Heart of War (38 page)

The show was a frothy revue called
Maisie and Company
, which had already been running for over a year. It deserved its success, Tom thought – good songs, good dancers, good acting in its skits, and several very funny comedians. Most of
Penrith
's officers had seen it when on leave, and its tunes were played for hours every day on the wardroom gramophone.

Russell Wharton was in it now, Tom had seen when he went to the ticket agency in the morning. And Russell Wharton's name in the cast was, he admitted, why he had chosen this show rather than another; for Russell Wharton was known to be ‘one of
them
,' a follower of Oscar Wilde; which actually meant, Tom could now admit, ‘one of us.' He had watched Wharton through opera glasses whenever he was on stage until Charlie had said, ‘Let me have a look, Tom!' Raising the glasses to his eyes, he'd stared a moment, then muttered softly, ‘He's … nice. He's looking at us.'

Tom said, ‘Let's go backstage, after it's over, and tell him how much we liked his performance.'

Charlie said, ‘That'll be good.' He caught Tom's eye.

The curtain fell on the last act, the players took their bows, and the audience filed out. Tom and Charlie walked round the side of the theatre to the stage door and went in. A man with a cigar in his mouth said, ‘Who do you want?'

‘Mr Wharton,' Tom said. The man rolled his cigar to the other side of his mouth, glanced at Charlie, and said, ‘Second door on the right, up there.'

They went to the door, and Tom knocked. The familiar voice, clear, high, a little nasal, called, ‘Come in.'

He was seated at his dressing table, removing his makeup. He looked at them in the mirror in front of him and said, ‘Did you like the show?'

‘Very much,' Tom said. And, almost simultaneously, Charlie said, ‘It was wunnerful, Mr Wharton … I'm Charlie Bennett.'

‘Tom Rowland,' Tom said, taking Wharton's hand.

‘Major Tom Rowland?' Wharton said slyly. ‘Your hair is so short … back so straight … but do I not detect the ruddy touch of the sun, the rough caress of the sea wind … Commander Rowland?'

Tom nodded.

‘And … Able Seaman?'

‘O.D.,' Charlie said, blushing.

‘How nice for you … but I suppose your admirals are so stuffy and pompous you can hardly get a moment together.'

‘We're on leave,' Tom said.

Wharton's face was free of makeup at last and he said, ‘Have you had dinner?' Tom shook his head. ‘Care to join me for a bite of supper, then? Us, I should say, because Ivor Novello will be there, too.'

Why not? Tom thought. But perhaps a press photographer would take a picture of them and … It was no good worrying about everything that
might
happen. He said, ‘Thanks. We'd like to. And it'll be interesting to meet Mr Novello. The sailors must sing “Keep the home fires burning” more than any other song.'

‘Good! You like spaghetti, Charlie?'

‘Never had it,' Charlie said, grinning. ‘My mother doesn't cook any dago food, and nor does the Navy – just beef and potatoes.'

Wharton smiled at him and said, ‘I'll be five minutes. No, don't go …'

They sat round a small table with a red and white checkered tablecloth. It was near midnight, and they had been there over an hour and drunk four bottles of Chianti between them. Charlie, unused to wine, had fallen asleep, his head on the table. Wharton, Novello and Tom held little glasses of grappa, their heads close. They were all a little drunk.

‘You mustn't mind,' Novello said. ‘You mustn't feel guilty about it. The Greeks lived this way … and they are the founders of our civilization.'

God, he is beautiful, Tom thought, so young, his eyes so deep and dark – a genius, too. ‘I wish I could feel like that,'
he mumbled, ‘but … I feel that I'm a freak.'

Wharton said, ‘People think we only have to meet a nice girl, and we'll see the light … but it's in us. You have to be proud of it – it's you, it's the way you intend to live your life, and that's all.'

‘They'd throw me out of the Navy in a flash,' Tom said.

