeed, when I came to think of it, I had already done so not only before a grinning crowd but, what was far more important, on three separate occasions before Barry yesterday—I thought I had better survey the limbscape and decide how best to present myself on future occasions. So I climbed up onto the rim of the bathtub and began my inspection.

  The problem I have with my knees is that they seem to be too far down my legs. This makes my thigh too long in proportion to the glutei of my nates—which have always struck me as nicely shaped, neat and well set under crests that might on some males certainly look too pronounced but on me seem just right. Of course, if your femoral quadriceps are well moulded and smoothly covered, a slight disproportion in their length doesn’t matter, at least when viewed frontally. They can even show off your genitalic drapery to good effect. Providing you are flourishing in that feature and not recondite.

  I studied myself in that area from as many angles as my precarious platform would allow. On the whole, I decided, my genitalic modelling was passable, though I would have liked a bit more quantity as well as quality. But my rectus and lateralis were okay; the medialis were well developed but they gave too thin an appearance just above the knees, which I suppose exaggerates the boniness of my patellas and further pronounces the length of my thighs.

  By stretching out my left arm and supporting myself against the wall behind the bath, I kept my balance while I bent my left leg upwards and viewed it in profile in the mirror. This had a distinctly improving effect, rounding off my scraggy knee cap and displaying quite attractively the gracilic line. But I could hardly hop about the beach on one trousered leg while holding up the other leg nude for public inspection and approval of my knee exhibited at its best angle.

  In order to check the view from behind I had to turn with my back to the mirror and cautiously twist my head round to inspect my reflection. As far as I could see from this limited and wobbly position the appearance of the backs of my knees was greatly helped by a nice popliteal upholstering, which saved them from the scrawniness some people suffer from. But I could not see very well, so I tried bending down far enough to look between my legs at the view in the mirror. This required a pretty skilled balancing act.

  I was just about doubled up enough to see through my legs when my mother rammed the bathroom door with the vacuum agonybag. I lost my balance and crashed into the tub, barking various angles of myself on its hard enamel.

  ‘Are you all right in there, our Henry?’ Mother shouted above the noise of vacuum and calamity.

  Further anatomical investigation had to be abandoned for that morning. And as it turned out for a few weeks after that life was made a good deal easier whenever the need to inspect my body came over me because I could, use the multi-mirrored walls of the Gorman bathroom which allowed the closest study of every detail from every possible viewpoint without any need for unnatural contortions or danger to the person.

  18/Half way through my breakfast in the kitchen, Mother appeared, duster at the ready. She flicked absent-mindedly at the cupboard doors. Semaphore from a nervous wreck.

  ‘Why not have a cup of coffee,’ I said.

  ‘Maybe I will,’ she said.

  She made herself one—half milk, half water, as always—and sat at the other side of the table, duster cocked for action.

  ‘It’s before my coffee time really,’ she said, looking guilty.

  ‘Give yourself a treat,’ I said.

  She sipped from her cup. ‘It’s a terrible price, you know. Awful. I don’t know how they have the cheek to charge the prices they do.’

  Silence. I finished my toast.

  ‘You’ll have to stop these late mornings, pet,’ she said, dabbing her duster along the edge of the table. ‘Your dad’s upset.’

  ‘How can me getting up late bother him? He’s at work.’

  ‘He always asks, love, when he comes in.’

  ‘Then don’t tell him.’

  ‘O no, I have to tell him. Can’t lie. Not to your father. Wouldn’t be right.’

  Further polishing of the table edge.

  Then: ‘He thinks a lot about you, does your dad. Wants the best for you. Wants you to get on.’

  A dab at the cooker in arm’s reach from where she sat. Most things are in arm’s reach from the table in our kitchen.

  Then: ‘It was after one when you got in last night. It can’t go on, Henry. Your father won’t stand for it.’

  She stood up, made a sally against the cupboard doors again, sat down. Sipped her coffee. Began rubbing the table edge again.

  ‘You’ll have to make up your mind soon,’ she said. ‘About what you’re going to do. Your dad thinks it’s bad for you, lying about all day. Nothing to do. You know he told you to get a temporary job. To tide you over. Till you’ve sorted out what you really want to do.’

  I pushed my plate aside. ‘What do you think I should do?’

  She teased at her duster, picking dust specks from it. Dusting her duster. ‘I wish I knew, love. It’s beyond me.’

  ‘Stay on at school?’

  ‘Your dad thinks you’ll be best off with a good job.’

  ‘But what do you think?’

  Her pause was as long as this page. Then she shook her head once with distressed slightness. ‘Whatever will make you happiest, pet. That’s all that matters.’

  ‘You always say that. But I don’t know what will make me happiest. How do you know till you do it?’

