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The Scholar's Tale: Part 2

by Mihangel

When love with one another so
Interinanimates two souls,
The abler soul, which thence doth flow,
Defects of loneliness controls.

We then, who are this new soul, know
Of what we are composed and made,
For th' atomies of which we grow
Are souls, whom no change can invade.

To our bodies turn we then, that so
Weak men on love revealed may look;
Love's mysteries in souls do grow,
But the body is his book.

John Donne (1572-1631), from The Extasie

Chapter 12 - Analysis

Next morning, because the night had been active, Andrew and I woke late. We sat over our breakfast and looked at one another as if we could never see enough. Our hands, as soon as they'd dealt with the toast and marmalade, met across the table. Small wonder I loved him. Pathetic specimen that I'd been, gauche and petrified, he'd rescued me from despair, and by gentle encouragement and example had converted me into a passable imitation of an ordinary human being. He was the first person who'd ever given me kindness and friendship. Along with his parents, who were on the point of taking me under their wing, he had transported me mentally and spiritually from rags to riches. What Andrew saw in me was not so easy to tell. The closest he'd come to explaining it was a metaphor drawn from chemistry, which was one of his trades. "Some chemicals," he said, "have no effect at all when they're mixed together. Some become toxic or explosive. Some react by producing warmth and light. That's us. Your chemical makes mine glow. Don't ask me why. It just does."

We'd now spent a fortnight reacting in this way, discovering each other. We'd been melding two souls into a single soul, unchangeable, stronger than its components, at a level beyond sex and the senses. Our lonelinesses were banished. We took delight in simply being together. But the senses couldn't be ignored, for they were the message-carriers. We'd fast been learning their language, their physics. Sex was on one plane, a plane apart. On a different plane, but still a vital one, we'd found out how the electricity of love was transmitted and received. The mouth was indeed one terminal, but kissing, however sensuous, demanded undivided attention, and remained an occasional treat. More flexible and more frequent contact was possible through the eyes and hands: looking, holding, touching. These had already become second nature to us. Sometimes we didn't need words to communicate, and sometimes the intensity of our togetherness moved us to tears. Little did we realise then that the scarcity of this contact was about to dominate our lives.

We'd been living, however, in the present. Now we had to discuss the future, soon in consultation with Jack and Helen in Oxford, before that between ourselves. Over breakfast, then, I broached the subject. "Andrew, love, I've never been happier in my life. But what happens next? We want to be ourselves, but we've got to adapt to new circumstances. Tomorrow to fresh woods, and pastures new."

"Fresher and newer for you than me. I've got a lover now, but you've got a lover and new parents."

"I like grazing on you, so you must be the pasture. They're the woods, sheltering me. But seriously. Things'll be straightforward in the holidays, won't they? I mean, the new parents are on our side."

"Oh yes, no problem there. They'll lay down ground-rules for home, I'm sure, but fair enough. The real difficulty's going to be school."

"Aye, there's the rub." So we turned our minds to it, and put on a record of Boyce symphonies to enliven our thoughts. Our discussion rambled, as discussions do, and I've no intention of boring you by reporting every word. But the gist of it boiled down to this.

"Well," I suggested to set the ball rolling, "it's a matter of whittling down the choices, isn't it? Let's try to tackle them in some sort of logical order. For a start, sex between males is illegal. In theory, I suppose, we could keep our noses clean and stay off sex altogether, always. Any takers?"

"God, no. I might have bought that a couple of months ago. Just possibly. But after this last fortnight, no way."

"Nor me. But it does mean breaking the law. Not just for a short time, like the last fortnight, but indefinitely. You're happy with that?"

"Oh yes. I don't mind breaking a bad law."

"Agreed. Right, then, let's focus in on school. Sex is outlawed there, and anyone caught trying it is unceremoniously booted out. So either we stay at Yarborough and adapt to what's possible there. Or we try to move to some day school in Oxford, where we'd have the nights and weekends to ourselves."

"Mmm. I don't want to leave Yarborough. I like it, a lot. We're well established, and we'd be hard pushed to find anywhere better, or as good. I mean, it's one thing to think about our immediate, um, pleasures, but we've got to bear our future in mind too. After all, you're an academic high-flyer. You can't afford to abandon all that." That was Andrew all over, always putting the other first.

There was an easy reply. "And you're a sporting high-flyer, and you're no slouch at work either."

"Well, OK. But the point is, I'm pretty sure there's no day school in or near Oxford - state or independent - which would serve either of us nearly as well. Especially you. We'd have to check with Mum and Dad, but I doubt they'd let us leave Yarborough."

"All right. So we stay at Yarborough. Well then, either we don't have any sex during term time, or we do, and risk being discovered. But the risk's pretty high, isn't it? I mean, where is there that's safe? Private? Nowhere in the house, nowhere I know of in the school buildings either. I suppose we could go out into the country. But is there anywhere safe even there? Remember that chap we saw in the wood?" We'd come across this boy enjoying a leisurely and solitary wank, so absorbed that he didn't even hear us. Not wanting to spoil his fun, we'd silently retreated. But it could just as easily be the other way round: Andrew and me, absorbed in one another, failing to hear someone approaching.

"Yes, you're right, I'm afraid. We might get away with the occasional quickie. But not regularly. After all, we've still got four years to go, and the odds against getting away with it for that long would be astronomical. Anyway, we'd have to keep our eyes and ears open all the time, and when I make love to you, Leon, I want space and time. To get lost in you. Dammit, you know what I mean. I don't like the idea of being furtive. I love you, and when we have sex I want to do it properly."

"Agreed, again. And if we're caught, as most likely we would be, we'll be out on our ears, and our prospects of university and of decent careers go down the drain. When you look at it like that, it isn't really worth the risk, is it?"

"So it means no sex during term, and making up for lost time in the holidays? God, that's going to be tough." We looked at each other in dismay, mentally checking through the logic. But it still added up.

"But inevitable, I'm afraid, even if the reasons are negative. You know, it might actually be better if we were more disciplined," I said slowly, looking for positive straws to clutch at. "I mean, this last fortnight has been super. We've done what we wanted when we wanted. But might we appreciate it still more if it was, well, rationed? I remember a bit in Mary Renault which says something like There are certain phases of love which bring perfect happiness only in their pauses and intervals, as water grows clear when one's progress has ceased to stir it."

He thought about it. "Well, I see the point. But I've no idea if it's true, or would be true for us. I suppose it wouldn't be wildly different if we were in different schools and only saw each other in the holidays. We'd have to be abstinent in term time then."

"Is that a real parallel? In that case we couldn't have sex. As it is, we'll see each other every day, able to have sex, but having to say no. Keeping our love at arm's length."

"Yes. Yes. It's pretty disheartening, though. That we'll have to pull in our horns." I was so disheartened, too, that I didn't even rib him for his choice of words.

Having reluctantly reached this broad decision, we began to plough through the small print. "Well, if sex is off the menu, what does that actually mean?" I asked. "Wanking doesn't count - that's a solo job, everybody does it, everybody knows that everybody does it. Even the staff, surely. Dammit, I mean even the staff must know. But what about kissing, hugging, holding hands - like we're doing all the time, like now?"

"Well, in public, that would be suicide, wouldn't it? Even in private it would still be risky, just like proper sex. Same reason - there's no privacy. People burst into studies without knocking. And even if we kissed in the woods we couldn't guarantee nobody would see. That wanker didn't expect to be seen, but we saw him. Anyway, that's different. Nobody would turn a hair at seeing somebody wanking. That's natural, legitimate, almost. But if they saw us hugging or kissing, that would be news. It'd go round the school like wildfire. Oh God, Leon. We daren't."

