The Boy I Love (ebook)

Argumento de The Boy I Love (ebook)

Marion Husband explores the morality of wartime Britain with intelligent and compassionate insight.

the book is character- and idea-driven rather than being action-packed, and the characters are particularly vivid and real. Although perhaps not the most loveable or nicest of people, they certainly remain in the mind after the book is closed as being fully fleshed and human."

The protagonist of this novel set in the aftermath of WW1, Paul Harris, has returned from the war, but his inner problems have only been increased by the experience. He marries his dead brothers girlfriend, partly to save her from shame because she is pregnant and partly in an attempt to be normal. Paul is gay, and this is not easy in the 1920s, particularly as homosexuality is of course still illegal: the love that dare not speak its name.

Paul has been having an affair with a teacher, Adam, who finds Paul a job teaching at the same school. Paul is, however, not cut out for this job, and the children take advantage of his perceived weaknesses. The subplot about the job serves to illustrate key themes of the novel: bullying in its various forms, the effect upon the victims, and also the problem faced by many of the returning soldiers of how to find a place in the world, damaged as they have been, mentally and/or physically by their experiences. The sex can be quite graphic at times, so be warned if this is something that offends you.

This novel has won prizes, and it is compelling in many ways. It is character- and idea-driven rather than being action-packed, and the characters are particularly vivid and real. Although perhaps not the most loveable or nicest of people, they certainly remain in the mind after the book is closed as being fully fleshed and human.

As with all the best novelists, Husband's talent seems to draw its energy from the experience of writing from perspectives far removed from her own as she inhabits other genders, other sexualities, other eras. Her ventriloquism is compelling

The Boy I Love is a beautifully written novel. The character's lives are seamlessly woven together and all have considerable depth and complexity. Husband shows great promise with this debut novel, which offers convincing historical and moral perspectives on both war and the country's troubled relationship with homosexuality.

Husbands writing is notable for an understated yet intense sympathy for the movements of the heart. Impressive.

Marion Husband relates her stories extremely well. The reader is fully engaged and feels greatly for all her characters. This is fine and thought-provoking writing, well organized and totally believable, dealing honestly with her subject matter. Her writing is near perfect.

November 1919

Hiding in Adams pantry, Paul remembered how he was once forced to eat marmalade at school, a whole pot of marmalade, Jenkins twisting his arms up his back as Nichols held his nose and clattered the spoon past his teeth. He stared at the jar on Adams shelf. Its contents were all but finished; only a dark orange residue speckled with toast crumbs and marbled with butter remained. He unscrewed the lid, wondering if marmalade could taste as bad as he remembered. The scent of bitter oranges assaulted him as outside the pantry door his fathers voice rose a little, as close to anger as he ever came.

Hes not well enough to be out on his own.

Doctor Harris, I swear I didnt even know he was home.

He writes to you.

He wrote occasionally.

Paul placed the marmalade back on the shelf, listening more carefully. That pinch of truth would help the lie down that occasionally held the right note of disappointment. His father might almost believe his letters to Adam were infrequent.

George sighed. If you do see him

Ill bring him straight home.

Paul listened as Adam showed George out, waiting until he felt sure his father had gone before pushing the pantry door open. In a stage whisper he asked, All clear?

Adam sat down at the kitchen table. Taking off his glasses he ground the heels of his hands into his eyes.

Jesus, Paul. He knew you were in the pantry. He bloody knew. He looked up. He didnt speak to me. He spoke to the bloody pantry door.

Sitting opposite him Paul reached across the table and took his hand. At least you didnt give us away.

Adam drew his hand back. He could smell your cigarette smoke.

Maybe he thought youd taken up smoking. Maybe you should. Paul shoved his cigarette case towards him. Calm your nerves.

You know I hate it.

Lighting up, Paul blew smoke down his nose. Hate what? Lying, smoking or having a one-eyed lunatic hiding in your cupboards?

Smoking. Adam sighed. No point hating the rest of it, is there?

Adam polished his glasses on the corner of his shirt. Hooking the wire frames over his ears he smiled at Paul. Cup of tea?

I should go. Hes had enough worry, lately.

Havent we all.

Id better go.

Yes. Of course. Better go.

Neither moved. Pauls bare toes curled against the cold lino. The kitchen of Adams terrace house was always cold, always smelt of yesterdays frying, always made him want to take boiling, soapy water and a scrubbing brush to the sink and stove and floor. He thought of the stale-biscuit smell in the pantry, the damp in the corners, the nagging suggestion of mice. He shuddered and wiped imaginary marmalade stickiness from his fingers.

That morning he had turned up on Adams doorstep, leaving his father to his breakfast, using up another lie about needing fresh air. He had seen Adam only yesterday, his first day home, and all he could think about was seeing him again, of lying down in his bed and breathing in the fug of sweat and come and cigarettes as he slept. Adam would work downstairs, marking his piles of ink-smudged essays. Later he would slip under the covers beside him, warming himself against his body. As the room darkened they would make love whilst in the street children called to one another and dogs barked and church bells closed the day. There would be none of yesterdays fast, furious fucking, the sex that came from relief and awkwardness and lust. Adam would make love to him and he would be loose-limbed and lazy. Afterwards he would sleep again. He would sleep all night in Adams bed, Adams legs entwined with his, Adams breath warm on his face. He had wanted this day and night for years.