‘Why not? There are plenty of other ways to earn a living. We help each other … I know half a dozen fellows who would take you in.'

Novello said, ‘Do you love the Navy?'

Tom said, ‘I've been in it since I was twelve … that's a long time … made good friends … it's my career.'

‘But you must have always felt – this?'

Tom said slowly, ‘Yes … but I pretended I didn't … tried to commit suicide once, when I first really gave in … with him.' He nodded at Charlie's reclining head.

Novello said, ‘Seriously, what talents do you have? What would you turn to if you
were
kicked out of the Navy?'

Tom said slowly, ‘I don't know … I look at all the dress designs I see – women's dresses – and think I could do better … I work on them with a pencil … then, of course, I have to tear up the paper, or burn it somehow …' Novello shook his head wonderingly – ‘I once designed a dress for my sister. She said it was beautiful, but I don't know …'

Novello looked at Wharton and said, ‘Arthur Gavilan.'

Wharton nodded, ‘Just the man.'

Novello said, ‘Have you ever heard of Arthur?'

Tom said, ‘Yes. He designs clothes for a lot of duchesses and countesses, doesn't he? And always wears velvet suits?'

‘That's the man. Arthur makes a fortune because he has taste – because he knows materials – because he knows what a woman ought to look like – and because he treats them all as rather stupid animals … a firm hand, clear instructions, no back talk and, of course, no affection, let alone love. We'll introduce you to him.'

‘Well, thank you, that's very kind of you,' Tom said. He felt excited. He would be going to go into a designer's studio for the first time in his life.

Wharton said, ‘You'll get on fine. Arthur
loves
the Navy. His drawing room's full of pictures of Jellicoe, Beatty, Battenberg, Jackie Fisher, Hood, Rodney, and of course Nelson – every admiral even you've ever heard of.' He
glanced at his gold wristwatch – ‘I have to be going. Give me a call tomorrow, or the day after.' He handed over a card, and Tom, glancing at it, saw a Dean Street address and a Gerrard telephone number – ‘Don't join the Army – join us.'

Novello said, smiling, ‘I must go too. And when you fix that date for Tom with Arthur, Russell, include me.' He walked out, waving.

On an impulse Tom said to Wharton, ‘Have you been called up?'

‘Oh yes, but they couldn't take me – bad heart – rheumatic fever when I was a kid. But I do my bit – been to France four times with troupes … a lot of charity appearances for soldiers here at home. I was down in your home town once – Hedlington. We had a good crew, with Harry Lauder, Jenny Jenkins, and Florinda, Marchioness of Jarrow, whom you've doubtless heard of. She's a widow now.'

‘Oh,' Tom exclaimed, ‘I know her slightly. She was very pretty as a young girl.'

Wharton said, ‘Still is. And not afraid to show her legs and tits. She'll never be really good, but everyone likes her, audiences too. Most women of that sort are hard as nails, but she's not … Good night.'

‘Good night,' Tom said, putting out his hand. ‘And … thank you, really. You've made me feel much better. I don't feel that I'm in some terrible prison any more.'

‘That prison's your mind,' Wharton said, patting him on the shoulder. ‘And now you'd better wake up Charlie.'

Four days later Tom awoke in the early light and, as he had done every morning of the leave, turned to look down at the young sailor's head on the pillow beside him. Once, when he was a lieutenant he had brought a girl from the Gaiety chorus here, on a Saturday night; and had tried, without success, to do what he had brought her here to do; and in the morning, awakened before her, and stared down at her tousled woman's hair all over the pillow and the swell of her naked breasts, and felt, how strange, that she should be in my bed with me.

But each morning, with Charlie, it seemed right that the young, close-cropped head should lie there, snoring gently,
breathing evenly, a little flushed, his neck so thick like a young bull's. Russell Wharton's words kept echoing in his head – Don't feel guilt, remorse, shame … It's natural … The Greeks did it … everyone does it. It was hard to accept, but, this first time that he had ever actually accepted homosexual behaviour in himself, it
had
semed natural, and right; and he had
not
felt shame, guilt, or remorse. This was the only way he could live.