  She sniffed. ‘Yes, well, you’re not alone. Most people don’t know. And never find out. It’s the lucky ones who do. Luckier still if they know what they want and get it.’

  The duster fluttered. We sat in silence.

  ‘Osborn thinks I should stay on and take English.’

  She looked at me. ‘What use will that be?’

  I smiled. ‘Not much he says.’

  ‘Funny way of going on. Telling you to study something no use.’

  ‘He means for a job.’

  ‘It’s a job that matters.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Silence. A rub at the table top.

  ‘I was good at English myself at school.’ She smiled at me. ‘Wrote v
ery good poems the teachers said. I was good at spelling as well. Which is something I haven’t passed on to you, eh?’ She laughed.

  ‘I can’t be a genius at everything,’ I said, laughing with her.

  She got up. Shifted my dirty plate from the table to the draining board. Polished the table with her duster. Sat down.

  ‘I never liked reading though. Not like you do.’ Her eyes drifted across my face. ‘I don’t know where you got that from.’ She made reading sound like a contagious disease.

  ‘Would Dad let me stay on?’

  A sniff, drawing back inside herself again. ‘You’d better ask him, pet. I should think so. If he thought it was right for you.’

  Back to Go.

  I said, ‘Anyway, I’ve got a part-time job till the results come through.’

  She was perky at once. ‘You have? Where?’

  ‘Gorman Records. Helping in the shop.’

  ‘On London Road? When did this happen?’

  ‘Yesterday. It was Barry Gorman I was out with last night. He runs the shop with his mother.’

  ‘Well, I say! Tell us about it then. When do you start and how much do they pay?’

  I stood up. ‘I don’t know the details yet. Find out today.’

  ‘I’ll look forward to hearing all about it. Your dad will be pleased. They must have liked you a lot to take you on so easy.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I think you could say they liked me.’

  JKA. Running Report: Henry Spurling ROBINSON 21st Sept. Talked with Sue about the case, and whether we should include it on the agenda for the Team Discussion next week. She thought not. Suggested we go through the objectives together, as I might be losing sight of them because of the unusualness of Hal and the events involved.

  Purpose:

  To find out why Hal acted as he did.

  To discover his attitude to his actions.

  To find out how he views his future.

  To assess his background.

  Our statutory involvement and responsibility in this case:

  To present the court with a report which:

  relates what we know about the case;

  makes recommendations about what should be done next in dealing with Hal.

  We agreed that the boy is not in danger and that this did not seem to be a case which, as far as I can judge, needs psychiatric or other treatment.

  The only difficulty is that the client will not talk about what he has done.

  We discussed my worries about having handled Hal badly so far. Sue thought those unfounded. But she suggested that I keep a more detailed Report and that she and I discuss my progress after each meeting. I agreed. I could not help feeling uneasy about the case and will feel better knowing Sue is keeping an eye on it with me.

  19/I telephoned Barry from a box near home.

  ‘Great!’ he said. ‘Look, it’s busy here today. I can’t manage lunch. Come to the shop about five. We’ll fix up about your pay and stuff. Then we’ll celebrate. Okay?’

  ‘Okay, fine.’

  There was a fog-horn noise in the background.

  ‘Hang on, Mother wants a word.’

  ‘Hal? Hello? This is me. You’re coming to join us! Barry told me. I’m ecstatic! I won’t have to serve all these awful children so much now. And such a friend for Bubby. You’re a godsend, you know that? But, Hal—are you there?’

  ‘Yes, Mrs Gorman.’

  ‘I have a bone to pick with you.’

  ‘A bone, Mrs Gorman?’

  ‘Last night. You promised me you’d not keep Bubby out so late. Four o’clock! That was naughty.’

  ‘Four o’clock?’

  ‘I know, I know! You’re young, you forget the time. I was young once myself. Mr Gorman used to keep me out dancing, dancing. Sometimes all night. What days! What nights! But you promised, Hal. Four o’clock, that’s too late when Bubby has to work next morning. You’ll find out when you are working here.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Gorman, I—’

  ‘Forget it, my darling. It’s nothing. Really. I must go. Bubby says I’m holding up business talking like this. He’s a slave driver, that boy. You’ll find out! Cheerio till we see you soon.’

  ‘Hal?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’ll explain tonight, okay?’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘We’ll be great together, yes?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Shalom.’

  ‘See you.’

  20/I guessed what he had done. Gone back to The Drunk.

  And I guessed right. He told me that evening when I got to the shop, which excitement is coming soon.

  He tried to pass it off by lacing the story with jokes against himself. He’d felt uneasy leaving the poor goy (!) lying there with all that money because someone might happen along and rob him, or the taxi driver might come back and try again. So he’d gone back and sure enough someone was hanging about near The Drunk, so Barry woke him and stayed with him talking (?) till Our Friend sobered up enough to look after himself, etc. etc.