"Doesn't leave much to do, does it? I suppose we can still talk, as long as we talk in private. And look at one another, provided it isn't too obvious. But, oh hell, I can't help looking at you, Andrew, love. It's going to hurt like hell. What chance have we got of surviving four years? Without raising suspicions?"

"We've just got to be strong-minded, haven't we? Perhaps it'll hurt less once we're used to it. Look here, I promise not to tempt you deliberately. And I'll do my damnedest not to be tempted by you."

"Sounds easy, saying it like that. But yes, I promise too. And I'll try not to be tempted."

*

On this gloomy note we suspended discussions for a while. It was mid-afternoon by now, and we needed to blow away the cobwebs, so we walked down into town. Outside the Senate House we were stopped by a young woman, who said she was lost and was looking for Sidney Street. When I'd given her directions and she was clicking away on her high heels, I turned round to Andrew, only to find him perched on the low wall, bent almost double, quaking, crimson in the face. For a moment he had me really worried, until the penny dropped that he was in stitches with suppressed laughter. "Hey, what's the joke?"

He looked up, face streaming with tears, and spluttered, "Sh...she's a h...h...harlot!"

"Uh? How d'you know?" He couldn't answer. I was mystified but grinning, as one is when confronted by someone who's paralytic with the giggles.

It was a while before he could give a hiccuping and staccato explanation. "At prep school. Reading Shakespeare. Met the word harlot. Asked what it meant. Prat of a master ..." He hooted again, and pulled himself together. "If he'd said it was an old word for a tart, we'd have known where we were. But he didn't. He said ... oh God! ... he said 'It means, er, a woman who's lost her way.' And now I've met a woman who's lost her way ... hoo, hoo..." Off he went again, and by this time, of course, I'd caught the infection and was helpless too. God, I loved him. For his humour, this time, for his sense of the ridiculous, on top of everything else, on top of his consideration, his stability, his intelligence. Barely a fortnight ago I'd been in thrall to my parents, in a house where laughter was never heard, where I'd been pushed into the pit of hell, before Andrew had helped me out of that black despair with friendship and with fun. Now, not for the first time nor the last, I found that love and tears go hand in hand. Oblivious to our surroundings, I put my arm round him. He sensed my change of mood immediately, and hugged me back. "Leon, what's up?"

"Happy. Oh, just happy."

He smiled that oh-so-Andrew smile of warmth, and kissed me, in public, surrounded by tourists, on King's Parade, in August. By now the cobwebs were convincingly dispelled, so we cut back through King's. We hadn't planned to be there at evensong time, but when we saw a trickle of people heading for the chapel we exchanged a wordless glance and turned to join them. Neither of us was religious. As befitted the offspring of philosophers, we were agnostic; but we appreciated tradition and architecture and atmosphere. The choir school being on holiday, the music was relatively spartan, but after the service we stayed put, lost in our thoughts. I know of no better place for setting human problems in perspective than the fan-vaulted spaciousness of King's College chapel, with the afternoon sunlight streaming through the huge windows, in contrast to the darker mystery of so many churches. The incomparable air of openness, almost of transparency, gave a new slant to my thoughts. At length we looked at each other again, and went out.

"Andrew, I want to try out an idea. Let's go down to the river." We sat on the manicured grass of the bank. The tourists had gone home for their tea, and only a few determined punters passed to break the solitude. "Look, we don't like hiding things, do we? We reckon honesty's generally the best policy." He nodded. "So what if we tell the simple truth to someone at school, someone on the staff? If we registered ourselves in advance, as it were, would it calm suspicions if we were reported for holding hands?"

"Mmm. It's a thought. But who? I mean, we know that love's not the same thing as sex, and we reckon ours can survive without it, though it'll be painful. But will they understand love without sex, between boys? And allow it? Will they trust us enough? And even if we promised to be good boys in school, mightn't they ask 'Yes, but what about the holidays?'"

"Well, I think the answer there is that they're in loco parentis, that they have parental responsibility, only in term time, and that what we do out of school is for parents to regulate, not them. On their attitude, that's a difficult one. But they're not fools, or not many of them. They know about boys. Most of them are married, and parents. They must know what love means. They're humans."

"But Leon ... I've got to say this. Your parents are humans too, but they don't know what love is."

"OK, point taken. I'll rephrase that. The staff aren't just humans, they've got humanity. Or most have. Look, Andrew, the school's good, isn't it? Good academically and in sports, well run, generally a very happy place. Surely that means the people who run it are good. They run it with a light hand, with human understanding. If it were run by the likes of my parents, wouldn't it be utterly different, and much, much worse?"

"Huh. It would."

"Well, let's look at who we'd tell, if we told anyone. Wally's got some humanity. He might understand. And allow it, on those terms. But he'd be bound to consult the HM. He's a bit of an unknown quantity. Strict. But I've never heard anyone call him unfair, have you? Or heavy-handed?"

"No, can't say I have. But it doesn't follow that he - they - will understand our dilemma. The only way to find out is by telling them. And if they came down like a ton of bricks, it would be too late - the cat would be out of the bag. It'd be a hell of a risk to take."

"True. What we need is someone we know will be sympathetic. Who the heck ... Hang on! Steve!"

"Steve Phillips?"

"Yes. He's just the man. Your paths haven't crossed, have they?"

Andrew shook his head. "Not really. I've heard him preach, of course. He's good at that."

"Right, let's fill you in. Chaplain, junior classics master, my form-master. As you know. A Cambridge man - Father was his tutor. Can't be much over thirty. Married, with kids. A Christian humanist."

"What does that mean?"

"Well, humanism holds that what's all-important in life is human interests, the human mind, not religious claptrap. Christian humanism's a brand of Christianity with a more than usually human face. Much more, in Steve's case."

"Right. Go on."

"He's friendly, kindly, yes, wise too. Damn good teacher. Knows me well, of course, and shows no sign of disliking me. In fact he seems to think I'm his star pupil. If we talked to him, whatever he thinks of queer love, he wouldn't blow his top, I can guarantee that. I'm pretty sure he'd understand. He'd certainly keep it to himself. And give us advice. What d'you think?"

His reply was typical of Andrew, who didn't take big decisions lightly. "Yes, sounds possible. Let me brood on it. But good thinking, lad. You're more than just a pretty face."

"Idiot!" I swatted him, and he retaliated by leaning in and kissing me. "Hey, not here, not under the eyes of the Gibbs Building! Even if King's is the most liberal of colleges. You've had your public ration for the day, after the harlot. Look, we missed out on lunch. I'm starving. Let's go home and eat." So we went home and staved off our hunger.

Then, on the principle that music is the food of love, we put some music on, and kissed privately and properly. We were now in the sitting room, on the sofa. As we kissed, we felt, making up for lost time. Our clothes were gradually shed. Andrew was sitting astride my thighs, sensuously exploring each of my vertebrae in turn. My hand found its way between his legs from the front, at first stroking his balls and the top of his thighs, where hair was now growing. Experimentally, I tried brushing the tips of these hairs with my fingers, not even touching his skin. He gasped, abandoned my vertebrae, and clutched me round the shoulders. "Christ! Leon! Keep going!" My other hand could just reach round from the back to tickle his arse hairs, and within a minute, without further encouragement, he panted raggedly in my ear and came. His mouth sought out mine again. After a bit we cleaned up. Generous as always, he wanted to reciprocate, but I still had no hair on those parts. "Wait a mo!" he cried. He fished in a cupboard where we'd found a box of ostrich feathers dating back to Mother's fashionable days, and found one. He put me on my back with my legs up and, smiling a teasing but warm smile, tickled me around my most sensitive places until I was in tormented frenzy. Rapidly I too shot my load, and the feather could never again be used for its proper purpose. And all this proved merely the hors d'oeuvre to the main course.