Adam, however, had wanted to feed him eggs and bacon and thick slices of bread, cups of sweet tea, a rice pudding hed made especially for him. He was an invalid to be fattened; he was too thin by far, a bag of neglected bones. Quick with embarrassment Adam had fussed between sink and stove and table. Later they had fucked routinely and Paul had left his eye patch on although he had planned to take it off. Taking off the patch would have been a kind of unveiling. Such theatrics had seemed inappropriate after the ordinariness of rice pudding.

Paul stubbed his cigarette out, crushing it into a saucer so that it all but disintegrated and Adam ducked his head to smile into his face.

Paul? Youve gone silent again.

Im fine. He smiled back. Like George, Adam needed constant reassurance. Ive left my shoes and socks upstairs.

Adam laughed. You know, I half expected to see you in uniform. I almost didnt recognise you, standing there in civilian clothes.

Disappointed?

No, of course not.

You said once I suited the uniform.

Did I? You suited the cap, I think.

Ill keep it. Wear it in bed.

Im glad youre back. Adam laughed again. Glad. Christ, what kind of word is that, eh? Glad. Bloody glad.

Im glad to be back. Paul stood up. Ill go and get my shoes.

As he went past Adam caught his hand. I love you.

I know. I love you too.

Paul took a shortcut home through the park that separated Thorps long rows of back-to-back terraces, its steel works and factories from the small, middle-class ghetto of Victorian gothic villas where his father lived. He sat down on the graveyard wall opposite his house and lit a cigarette, imagining his father in the kitchen toasting cheese, his usual supper. Cheese on toast then cake made by a grateful patient, then tea, strong, just a little milk, no sugar. George was a man of habit. Paul looked at his watch; it was later than hed thought the tea would be drunk, the cup and saucer and plate washed and dried and put away. His father would be reading the Telegraph in front of the kitchen fire. InFrance, and later during his months in St Stevens, he had remembered his fathers rituals and almost wept with homesickness. Now, as the cold from the wall seeped into his bones, he wanted to walk away from the smallness of them, back to one of the pubs he had passed along the back streets. At the Stags Head or the Crown & Anchor he would order beer and share a joke with the hard men of Thorp. Paul smiled to himself. He would get his head beaten in along a dark alley, called a fucking little queer as boots smashed his ribs. He had only to look at one of them in the wrong way. Best if the fucking little queer went home and faced his fathers disappointment. Tossing the half-smoked cigarette down he crossed the road towards the unlit windows and locked door of his fathers house.

Margot said, Hes home.

Who, dear? Her mother looked up from her knitting, rows of grey stitches that were beginning to take the shape of a mitten. Mitten production hadnt stopped just because the war had. There were orphans hands to keep warm now. Absently she repeated, Whos home?

Robbies brother. Paul.

Oh? Iris Whittaker laid the knitting down on her lap. That poor boy. He was so handsome, wasnt he? I remember how handsome he looked at your birthday party. Such a beautiful face. It must be quite dreadful for him.

It would be dreadful for any one. Even an ugly man.

Yes, of course, but worse, somehow, for such a good-looking boy. Such a courteous boy, too. So charming. Poor George. I thank God every night you were born a girl. If wed had boys like poor Doctor Harris

They would be dead, Margot thought, and considered saying it aloud. Dead as dodos. Dead as doornails. Stone, cold, dead. No one said the word dead in this house, although whichever of the vicarage windows you looked from you could see the weeping angels and floral tributes that marked out dead territory. Dead was such a stark word when death was so close, so her father, when hed told her of Robbies death, had cleared his throat and said, That boys been taken from us.

She knew, of course, exactly who and what he meant. That boy: Robbie. Dead.

Her mother picked up her knitting. Hell have a glass eye, of course. It might look real, from a distance.

Look but not see, Margot said quietly.

Pardon, dear?

Didnt you think he was horribly vain?

Vain? The wool was held taught and crossed over the needles. All men are vain, dear. At least he had the right to be.

Margot closed her eyes. Robbie had said, Its amazing that Paul and I have leave together. Hed grinned. I can show you off to him introduce you as my fiancée.

I thought we werent going to tell anyone.

We can tell Paul. Hes so self-centred hell have forgotten by tomorrow.

Margot remembered how Robbie had pulled her into his arms, holding her tightly so that her cheek felt the scratchiness of his uniform. Khaki smelt of dry hessian, of sweat and metal polish that she imagined was the stink of gunpowder. Beneath the khaki his body felt hard and spare. She tried to remember how she had responded, if she had drawn away a little or pressed herself closer. She remembered he groaned. Perhaps she had encouraged him.

I think Ill go to bed. Margot closed the book shed been pretending to read and stood up.

Iris glanced at her. Say goodnight to your father. The knitting needles picked up speed. Tell him if that sermon isnt finished by now its too long.

Marion Husband is a compassionate and compelling writer exploring the complexities of human nature with great empathy. Her debut novel The Boy I Love ,the first in the three part The Boy I Love Trilogy , won the Andrea Badenoch Fiction Award and The Blackwell Prize. Her other novels include The Good Father and Say You Love Me . She is married with two grown-up children and teaches creative writing.

Marion Husband deals with the problems of gay men with great sensitivity and compassion and is unflinching when it comes to sex within a narrative that has pace and depth.0