That dare not speak

'Illaston 56-8442? Oh, hell-o. Yes, I thought it'd be you. I take it you're after more information about the bard himself? For the great Pally with Pallister, or whatever you're going to call it. Well, if you're sure. I must say I prefer my suggestion.

'How far had we got? Hmm, yes. Yes. Well, I'm not sure if I'm, you know. One needs to lead up to that sort of thing. It's not every day one discusses something of that, well, over the phone, now, is it? Especially to a, well, you're not a stranger, of course, my dear, but you can see what I mean. So let me start a bit further back. I won't bother you with all that nonsense about Crowstanton. You can get all that from the old almanac; or try writing to that chap that runs the alumni rag. I can't remember what he calls it nowadays; probably "The Raven's Writing-Desk" or "Stone the Crows" or something equally banal, if I remember him rightly. I can't even remember his name but I remember what he was like. I leave all that for you to uncover, at any rate.

'Oh, but there's a bit I should mention. Every newcomer to Crower's started as low as one could get on the social pecking order, if you'll pardon the pun. We didn't call them ticks or bugs like most places: that's right, we called them chicks. Has a hint of the salacious about it, doesn't it? It didn't help that these chicks got on in the world of Crower's by fagging. God, what a word for it! Even then it made us giggle. Sometimes we were like toddlers, crazed on jelly and ice-cream, seeing the clown through a blur of that red mist that poorly-diluted orange juice always gives you.

'Anyway, in your House—which some of the brighter boys would often refer to as a murder of crows, but it would never catch on, yes you'd think so, wouldn't you, what with a young boy's love of the macabre, but not really—the prefects were appointed from the, well, years 12 and 13, is it nowadays? Sixth-formers, at any rate. They were meant to keep order, were effectively as wanton boys are to flies, or bugs, or chicks, and delegated by giving boys different fag duties.

'See, you'd be made the noticeboard fag, and would have to put up all the announcements from the House tutor or from the headmaster and his office. Or you'd be the staircase fag and have to sweep the staircase. Or the WPB fag and you'd collect the rubbish from all the waste paper bins in the dormitories every Friday. I suppose they thought it was an effective way of sinking all that new-boy energy that would otherwise have clogged up in their systems and made them troublesome. You're not a fan of Lindsay Anderson, I take it? Oh, well, I won't mention that. But it also let them feel vindicated in their misery and homesickness. It was a sort of schoolboy's vision of Colditz or slavedriving or hades or some such, you see. Enforced, menial, rarely hard work. And it probably saved them a pretty packet on wages for cleaners and odd-job men.

'Me? Well, it was terribly long ago. Not every boy was made a fag, anyway, as there was never enough work to go round, so maybe I was just lucky.... Oh, you heard something from Bassett? What did he tell you. Yes. Yes, I suppose that was right. I ordered and delivered dessert trays for the teachers who sat at the high table in dinner. Pardon? Oh, well, I'm not sure if I can remember that sort of detail. All right, yes, I do. [a sigh] I was the pudding fag.

'... Thank you for that. No, I hadn't heard that one before. Hilarious. Have you recovered? Good.

'Well, Hailsham House had one of the best rec' rooms at Crower's. I hear they have a widescreen television and phenomenally expensive music system now, but in my day we were the envy of every other house because we had a billiard table. I know, isn't it? I'm surprised they didn't get the Racing Post delivered too.

'For the first few days of that term, mind you, we weren't getting anything delivered. We'd heard rumblings—if you can call his adenoidal carping a rumble—from one of the House prefects for a while. Chalfont. Awful chap. Went on to make a name for himself during the war: died valiantly with a bomb in his face before any of his fellow soldiers knew what he was like. Still, he was in charge of us, and though I mock him now at the time I was terrified of him. House prefects had the responsibility of power (well, Chalfont probably thought it was a privilege) that comes with being licensed to mete out corporal punishment. Chalfont always gave it out bare-knuckled.

So, yes, bit of a cad, but he took the House rules seriously when it suited him, and he'd been told that the House masters hadn't received their newspapers since the start of the new term. Most of the masters didn't care for their papers, scarcely read them and often (as I say, we were the envied House) dumped them in the rec' room. But a couple of them had lost their temper on the same morning—I think their stocks had taken a drubbing in the city and they'd not heard the warnings in time—and conducted the heat of their ire on to Chalfont, who stoked it until it became an excuse for a beating.

'You might say he was going to start a fire under the newspaper fag. Suit yourself.