*

We spent most of Monday debating the same questions again, without any new ideas. But we'd clarified our minds, and the next thing was to consult Helen and Jack, in detail. And Andrew, having brooded Andrew-fashion, was now happy to consult Steve as well. Not wanting, for some obscure reason, to leave a total tip for Mother and Father to return to, we did a bit of cleaning up. Andrew packed his own case, and together we bundled up my possessions. Not much: clothes, gramophone and records, and the books that were mine rather than my parents'. Oh, and the box of feathers. I even remembered to ferret through my father's desk - something I'd not have dared to do before - to find my birth certificate and National Health card. This simple act emphasised that I was cutting the final ties with this unpleasant house, the only home that featured in my memory. And, though they weren't there, I was cutting the final ties with my unpleasant parents too. That night, as we lay side by side, I felt curiously inert. In neutral, as if I'd been taken out of one gear but not yet put into another. I was limp, in every sense. I tried to explain to Andrew. "Sorry," I said. "I'm leaving my old life, and I haven't started on my new one. I'm floundering in no-man's-land. I do love you, but d'you mind if we just hug tonight?"

"Of course, love. I understand." So we just hugged, and I slept fitfully. I got up in the morning much earlier than I needed to, and mooched. At half past eight Andrew appeared, and we had some breakfast. I was now fretting over what to put in the note I was leaving for my parents to read when they arrived a few hours later. What could I say? Thanks for looking after me for fourteen years? I felt none. Thanks for releasing me from their clutches? That would be rubbing salt in everyone's wounds. Best wishes for the future? As far as I was concerned, they belonged to the past. I could think of nothing personal: nothing that was heart-felt, nothing that mightn't be taken amiss. They were casting me off, and I was casting them off. In the end, my note was stark: 'Professor Freeman called, and will ring again tomorrow. Milkman paid up to last Saturday. Change from housekeeping money in the drawer.' It was the last communication with my parents that I ever had.

About ten the bell rang. There were Jack and Helen, tanned and cheerful. They blinked when they set eyes on me, for they hadn't seen my new look before. "Oh, Leon," said Helen, hugging me, "do I remember someone insisting he wasn't handsome? How wrong he was. Anyway, my dear, welcome. We're now yours, and you're ours. We're so happy."

"And so'm I. One day I may be able to say thank you properly." Andrew got his share of the welcome, and we both loaded up the car while Jack and Helen took a quick look round the dingy house. They hadn't seen it before, and emerged looking shaken.

I did a final check-round, closed the front door on my former home, locked it, put the key under the mat, and climbed into the car alongside Andrew. As Jack pulled out into Grange Road, I felt as if my mooring rope, the last link with my old port, had been cast off, and I was on the open sea. I let out a huge sigh, but did not look back. Helen reached round from the front seat to take one of my hands - Andrew was holding the other - and asked gently, "No regrets, Leon?"

"No, Helen, not a single pang. Just relief. And gratitude. All right, I'm sorry to be leaving Cambridge. I've no quarrel with Cambridge. Quite the reverse. But Oxford will serve me just as well."

"We've said it before, Leon, and we say it again. You're a brave man."

"I don't know about brave. At the moment, disorientated, halfway between one life and another. Help me find my bearings, please. Start by telling us about the conference."

So they did, and it saw us to well beyond Bletchley. My parents, in those circumstances, would have launched into a critical - probably a highly critical - analysis of the papers that had been given. Helen and Jack, in contrast, talked about Athens as a place, and they talked particularly about the people they'd met, the locals, the scholars from umpteen different countries, their characters and their quirks. I only half listened, I confess, to their witty and kindly portrait-painting. "But that's enough of our doings," they ended. "Now tell us about yours. Censored, please, to suit our chaste ears."

I left that to Andrew. "Splendid," they said. "That fortnight together was exactly right for both of you, wasn't it? And at just the right time. Leon, we feel it wouldn't help if we passed on all the grisly details of our talks with your parents. It wasn't pleasant. They're blinkered and insensitive and dogmatic. They didn't begin to understand that you've an independent mind and soul, that you've individual needs which are different from theirs. Are you content if we leave it at that?"

"Yes. I am. They're in the past now."

"Right. The only other point about them is this. They've cut you off so completely that we doubt they'll contact you again. But it seems wrong to be totally out of touch. I'm sure we'll see them occasionally ourselves, professionally. But if one of them fell seriously ill, for example, or even died, it might be some time before we heard on the grapevine. So we suggest asking Angus MacIntyre" - he was a philosophical colleague of Father's at Selwyn - "to let us know if anything major like that happened. All right?"

"Yes, fine." I wasn't much bothered, but I appreciated their concern. I was slowly acclimatising from the chill aridity of the Michaelson past to the warm humanity of the Goodhart future, and by the time we were rolling through Bicester tears were running down my cheeks. "It's all right, Andrew, love," I managed to say - he was hugging me in concern - "It's just my relief coming out. Happiness, pure happiness. Again. Still." And some miles further on, when I was back on an even keel, I broached a subject that was important to me. "Helen, Jack. May I call you Mum and Dad now?" They exchanged a startled glance. "That's how I see you. Honestly. There'll be no room for confusion. My own parents have always been Mother and Father. They insisted on it. Stark and formal. I've never thought of them as anything else, and never will."

"Yes, of course, Leon dear. If that's what you'd like, we're entirely happy. Indeed we're honoured."

"Thanks, Mum. Thanks, Dad. It helps me feel more like a Goodhart, less like a Michaelson."

"Well, far be it from us to discourage you from identifying with the Goodharts," said Jack, or Dad. "But don't forget you are a Michaelson. For better or worse, it's from your parents that you've inherited your intellect, and a powerful intellect it is. What you've missed out on is their less endearing characteristics, thank goodness. Lord knows where the humanity in you came from. It was hardly by nurture, so it must be by nature. I don't begin to understand this genetics stuff" - this was shortly after Crick and Watson had identified DNA, at Cambridge as it happened. "But you can still bear the name of Michaelson with pride, while sheltering under the Goodhart wing."

"I suppose so, yes." It reminded me of something else. "But I've burnt my boats at Cambridge. I'll never be able to go back there as a classics undergraduate, to sit at my parents' feet. If I'm going to go to an ancient university, it'll have to be Oxford."

"Maybe. But it's early days yet. There's still plenty of water to flow down the Cam - and the Isis - before you make a decision. Four years, isn't it? By then, who knows, your parents might have succumbed to the lure of princely American salaries and emigrated to Harvard or Yale. And reopened the doors of Cambridge to you."

Well, maybe.

"Look, boys," said Mum, "to come down to more mundane matters, I'm afraid your welcome is very ill-prepared. We got in late last night, after the shops shut, and left this morning before they opened. The fridge is empty, and it'll be lunchtime by the time we get back. Once we've unloaded, would you be very kind and do a bit of shopping? We've come back to a mountain of post that needs dealing with before we can give you our undivided attention and talk properly about the future, which is something we've got to do."

"No problem, Mum," said Andrew, "if you give us a list."

"Right. I'll concoct one now."

"And would you like us to do the meal tonight? Give you a bit more time."

"Well, if you don't mind, boys, that would be a great help. You decide the menu. Keep it simple."

We held a muttered conference. "Would baked potatoes and carrots and steak and kidney pie be all right?" I asked eventually. "And macaroni pudding? We could manage those. Pastry's beyond me, but Andrew says he's a dab hand at that."

"He is, too," Mum remarked. "I don't know where he gets it from. Certainly not from me."

"Why do women always assume that the culinary art should only be passed down through the female line?" asked Dad plaintively. "I may not know much about genetics, but I do know that these skills can be transmitted by males. He inherited them from me, of course."