  What he missed out of the story was probably as interesting as what he told. And he was like a kid who is a compulsive stealer of sweets trying to pass off his latest failure to resist temptation as a first-and-last-time affair, but knowing that nobody really believes him. Anyway, Barry was never any good at telling a story about anything not even a simple joke. And he had no memory either, which is something a good liar needs. He lived for the moment all the time, so memory was something he didn’t need.

  I said nothing. Tried to laugh in the right places but couldn’t keep from looking squashed. It shouldn’t have mattered to me. If I’d thought about such a thing beforehand I would have sworn it wouldn’t have mattered to me. But it did. I guess, like the boys swearing eternal faithfulness to each other over the can of magic beans, I thought then that faithfulness was one of the things that was part of bosom palship. I expected it as an unspoken gift.

  He couldn’t help but see my downcast feelings in my face. I guess that’s why he took me out on his motorbike: a kiddish way of trying to make everything right again by a breathless assault of madcap fun and frolics. Results also coming shortly.

  I put the telephone down and stood outside the phone box for ten minutes chewing over what must have gone on. The more I thought about it, no doubt making it all far worse than it really had been, the deeper into depression I plunged. For a while I wandered round the streets chomping away in my mind at my distress. Surprising myself by my reaction. Kicking myself for feeling like this. And being completely stumped in deciding how to deal with Barry or myself. Lost, still, later, as Barry spun his yarn.

  Now, weeks afterwards I still don’t know that I could handle the same thing better. Maybe I wouldn’t feel so upset now, wouldn’t feel so betrayed. I’m harder now. I think. I hope. Maybe I’m also more tolerant of a friend being what he is and not what I want him to be.

  But I guess one of the oddities about life is that you never really do learn from one experience how to cope with another. Because no two experiences are ever quite the same. You’re changed by what happens to you; but each new experience is just as hard to handle as the ones that went before.

  21/Have you noticed how, if you get depressed, you start doing all the wrong things? And doing all the right things in the wrong way. You go from bad to worse, sucked into a vortex of deepening dismay.

  That happened to me that afternoon. Thinking to distract myself and make some use of this wasted time, I went to school and saw Ms Tyke. Ms Tyke is my tutorial teacher, the one responsible for my ‘pastoral care’. That’s the phrase they use at school for the member of staff who is supposed to look after your personal interests—like whether you are feeling suicidal or bite your toenails or otherwise display signs of being human. The only thing having a person in charge of my pastoral care does for me is to make me feel like a sheep. Maybe it’s meant to. Anyway, Ms Tyke is about as pastoral as a cracking plant and as careful as a bulldozer. She believes
the best way of countering male chauvinist piggery in a male-dominated society like England in general and Chalkwell High in particular—about which she waxes deliquescent at the drop of a male gender—is to adopt the worst excesses of male chauvinist piggery for herself, presumably on the theory that if you can’t beat them you should join them. I guess she reckons that at least this way she gets her hormones back. Certainly you can be sure that whatever Ms T. says turns into Ms T.

  I was foolish enough to put myself in her clutches that depressed afternoon because she was first in line of the bureaucratic hierarchy I had to navigate for careers advice and a decision about staying on in Ozzy’s English Sixth. Last in line was the Head. Four obstacles lay twixt he and me, viz: Ms Tyke; my year teacher; the careers officer; and the head of upper school. If all agreed with my hopes for my future, whatever those turned out to be, the Head would grant a two-minute rubber stamping interview. Otherwise return to Go. It has been known for a really determined applicant to succeed in a week, but the average time for this assault course is three weeks, so the sooner I started the better.

  ‘And what’s your problem?’ Ms T. said through her python grin as I entered her room. She yanked open a drawer in a filing cabinet, took out a thin buff file with my name on it, sat at her desk, waved me to a chair by its side.

  ‘I think I should see the Head,’ I said, hoping a full frontal attack might so take her by surprise I would get through to the top unhindered.

  Her grin tightened and I knew I had blown it. As I say, when you’re depressed you can be sure you’ll do the wrong thing.

  ‘What can he do for you that I can’t do better?’ she said paring her nails with an unbent paper clip.

  I hitched uncomfortably in my seat. ‘I’m thinking of staying on next year.’

  A twitch of the eyebrows told me this announcement really had taken her by surprise. ‘I suppose I should feel pleased,’ she said. ‘What to do?’

  ‘English lit.’

  ‘Eng. lit.! Whatever put such a fool notion into your head, boy?’

  Stung (wrong again; always stay cool) I said acidly, ‘Whoever actually, miz. Mr Osborn.’