'The day Chalfont was let off by the masters like a rocket, he found his target almost immediately, Bassett telling him in that whiny voice he had then that the boy responsible was in the rec' room. As Chalfont strode through the house he attracted spectators like a great cloud behind him, all spoiling for the fight as much as him. They all paused in the corridor outside the rec' room. Chalfont swung open the door, which banged on its hinges. He took a step inside and we all squeezed in behind him.

'In the far corner of a room there was a boy sitting in one of the big, architectured leather armchairs that cluttered up one corner of the room. He was reading a fat volume of Tennyson that one of the well-meaning beaks had left lying around like fertilizer on stony ground. The floor was covered in them: Spenser, Chaucer, Swift; all half-read and kicked around.

'"Pallister!" Chalfont shouted across at the tick. "What're you playing at, you little oaf?"

'Only, he didn't say "oaf", if you understand me. Wasn't one for subtlety, Chalfont. But, cool as a cucumber, this little chap Pallister turned half an eye to Chalfont, then looked back at the fat volume of Tennyson he was reading, saying:

'"It's not play, Chalfont. This is serious study. You might want to try it. Broadens the mind. I wouldn't say yours is exactly overstretched."

'Well, I... Hm? Oh, I know exactly what you want me to say. Well, for what it's worth, I can honestly say that I didn't think much of Michael Pallister at first sight. I can't stand the bookish sort, even now, and as a boy I was rooting for Chalfont anyway. Chalfont or death, probably at the hands of Chalfont. And we all expected this young prick to... I said "prig", my dear man. Are you writing this down? Teatime? Oh, you mean shorthand. This is a dreadful line, you know. Oh, one of those bloody things. I can't say I approve. You're not in a public place, I take it? Oh, God. Well, just try to avoid mentioning my name out loud again.

'Anyway, yes, we were waiting for Chalfont to give Pallister a pasting. But we'd realised something was up: Pallister wasn't as young as we all expected him to be. He was new and yet old, if you see what I mean. New to this school but at least fourteen. But Chalfont was seeing red now, completely oblivious. Pompous ass that he'd always been, he was just puffing himself up to his full height, ready to stride round the billiard table when Pallister got up and beat him to it.

'He took five long, lanky steps, jumps almost, stopped an arm's reach away from Chalfont, and before the prefect could respond Pallister punched him so hard on the cheek that he spun round twice as he fell to the floor, landing painfully on a Byron.

'None of us could quite believe what we'd just seen. I mean, Chalfont wasn't exactly a hero among us, but he was a little like one of the stupid Greek or Norse gods. We all thought him a bit of an idiot but feared him nonetheless. And here was our own personal Thor, sprawled on the floor like a squashed spider. I think it was while we were standing round in shock that Pallister took advantage of the distraction—Chalfont lying with his limbs at all the wrong compass points—and strode quietly back to his chair, sat down, and picked up the book as if nothing had happened.

'Well, Chalfont was in an absolute bloody fury by now, as you'd imagine. Either that or you thought he was unconscious? Ah, haha, no, not in the slightest. I'm inclined to believe Pallister pulled that punch, or at any rate aimed it carefully, though not so carefully that we noticed. Unconsciousness, you see, would have meant a trip to matron. And thence to the House Master. Even then, Pallister was no fool.

'Where was I? Oh, yes. So Chalfont reassembled himself and started to barge along past the billiard table, going slower than he might because all his urges were to leap over the table and the baize be damned. He was within about the same distance from Pallister as they were before—spitting distance, you might say—when Pallister tore the volume of Tennyson in half, right down the spine. He flung the two halves either side of Chalfont's head and Chalfont, fearful I expect for his supposed good looks, skidded to a halt, turned tail and bolted out of the door.

'It was back then, as the book ripped down its middle like the temple curtain, that I fell totally in love with Michael Pallister.

'No, of course I didn't show it. I didn't utter another word there and then, but I just used the sudden clamour in Michael's favour to sneak away and take a few deep breaths. Good God, my dear. Do you think I'd have been able to fall at his feet in front of the rest of the house? I mean, it was common knowledge that boys got up to all sorts in Crower's. I expect it's the same in all public schools. But everyone knew that wasn't love. Nobody would call it love, still less adoration. If it were love, then you were one of them, and if you were one of them... well, that was risking divine retribution. Or at the very least the contempt and violence of your peers.

'So I was all very masculine about it. It helped that Michael was more or less in the same year as me, so I didn't have to pretend to be after a prepubescent arse all the time. I could just be his mate, his pal, his chum... well, yes, that does sound a bit.... All those dog food brands, isn't it? I think when people assume bouncy, playful dogs are male, it's more of a comment on the average boy than the average bitch. We all romped in our time, and I suppose that's what Michael and I did: we romped.