"Jack, may you be forgiven! Don't you remember that gooseberry pie you made when the Perkinses came for a meal? It was a catastrophe!"

"Well, even Homer had his off days. Normally, Mr Pastry is my name."

"It's not inheritance at all," Andrew butted in. "What little Dad knows about pastry making he's learnt from me. It's not an art, it's a science. Repeatable, like all proper science. And I picked it up from my chemistry, d'you remember? I wanted to see if you could treat recipes like you do the experiments in a chemistry textbook. And you can. It's just the same as creating any lethal compound."

"Arsenic instead of sugar, eh?" asked Mum. "We'll have to watch out. But I admit it's on a par with your insatiable curiosity. Have you told Leon about your famous question to Aunty Joyce?"

"Of course I haven't, seeing that I never asked it!"

"Indeed you did. You'll be meeting Joyce one day, Leon, and can check with her. Anyway, when Andrew was at the mature old age of ten, or was it nine, he took it into his head to ask her what was the difference between a popsy and a floozie. I haven't a clue where he'd heard the words, and why he asked Joyce - she's a somewhat prim spinster - rather than his worldly-wise parents. But to our amazement she came up trumps. 'Well, dear,' she said. 'I'm not entirely sure, but I think one's an amateur and the other's a professional.' And he was satisfied. Though I've no idea if he understood what they were amateur or professional at."

"Well, I don't remember a thing about it," protested Andrew. "I reckon you made it up." But he was grinning.

On this note we entered Oxford, and turned into Park Town. By now I was glowing, not only with anticipation, but with delight at this domestic banter. Ordinary enough for most people, no doubt, but unfamiliar to me. We unloaded our clobber, and Andrew and I went a-marketing. That duty done, we had a bread-and-cheese lunch, and set about dealing with our bedroom. Our bedroom, now, which previously had been just Andrew's. We reorganised his cupboard and drawers to accommodate my clothes. When I'd stayed here at Christmas I'd slept in the spare room, which had a double bed. So we manhandled Andrew's single bed in there, and the double bed into our room. And made it up, and sat on it, and kissed. And one thing led to another. Some time later we cleaned up, went down, and prepared the meal, which was a great success. Dad even complimented Andrew on the pastry.

"Right," he said, when we'd finished. "We've cleared our desks enough to call a council of war. Well, that's the wrong phrase, because there's no conflict around, we hope. Look, boys. You may still be some way off adulthood, but you're sensible and you're responsible, and we've no intention of treating you as children. You're already in a relationship which many people, of whichever gender, don't reach until they're much older, if ever. Your love is very clear to us. Let me not to the marriage of true minds admit impediments. The Bard speaks for us. You have our support and our trust. But remember that our attitude isn't typical.

"Before we get down to detail, one general point first. What you're doing is strictly illegal. I saw in the paper that last year there were over two thousand prosecutions for indecency between males. In a sense, that shouldn't worry you too much, because the great majority involved adults, and what's called misbehaviour between boys is generally left to parents to deal with, not the courts. But you must never forget it. For chaps like you, it's a dangerous and hostile world out there. You must always be discreet. If you kiss or hold hands in public, I don't think the law has any objection, but fingers will point and tongues will wag. And that might be enough to trigger an investigation into what you do in private. Understood?"

"Understood," we said in unison. "We've already talked about that," added Andrew, "and we agree. We know we're breaking the law. With our eyes open."

"Good. In fact that cloud may even have a bit of a silver lining. Have you heard of the committee under Sir John Wolfenden that's been investigating the law relating to homosexual offences? It's been sitting for three years, and its report's due to be published on Thursday. We'll get a copy. It's rumoured that it'll recommend decriminalising homosexual behaviour between consenting adults in private. Even if it does, and it does reach the statute book, it won't affect you for quite a few years. I hope it's a sign that the wind's changing. But that doesn't mean you can lower your guard. Not for a long time to come.

"Now, next point. Under this roof, it's a different matter. You may do what you like, within reason, so long as you respect our sensibilities. We don't in the least mind you holding hands in our presence, or hugging, or even modest kissing. As we do ourselves. But above a certain level of passion, keep it out of our sight, and out of our hearing. We know that you'll be considerate and careful and clean with one another." He smiled at Mum, acknowledging our conversation of two months ago. "And we don't expect to see you, any more than you'd expect to see us, prancing starkers around the house. You need your privacy, and we'll respect it. We won't come into your bedroom without knocking and being invited to enter, any more than you'd come into ours. That all clear enough?"

We nodded. "Yes, Dad, we're happy with that."

"Right then. That leaves the line you take at school. Here we can only advise, not lay down the law. Have you thought about it yet?"

Andrew looked at me. "You take this one, Leon. You'll explain it more clearly."

"Right. Yes. We've thought about it a lot. And come to a number of conclusions, most of them unpalatable." I spelled them out, step by step, together with the reasoning behind them, and the questions that needed answers. It boiled down, assuming we stayed at Yarborough, to no sex in term time and no overt signs of affection. What we did in the holidays, we felt, was not the school's business. As a safeguard, we were wondering about telling Steve Phillips of our love. "He'd keep it under his hat," I ended. "If we tell anyone else, and they say they can't countenance love between boys, we can't stay there. There's no way we can just kill off our love."

They listened carefully without interrupting, though Dad jotted down an occasional note. "My word," he said, "you have gone into it thoroughly. Sensibly too. I can see why you call the results unpalatable. It's self-denial on a grand scale. But I'm afraid you're right. Even being publicly affectionate is just as undesirable at school as in the wider world." He confirmed that there was no alternative to Yarborough, and that what we did out of term time was their responsibility, not the school's.

"Now. Do you tell anyone in advance of your love, in the hope that they'll understand it? That's a tricky one. Yes, the staff, for the most part, are intelligent and human people. We've a high opinion of Wally. And of the headmaster too. He's good, and to be good at his job he has to understand human nature, especially in boys. And like most headmasters he cultivates a façade which doesn't reflect the man inside. They'll know what love means. But whether they'll tolerate it is quite a different matter. They might very well see it as the thin end of the wedge. But this Steve Phillips sounds a possibility. Tell us more about him." I did so. "He sounds like a good ally. Yes, tell him. Be prepared to spill all the beans, in confidence of course. And ask if he thinks it wise to tell anyone else. Now, term's only two weeks away. See if you can call on him soon. We'll drive you up and back. Would it be useful if we sat in on the interview? Not to take part, but to see fair play and be appealed to if need be?"

So I phoned Steve in the morning. He was surprised to hear from me, but when I asked if I might call in, with a friend and our parents, for his advice, he readily agreed to see us the next day. "Which hat do I put on?" he asked. "Chaplain's or form-master's?"

"Both, please, sir. And your human being's hat as well."

*

On Thursday morning we stopped at Blackwell's and Mum nipped in to buy a copy of the Wolfenden Report. As we drove she skimmed through it and read passages out loud. As rumour foretold, it recommended that sex between consenting adults in private be decriminalised; but, as Dad foretold, it held no immediate consolation for us, other than that the climate was perhaps beginning to change. Little did any of us think that it would be ten years before it became law.

We arrived at Steve's house in the early afternoon. He was tall, thin, bespectacled, ascetic in appearance, with an unruly shock of wiry dark hair and a penetrating eye. After he had goggled at my new look, I made the introductions. "I've not had the pleasure of teaching you," he said to Andrew, "but I do follow school cricket, and I know all about you in that department. Professor and Dr Goodhart, I know all about you by repute, of course. How good to meet you. And, Leon, I thought you said you were bringing your own parents."