He slipped out of bed and, pulling on his dressing gown, went to the door, picked up the newspaper, and took it to the drawing room. Jones would be here in an hour. He should get Charlie up soon, and send him to his own room, as they had done every morning. Or should he? As a first step to a new way of life, why not stop pretending, leave Charlie's bed plainly unslept in?

He went to the little kitchen, put on the kettle, and sat down to look at the headlines … the Somme battle seemed to be winding down at last, in increasingly bad weather … mob riots continuing in Athens … Sinn Fein outrage in Cork: police constable shot in back and murdered. He read on … the constable lured with another into a narrow alley by cries of a woman apparently in distress; then shots fired, one constable killed, the other wounded; the notorious traitor, Mrs Cate, believed responsible, as second policeman thinks he recognized her when she and others were fleeing the scene of the ambush.

He read the item once more, then put the paper down … poor Margaret. Yet the situation in Ireland disturbed him. It had been hard to believe that a man of Sir Roger Casement's eminence had turned traitor, but now it was being whispered that Casement was also a homosexual pervert. He stirred uneasily. That was the way the world thought: homosexuality was more detestable than treason.

The kettle began to sing, and Tom made tea. Charlie came in, rubbing his eyes and yawning. He was wearing a pair of pyjamas that Tom had lent him, for he did not own any such garments himself. Like the other sailors, he slept in his purser issue drawers and singlet.

‘Smelled tea,' he said. ‘Cor, my head hurts.
An'
I stuck to beer, like Mr Wharton said to.'

‘Yes,' Tom said, laughing, ‘but you insisted on having a couple of whiskies with the beer, didn't you?'

He looked affectionately at the young man. They'd learned much about each other in these six days; and Tom had found increasing pleasure in opening new windows for Charlie, bringing him to the edge of a way of life that he had not been exposed to in Dipton, or on the lower deck of H.M. warships. The two visits to Arthur Gavilan's salon, and the one to his luxurious flat, had been particularly wonderful.

Charlie said, ‘It was that rabbit that upset me. It smelled right horrible!'

‘Rule's famous jugged hare,' Tom said, laughing again, ‘and if we had another week, we'd eat roast grouse at Wilton's and roast pheasant at Boulestin's, by Covent Garden. And oysters at Prince's … They're all in season.'

‘Fish and chips for me,' Charlie said, sipping the tea Tom had poured for him. He looked up – ‘I have to go back tonight.'

‘I know.'

They fell silent.

After a time Charlie said, ‘You remember what I said to you after you fell in the sea?'

Tom nodded: the young sailor had said, ‘I love you, sir,' and then rushed out of the cabin, tears in his eyes.

Charlie continued, ‘I mean it still … I wish we could be like this all the time. I could learn to cook and clean the place up better than that Jones with his bun face, pretending he doesn't know I'm a plain matlo.'

Tom said, ‘I love you, too, Charlie. We mustn't give this up, whatever happens. After the war …' He stopped.

Charlie said, ‘We might be at the bottom of the North Sea, feeding the herrings.' He cheered up, ‘What shall we do today? Madame Tussaud's, eh? It'll give me the creeps, so's I can stay awake all night on the train up.'

‘All right, Madame Tussaud's this morning, and a football match in the afternoon – rugby. Look in the paper and see who's playing.'

Charlie turned the pages – ‘A Harlequins side against a London Hospitals side, at Twickenham, it says.'

‘That'll do us well.'

‘Never seen rugby before.'

‘Then … it'll be goodbye until I rejoin the ship, in two days time. I won't come to King's Cross with you.'

‘'Course not … Here's Jones.' Tom did not move, but
reached for the paper, and shook it out to read, as Jones let himself in at the outer door.