'I was surprised, you see. For someone so self-assured, he gravitated towards me, or at least he was quite happy to let me orbit him, to the almost total exclusion of everyone else. We became the very best of friends, and it was wonderful. Bliss. Arcady. Strawberries and play-fighting and cricket and rugger and bunking off to tickle trout out of the Wakeburn. We were totally inseparable. I didn't even wank him off. He never asked; we were just the absolute, complete and total best of friends. What else does one really need?

'Couldn't last, of course, I knew that. I mean, I loved him, and I was almost, almost certain that, well, you know. But the school hemmed our actions and our emotions in on all sides, and even as we lounged and chased butterflies it was tightening its grip.

I'll always remember that day, Michael coming up to me all flustered. He was somehow frightened and irate at the same time. I was so worried. He said, oh, something like, someone had told him something, and we had to discuss it in private right away. It was all a bit sudden, and I started to tremble. Had somebody guessed? Was Michael lost to me now, I wondered. Was that it for even our friendship?

'Someone had mentioned something, he said, when we were back in my room. But that wasn't what he wanted to tell me about. He shifted in his seat and said, well, there was nothing wrong with what he'd heard, if what he'd heard was right. He said there was no shame in people being what they were and—I couldn't believe my ears, and I'm sure my mouth swung slowly open during this—people should have the right to do what comes naturally. He was white as a sheet and close to tears when he said, quietly, with that sort of calmness that only comes when your nerves are taut as a drum, that he felt for me just as he thought I felt for him, and was I happy with that. Then he fell silent, and just looked at me.

'I couldn't say anything. I do believe my mouth worked on no words. I chewed on the air, trying to find a sound. All the things I'd wanted to say the year or so before then, and now I couldn't bring any of them to mind. But then it came out. A shout; no, a cry:

'"Gay!" I shouted. "Poof! Gay! Fucking poof!"

'I ran out of my room shouting it. People looked up, wondering what the hell was going on. Barnaby-Hempsall was sweeping up just outside, and I think he was the first to hear. I just kept running, shouting, adding Pallister's name like a magic charm to protect me from who knows what.

'I ran and ran, and tears began to flow down my cheeks. I didn't know where I was going. Everything was going blurry.... Somehow I got as far as the trees by the bend in the river where we'd gone fishing so many times before, and just sat and hid and, well. Why should I be ashamed about this, of all my actions on that day. I bawled my eyes out, my heart out, my lungs out.

'I regretted what I'd shouted from the very first syllable, the first letter of that aweful, beautiful word. But, my dear boy, what else was there to do? In a place like that? I could hardly risk anyone finding out how I felt. And I knew that, if I'd ever acknowledged I loved Michael like he loved me, our relationship would be common knowledge pretty soon afterwards. And some secret store of Catholic guilt told me that, without any doubt, if any other soul knew that I loved Michael Pallister as much as I did, even Michael, then the ground would open beneath me and lightning strike me from above. I was scared.

...

'What? You think it's what? Different from what...?

'You heard what? Ha. Of course it's different from what you heard. Of course it doesn't make any bloody sense. I was making it up, you nitwit.

'... Well, it sounded like a better story when I started letting my fancy run away with me, so I thought you'd appreciate it if I carried on. Oh, don't mention it, dear. Do you honestly think I would have been that scared of what would happen? Don't answer that, will you, darling? Remember I fought Rommel, you bloody upstart. No, not personally. Listen.

'You see, some people think that the great leveller, the skill that public school teaches you, is how to fit in. Maybe it does teach that to most people who go there. All the straight ones, at any rate. But the ones that are different, like Michael and me.... We worked out the most powerful weapon we could ever wield, in Crower's and in the wide world outside its gates, and we've attacked with it ever since:

'Discretion.

'The better part of glamour, my dear, and we wrapped it round us like a fur coat. And it kept us as warm as we'd ever be. Warm as two bugs in a—but that's another story entirely. Oh, wait, here he is. [off, loud: MICHAEL, DEAR: IT'S YOUR AMANU-BLOODY-ENSIS.] Well, Mr Amanu-bloody-ensis, it's been wonderful. I hope you think it's been wonderful too. How grand. [muffled, but loud: I'M TELLING HIM ABOUT WHEN YOU PUNCHED CHALFONT INTO NEXT WHITSUN. SSH. SSH, YES, I KNOW. SSH.]

'Now remember, you owe me a drink for today's fascinating tale. And while you're buying, you can get one for Michael, who'll now be able to tell you which bits were bullshit and which were God's honest truth, if such a creature exists and such a thing is in His glorious possession. Now. Here you go. Tara!'