"I have, sir. Well, Helen and Jack are now my guardians. My parents have disowned me."

"Good Lord! Why?" At this point Mrs Phillips brought in coffee and disappeared again. Having sorted out the cups, Steve turned back to me. "So they've disowned you, Leon. I take it that's connected with what you want to talk about?"

"Yes, sir, partly. I was an unwanted child. Unloved. The Goodharts took pity on me, and offered to take me under their wing. The final straw ... Please, sir, will you keep all this confidential?"

"Of course I will. Nothing will go outside these walls without your permission."

"Thanks. Well, the final straw was when my parents heard I was queer. That I was in love with Andrew. They transferred custody of me last Monday. Jack and Helen have no problem with us both being homosexual."

Steve, bless him, didn't bat an eyelid, but merely looked questioningly at the Goodharts. "That's right," said Dad. "We see it as a natural state, not a perversion or a disease. But we're here only as observers. We'll just sit in the background, if we may, unless and until you have any questions for us. The boys are quite capable of being their own advocates."

"Fine by me. Well, Leon, I confess I'm not entirely surprised to hear about your parents. Marvellous scholars, but humanity isn't their strong point. You know your father was my tutor, don't you? As a budding young humanist I had many a clash with him. When you first joined my form I wondered if I'd find you were a chip off the old block. Well, in one sense you are, but in this realm you most definitely are not. As a rule I deplore family break-ups, but in your case I can see that it's for the best, especially as you've got the Goodharts instead. Now, on the other matter you raise, that you're queer, that you love each other, can you expand on that a bit? I'm not in the least shocked. But how do you know you're queer? How long have you known? Are you just after physical gratification, or is it more than that? Andrew, your turn."

"Well, sir." He was red with embarrassment, but bent on honesty. "I've never been attracted by girls, and for several years I've been attracted by boys. Not seriously enough to do anything about it, till I met Leon. At first I ... yes, I'm afraid I just pitied him for the wretched life he'd led, and tried to help him. Then I found he was helping me too. And soon it turned into friendship, a good friendship, and as far as I was concerned it began to harden into love last winter. Just began. I'm a slow blighter in making big decisions, and I wasn't totally sure until the end of last term. I'd never liked the idea of, um, casual, er, sex, and Leon and I talked about it a few months ago. Not about us. About the difference between love and sex. He introduced me to the Symposium, which made it very clear. After that, the more I thought about it, the more I saw that Leon was my other half. And it was less than three weeks ago that Leon told me he loved me back. That was when we first, um, had sex." He was now redder still. "We belong together, sir. We're the two halves of a single whole. And I can't stand the thought of us ever being separated."

"Thank you, Andrew. It took courage to tell me that. Leon?"

"Just the same, sir. Before I came here I was desperately lonely. I got to know myself pretty well, then. G n w q i s a u t o n really did apply to me" - this was one of the Delphic mottoes, Know thyself, on permanent display in Steve's classroom. "I knew nobody loved me, in any sense. And I loved nobody. If I was going to break out of my rut, I had to find someone to love, someone to be loved by. Well, I found Andrew. I found I loved him. But I wasn't sure he loved me too until - do you remember I made a fool of myself the last day of last term, sir? I'd picked up his diary by mistake, and it said that he did love me. After that it was plain sailing, apart from my parents. We might fall out of love. I hope not. But nobody else can make us fall out. And it's our love we want to talk about, not sex."

"Yes, I do remember that incident, Leon. I thought it might be something of that kind. OK, boys, I wanted to make sure it wasn't just a crush, just puppy love. You've convinced me. And all right, we'll leave sex out of the equation. So long as it's not sex at school, it's a matter for your parents. Let's concentrate on love. Now, Leon, you asked me to wear three hats today. First, as a human being, I have no difficulty with homosexuality in general. Like the Goodharts, I see it as a natural state. True, I might be worried about your age. You're what? Fifteen? Some boys of that age are little more than children, mentally. If that applied to you, I wouldn't encourage you. But it doesn't. You're plenty mature enough to understand and handle the issues. That's what's crucial. Next, as a minister of the church, you may be surprised to hear, I've no difficulty either. I believe God created homosexuals just as he did heterosexuals. I've got good friends who're queer - yes, even inside the Church - and as far as I can tell there's nothing in their love to deprive them of God's blessing. Only remember that many - most - of my calling see it differently. But the final hat I wear, as a master here, gives a rather different message and makes me sound a strong note of caution. You didn't come here, I'm sure, simply to tell me you're in love. You said on the phone you wanted advice. I imagine that's in connection with school?"

"Yes, sir," I said. "It is. We can live without sex here. We can try to live without showing our love, without holding hands and suchlike. Mh d e n a g a n , in fact" - another of the Delphic mottoes, Nothing to excess - "But it'll be hard. Someone said There's no disguise which can hide love for long. We want to be as honest as possible, without being suicidal. That's why we've told you. But what we want your advice on, please, is this. Should we tell Mr MacNair and the headmaster that we're in love, but undertake not to display it publicly, and of course not to have sex? I mean, if they were likely to say, 'There's no room for that sort of thing here. Either drop it, or go,' then we wouldn't tell them. We want to stay, but we can't drop it. Or might they agree that love is love, even between boys, and can't be suppressed, and that they won't object, provided we don't flaunt it? What we do - or what we don't do - will be the same whether they know or not."

"I follow you. Oh, where do I start? The HM's no ogre, you know. Nor's Mr MacNair, nor most of the rest of the staff. They have got human feelings, they do understand boys. I know, because they consult me as chaplain when moral problems crop up. But my position often authorises me to play the role of devil's advocate. As a result, our views by no means always coincide: mine as a humanist, sympathetic to human nature, theirs as cautious disciplinarians who have to ensure that the school runs smoothly. I'm pretty sure I know what their view would be in this case, and that it would prevail over mine. Let me try to explain it fully, because you're intelligent boys, and you need to understand. I'm afraid it's going to be quite a sermon.

"The background, of course, is that homosexuality is commonly regarded as unnatural. Like me, quite a lot of my colleagues, including Mr MacNair and the HM, don't subscribe to that view. But of course they can't tolerate, let alone encourage, the physical side, for several reasons. In the first place, it's against the law. Whether the law is good or bad is immaterial. You'll have heard of the Wolfenden Report. Even if it becomes law, it won't affect any pupils here. Secondly, one of the virtues the school tries to instil is self-discipline. Abstinence, chastity if you prefer, is good training for that. Thirdly, many people (though not myself) believe homosexuality is contrary to the Christian values we claim to impart. Finally, and possibly the most important, the school survives, to put it bluntly, by selling its services. It can't afford a reputation as a place where sexual activity is tolerated. Its customers, the parents, wouldn't send their sons here, because few of them hold views so liberal as yours" - he bowed to the Goodharts. "That's why the school forbids homosexual acts, and punishes them when they're discovered.

"But it's love that's at issue, not sexual activity, and you're well aware of the distinction. Whereas sex is a somewhat bizarre physical act, love resides in the soul. It's an emotion, in its best form a noble emotion, and between a male and a female a socially acceptable emotion. As a step on the way to the real issue, let's look for a moment just at heterosexual love. I doubt if any master here would want to suppress that, or feel they have the right to. Not even adolescent love: why should anyone be allowed to love at eighteen but not at fifteen? Only last term a housemaster consulted the HM and myself about a boy of your age who, he'd found, was in love with a girl. There was nothing to reprimand the boy for. We told him it was natural and nothing to be ashamed of. There was no question of sexual activity on the premises. Whether it took place in the holidays I don't know, and it wasn't our business to ask, for outside our jurisdiction we can't enforce the chastity which we preach. But the point is that we can't condemn heterosexual love as such.

"This brings us at last to your problem. Provided there's no sex involved, at least in term time, why should homosexual love be condemned if heterosexual love isn't? It's a question that hasn't arisen in my time. To my mind, both are equally natural, and I couldn't in conscience forbid either. But I'm quite sure the HM's answer would be different. Mind you, he wouldn't say that homosexuality is unnatural and therefore wrong, as they would in most other schools. No, he'd say that the great majority of boys think of love and sex as synonymous, or at least think that love leads inexorably to sex, and they'd therefore assume in their simple way that if we permitted love we permitted sex. Personally I can't see much force in that argument. We're here to teach, and we ought to teach that love and sex are not the same thing. But he'd also argue that if word got out to the big wide world - to parents and to others - that Yarborough tolerated love between boys, it would be misinterpreted to mean that we tolerated sex between boys. And that's the real crunch. The HM is the HM. The buck stops with him. He wouldn't dare risk it.

"So my advice must be, keep your love to yourself. Don't be guided by 'Honesty is the best policy.' Not in this case. Remember, Some rise by vice, and some by virtue fall. Self-preservation ranks higher. I applaud your wish to be open, and I'm grateful that you've come to me. But that's what I'm here for. No, your motto should be 'Discretion is the better part of valour.' While you're here, keep your love chaste - we agree on that - and, equally important, private. Unless you're absolutely sure nobody will see, don't hold hands, as you've been itching to do while I've been droning on. Don't ogle each other. Don't talk about your love with anyone else. One false move on your part, and people will two and two together and make five - boys are very good at that - thinking that if you're so obviously in love you must be having sex. If that happens, you'll have let a mischief-making genie out of the bottle, and your position here may well become untenable.

"I'm sure you don't like what I've been saying. I don't like saying it either. I'd be saying it even more negatively if I didn't know you were mature and responsible and trustworthy. I wouldn't be saying it at all if you didn't have the support of your parents. And remember I'm saying it only as a sympathetic individual, not laying down the school's official line. Life's going to be a challenge for you. I'd hate to be fettered by restrictions like that, even at my advanced age, let alone at yours. But you want to stay at Yarborough, I want you to stay and, as I see it, that's the only way you can stay. But if you find the going too difficult, don't suffer in silence. Come back to me and we'll talk it over. Now, what have you to say to all that? I'm sorry it's taken so long, and been so negative."

"Well, thanks, first of all, sir," said Andrew. "We didn't expect any more. We'd have had to keep our love under wraps even if we hadn't told you. But I'm glad we did. I feel reassured, somehow."

"Good. And I'm glad you told me. Anything else?"

Andrew and I looked at each other. "Friends?" he mouthed.

"Sir. Are you saying we shouldn't tell even our closest friends?"

Steve pulled at his lip. "Mmm. The more who know, the more likely the secret will out."

"They could be very useful in warning us if we were being obvious, sir. And on top of that, It's more shameful to distrust one's friends than to be deceived by them."

He laughed. "Fair point. But are they reliable? Do I know them?"

Andrew and I consulted in whispers. Jim was our closest friend. We felt he'd suffice, at least for a start. And he'd be supportive.

"We reckon only Jim Bates, sir, for the time being. Do you know him?"

Steve gave us an unfathomable look. "Yes, it happens I do. A sound lad. Yes, you should be in safe hands there. Tell him, but under oath of secrecy. No more queries? Right. Well, Professor and Dr Goodhart, you're here to see fair play. Does it pass muster?"

"It does, Mr Phillips. Nothing could be fairer. We see now why Leon was singing your praises."

"Compliments! In return, let me salute a courageous and honest pair of young men, and wish you both well."

We piled into the car for the long drive home. "Thanks, Mum and Dad. Thanks for bringing us, and thanks for supporting us." I yawned prodigiously, and while they talked quietly in the front, Andrew and I, exhausted by the expenditure of nervous energy, fell asleep in the back.

*

The remainder of the holidays passed slowly and by no means painlessly. The morning after our visit to Yarborough, Mum cornered us. "Look, boys," she said, "we were impressed by Steve's attitude. There's no doubt, he is a good man. But there's no doubt either that you're going to be plagued by temptations. Don't give way. Please. It's just not worth it, if it's likely to leave your careers in tatters. And to help you resist, I suggest you get into training. No, I don't suggest, I order. Spend whole days - and nights - without touching one another at all. No sex. No holding hands, like you are now. No hugging or kissing. No making sheep's eyes, either."

"Oh, Mum!"

"Don't 'Oh, Mum' me. If you think about it, you'll see it makes sense."

We thought, and it did.

"Right, you do see. And with practice it shouldn't be as hard as you imagine. Madeleine de Scudéry - she was a French novelist - knew something about that. Love is a flighty creature which desires everything and can be contented with almost nothing. So what about a regime that breaks you in gently? Let's see." She got down the calendar. "From the time you get up tomorrow, no touching for twenty four hours. Of any sort. One of you sleeps in the spare room. The day after, as normal. Then two days off touching. One day on. Three days off. One day on. Three days off. One day on. That'll take you to the beginning of term. Nicely prepared."

We groaned, but we obeyed, as far as we could. The first day off was horrible. We managed not to touch, but found ourselves gazing mournfully at each other like soppy spaniels, until Mum caught us at it, and found useful jobs to keep us out of mischief. The night was even worse. It was barely three weeks since I'd last slept alone, but I'd already grown addicted to the contact of skin on skin, and its lack kept me awake. I'd expected to be beating the hell out of my cock but, strangely, found no desire for solitary pleasures. In the morning I made my way to Andrew's room and blearily asked him how he'd got on. Exactly the same, he said - much waking, no wanking. We made up for it over the next twenty four hours.

"Mum, it's not easy," said Andrew. "It may get easier, but we want to know about you and Dad. I mean, you're like us, you often hold hands and kiss. Well, peck, anyway, if it's in public. But how easy is it if one of you is away?"

"Well, we miss it, of course, but we don't go into a terminal decline. In the early days, immediately after we were married, Dad was away in the army for months on end. For a year, once. Yes, that was agony at first. But it was different from your situation. We were apart, not together. And, of course, after a while I had you to love as well. But since the war I don't think we've ever been apart for more than a week at a time. At the end of the week, yes, we're over the moon to be together again, but we haven't been in extremis in between. But I think that's a question of long service - you mellow into love, you know. It stays just as good, but it changes from the sharp to the ripe, like fruit."

Not much comfort for the short term, then. But the two following days were slightly easier. The ache of self-denial was less and sleep was better, though we lived for the return of contact, and more than contact. So it continued. Mum's draconian regime was justified by a gradual improvement; but only up to a point, beyond which the pain reduced no further. We came to realise that practice runs were one thing - we knew exactly when normal service would be resumed - but that the reality of almost indefinite abstinence would be quite another. We made a special occasion of our last night together, savouring the electricity to the full before it was switched off. The honeymoon was now ending.

Chapter 13 - Synthesis

The two boys who returned to school in September differed from those who'd left in July. One of them was re-styled and much ribbed for it, though in a friendly way. Both of them were newly fulfilled and confident, but paradoxically awash with trepidation. Fortunately we were plunged straight into work. I was starting in on A-levels, Andrew on O-levels and, in addition, he was selected for the school under-sixteen rugger team. There was little time to draw breath, let alone to mope, until Sunday. Steve always preached in chapel on the first Sunday of the school year: not a sermon proper, more a pep-talk setting out the moral standards expected of the boys. I'd heard it a year ago, and it promised to be much the same, so I didn't listen carefully. It followed a predictable pattern: work hard and play hard, loyalty and team-work, responsibility, honesty ... then I was aware of something new.

"You'll have read," he was saying, "of the recent Wolfenden Report on homosexuality, and heard that the Archbishop of Canterbury has given it his approval. It's not yet law, and even if it becomes law it'll apply only to those over twenty one, not to you. Sexual activity, whether homosexual or heterosexual, is of course forbidden here. But let me make one thing clear. Sex is not the same as love. The one is physical, the other emotional. They don't necessarily go together. Some few of you may find you're in love. Love is one of the deepest, the most basic, of human emotions and there's nothing wrong with it. We can't prevent anyone loving, provided it's a chaste love." He moved on to the subject of bullying, and I stopped listening in order to think his words over. They were clearly intended both as a coded confirmation to us and as a public statement of his own philosophy, which could be taken, depending on the hearer, as referring to either sort of love, or both. My heart glowed.

A few minutes later it glowed still more. He pronounced the blessing and the organ launched into the great tune of Hyfrydol. But instead of the usual words, the number 437 listed on the hymn board turned out to be Love divine, all loves excelling. Deliberately chosen, surely. And as I looked up from my book I found Steve's gaze on me. I returned it for long enough to show that I understood. His eyes then sought out someone behind me: Andrew, surely. And after pausing there for a while, they focussed on somebody else again before returning to his book. The hymn drew to a close,

Changed from glory into glory,
Till in heaven we take our place,
Till we cast our crowns before thee,
Lost in wonder, love and praise!

But a lump in my throat prevented me from singing. Those words were close to the bone. They reminded me that, four terms ago, I'd found Andrew, and that in Andrew I'd found love and life and heaven. But they also reminded me that my journey to Andrew and heaven had started, only a few weeks before, in the deepest pit of hell, and that it had almost not started at all. I still hadn't come to terms with what had happened, or nearly happened, on that dark day. I hadn't even told Andrew about it, or about the worst that my prep school had thrown at me. The wounds, though well on their way to healing, were still there, and I didn't want to seem to complain about them. But there wasn't time now to brood.

Sitting at the front, I was among the last to leave. Outside chapel I failed to spot Andrew, and went back to the house. There I found him in his study, staring at infinity. "Great man, Steve," he said. "I was too choked up to join in the last hymn."

"Me too." I started to put my arm round him, but remembered in time. "I was lost in wonder, love and praise. Of you ... Andrew, shall we try to get Jim to come for a walk this afternoon. And tell him?"

"I was thinking the same. Let's."

As if on cue, there was a tap on the door and in walked Jim himself. He was a term above us, average in almost every way, neither good nor bad at work or games, of medium height and build, mousy haired. What redeemed him from ordinariness was a heart of gold and a huge and outspoken, sometimes an outrageous, sense of humour. Some people - but not us - called him Chimp because his face, though in no ordinary sense beautiful, was simply a delight: a snub nose and a letterbox mouth. He was the sort of chap whose grin, like the Cheshire cat's, hung around for some time after he'd gone.

"Jim! Talk of the devil!" said Andrew. "We were just saying, we've something we want to tell you. Come for a walk this afternoon?"

"Well I'll be buggered!"

"Relax, you won't be."

He grinned. "Clot! No, I mean, what a coincidence. I was going to ask you just the same thing. So yes."

"You mean you've got something to tell us too?"

"Yes."

"Tit for tat, then."

So after lunch we walked out, the three of us, along the Gresford road. "Heard a funny one in the holidays," said Jim, "about the vicar visiting the maiden lady and being shown round her garden. Well, he pricked his finger on a thorn while he was smelling her roses, and when they went back to the house he was clutching his hand, and she said, 'Oh, vicar, is your prick throbbing?'"

We laughed dutifully - it wasn't one of Jim's best. "Was that what you wanted to tell us?" asked Andrew in fake innocence.

"Don't be a BF! Course not. There's something much more interesting. Look, you know about me and Sally." We did, a lot. Jim wore his heart on his sleeve, and Sally had been his girlfriend at home ever since we'd known him. "Look, keep this under your hats, won't you? Promise? Well, I'm in love with her. Properly, I mean. All last term I was wondering if I dared go the whole hog, and funking it. No, I said funking. Just before the end of term I started a letter to her. Some bastard found it and took it to Wally, saying it was indecent. But it wasn't. Well, it wasn't, um, explicit. Only a bit suggestive. Anyway, Wally called me in. He wasn't angry. In fact I got the feeling he was trying not to smile. He just said, could he keep it for a bit while deciding what to do. And later that day he called me in again, and hauled me off with him to see the HM and Steve. I nearly crapped in my pants. But they weren't angry either. They said ..."

"Let me guess," I'd caught Andrew's eye and couldn't help butting in. "They said they'd only called you in to tell you in person that love was natural and nothing to be ashamed of. Nobody had any intention of slapping down on you. And what you did in the holidays was outside the school's jurisdiction."

Jim was gawping like a codfish. "How the hell d'you know?"

"Oh, they told us."

"What the ... I mean ... Christ!" He was gobbling, and Andrew and I were laughing so hard that we had to clutch each other to stay upright. That surely didn't count as touching, within the meaning of the act.

"Calm down, Jim. It's all right, your name wasn't mentioned. Sorry about that, I couldn't resist it. Look, that bit really belongs to what we want to tell you. Leave it for a minute. Finish your story first."

Jim looked at us dubiously. "Well, OK. Well, getting that sort of encouragement sort of whetted my appetite. As soon as I got home I went to the barber and got some French letters - Christ, that was embarrassing. Then I got Sally by herself, and we had sex. She didn't need much persuading. And several times after that, too. Last time only last week. God, chaps, you've no idea what sex can be like. Proper sex - I don't mean just wanking. It's out of this world." His face was a study. Picture a chimpanzee in ultimate bliss. "For Christ's sake don't split on me, but I had to tell someone."

We were grinning broadly. "Good for you, Jim," said Andrew. "Thanks for telling us. We won't split. But we do know."

"Know what?"

"What sex is like."

"You've had sex? Crikey! I didn't know you had girlfriends. I mean, you've never said ..."

"Jim. We'll keep your secret. Will you keep ours?"

"Of course."

"Not sex with girlfriends. Sex with each other. We're in love."

Jim stared, his mouth agape. We were at a crossroads, and he leaned against the signpost for support. Suddenly he burst into laughter, deep belly-laughter. "Bloody hell! Look, chaps," he leant forward and clapped us on the shoulders. "Don't get me wrong. I'm not laughing at you. I'm laughing with you. For you. At myself. Didn't think anything could cap my story but, cripes, you have. Look, don't worry about me. I've got no hang-up about homos. It doesn't bother me a bit. In fact I'm glad for you, you've always seemed to belong to each other, somehow." He paused. "You know, come to think of it, I suppose there were signs, but I didn't mark them. Now, tell me more."

We told him everything, in outline, including our talk with Steve. "God, that's tough," he said. "I mean, I pine for Sally, but there's no way I can shag her from here, not without a cock a hundred miles long. But you're within easy range of one another" - we were currently a modest few inches apart - "and you can't even hold hands." He was a sensitive soul, was Jim, sometimes, and a good friend.

"That's just it, Jim," I said. "We'll be lucky to last the course. We're only a few days into term, and we've managed so far. But there's a hell of a long way to go. It's going to be damned hard to keep it up."

"To keep it down, you mean."

I laughed, but only half-heartedly. "Talk about minds in gutters. Point is, someone may see us. Nowhere's private." I glanced round, and sure enough there was a distant figure in school uniform coming towards us. "We'll do our best, but could you keep your ear to the ground, and if you hear any hint that somebody's rumbled us, or sounds suspicious, tip us the wink?"

"Yes, course I will. You know, I'm fully cleared with Steve, but it sounds as if you're not far off being cleared too. His sermon this morning. I thought he was talking just about me. But he was talking about you too, wasn't he?"

"Yes, I'm sure he was. And Jim, during the last hymn, Love divine, did he catch your eye?"

"Yes, he did ... Yours too?"

"Yes. It helps, doesn't it?" We looked at each other in comradeship. The distant figure was now closer, and resolved itself as Thorne, a term above Jim, a malignant weasel who last year had clashed with both Andrew and myself. None too bright, and not at all popular. Everyone in the house was on first-name terms with everyone else within a year or so above and below. Everyone except Thorne, who was never anything but Thorne. As he walked past us we nodded to him, out of common politeness, but he didn't even acknowledge us.

Jim watched his retreating back. "He's the one you want to watch out for," he said. "He's the bastard who nicked my love letter, you know. Said he'd found it in the corridor. But he'd slunk into my study and rummaged. I'd left it in my writing pad."

"Did you tell Wally that?"

"Oh yes. And he believed me. He said Thorne would be punished, but I don't know how."

"Well, thanks for the tip. Thorne's got a grudge against us."

"Then don't trust him an inch. He's quite capable of manufacturing evidence."

"Be thou as chaste as ice, as pure as snow, thou shalt not escape calumny."

"Eh? Look, I'm a bear of very little brain, and long words bother me. What's that mean?"

"False accusation."

"Oh. Right. Yes. Hey, look at the time. Let's be getting back."

"Thanks for telling us your news, Jim," I said as we set off. "And thanks for taking our news like that. We're glad you know. Someone once said that love ceases to be a pleasure when it ceases to be a secret. That's codswallop."

"What ass said that?"

"Aphra Behn."

"Never heard of him."

"Not him. Her. Restoration dramatist."

"Well, she was talking through her arse." That was Andrew. "I'd like to tell everyone we're in love. Broadcast it to the world."

"Not a hope," said Jim. "The BBC wouldn't allow it. But I do agree You don't want to keep it bottled up. Like me and Sally. I'm glad you know about that. You must meet her one day. She's a sweetie. Well, she's a sight more than that. Oh hell, I can't describe her."

"What about this?" I suggested.

"Of all the girls that are so smart,

There's none like pretty Sally.

She is the darling of my heart,

And she lives in my alley."

Jim pretended to groan. "Uh huh, Rentaquote at it again," but he was grinning. "Blimey, Leon, you've always got a quote for everything. Why d'you do it?"

"Oh, just to show off," I replied glibly, taken aback and suddenly uncertain.

"Bollocks. You're not a show-off."

"Well, sign of an unoriginal mind, then. After all, who was quoting Winnie the Pooh just now?"

"Ooh, nasty! But bollocks again. Your mind's not unoriginal, even if mine is."

Andrew came to my rescue. Unexpectedly, as he rarely had a riposte to quotations. "We were doing Bacon in English yesterday. He said something like Reading maketh a full man; conference a ready man; and writing an exact man. Leon's all three. Especially a full man."

Oh, the praise of a lover. I blushed. "To quote Jim this time, bollocks. I'm currently an empty man. Lunch wasn't worth eating."

"Lord, you're a pair," said Jim. "And it's obviously right that you are a pair. Thanks a million for telling me about you. It's great news. Hey, and I've survived!"

"Survived?"

"Without being buggered, remember? A whole afternoon with a pair of queers, and I haven't been buggered!"

We both punched his arms. "Nincompoop! We love each other, not you. Well, I suppose we do love you, but not that way."

*

A fortnight into term, things were becoming desperate. We'd started off as usual, seeing as much of each other as our commitments allowed. Yet there was a barrier between us, transparent but unbreakable, created by our promise to one another. We'd given our word not to show affection, not to tempt or to succumb, and we intended to keep it. But we were like people under strict doctor's orders to eat nothing but yoghurt and muesli, yet constantly confronted with roast beef, Yorkshire pudding, lashings of gravy, jacket potatoes, and jam roly-poly. To see the forbidden fruit but not to taste it was sheer hell. We were so near but yet so far. It all generated an internal pressure which couldn't be released, which built up to positive pain.

This became so acute that we reached a stage we'd never contemplated in our worst dreams. We started to avoid each other. Not in public: that was impossible, as our cubicles adjoined in the dormitory and we sat opposite at the dining table. But I deliberately stopped dropping in to Andrew's study, and he to mine, in an attempt to reduce the pressure. That simply swung the pendulum the other way. When alone, even though Andrew was constantly in my mind, a huge vacuum appeared in my heart. An essential ingredient of life was missing. Music could usually anaesthetise me, but not now. The pain wasn't even relieved at night. We were a couple, but our beds were solitary and separated by a wooden partition. Couples take their pleasure together, not alone. I never wanked once, the whole term, and wasn't even tempted to. It was the same with Andrew. He told me so one morning before school when he finally came to my study. He was looking haggard. His rugger was slipping and he was in danger of being thrown out of the team. "Leon, what do we do?" he asked despairingly.

"I reckon we need help. Remember Steve said that if things became difficult, see him? I think we've reached that point."

"Yes. Yes, you're right. Will you arrange it?"

As it happened, Steve got in first. My work had been affected, badly affected. I was well aware of it, and ashamed. Steve was equally aware of it, and worried. That morning, as he handed back my Latin prose with a beta treble-minus, he said, "A word with you afterwards, please, Leon." Several times during the lesson I noticed him looking at me consideringly.

When everyone else had gone, he shut the door. "It's not working, is it, Leon? You're losing your grip, on everything."

"No, sir, it's not working. I was about to tell you." I explained the problem. "It's not giving up sex, it's giving up hugging, kissing, holding hands." It seemed grotesque to be saying this sort of thing to a master. "Are we abnormal? Is it going to get better, or worse?"

"I thought that might be it. No, you're not abnormal. And I think I can help. Not right this minute - I must have a word with my wife first. Are you free after games this afternoon?"

"Yes, sir."

"And is Andrew, do you think?"

"As far as I know."

"Well, come round together to my house at, say, five?"

I arranged it with Andrew. We were still depressed, but intrigued - why on earth did Steve have to consult his wife? We expected nothing more than advice. What we actually got bowled us over.

When we presented ourselves at his front door, he took us into the kitchen. His wife was there, and he introduced us. Her name, it transpired, was Alice. She shook hands and looked at us carefully. "Right, I've got them in my head," she said. "Andrew and Leon."

"That's just to make sure Alice will recognise you. Now come outside with me."

He led the way out of the back door into a yard flanked by a six-foot wall on one side and a short row of outbuildings on the other. He ushered us into one of them, a scruffy room some eight feet square with boxes piled against one wall and a small sofa against another. There was a frosted-glass window and a small electric fire. "Here you are. Not very fancy, I'm afraid - it's just a junk-room - but I doubt you'll mind. It's now yours. Your love-nest, if I dare call it that. You can be affectionate in private here, without risk of being seen. So long as there's no sex. I have to trust you on that. Don't disturb us - here's a key. And we won't disturb you - our kids are away at prep school. But so that we don't come barging in, use this." It was a square of plywood, red on one side and white on the other, hanging on a string from a nail on the window frame. "Red facing out means 'keep out.' Right? Now for the rest of the geography." He led us outside again. A few yards along the garden wall was a full-height door, which he opened. "Do you see where you are?"

We poked our heads out. The door opened onto a narrow passageway which in other regions might be called a snicket or a ginnel or a twitten. In these parts it was a jitty, and we recognised it. Steve's house fronted onto the High Street and its garden extended back to Green Lane behind. The jitty ran alongside the property and linked the two streets. It wasn't much frequented because there was a proper street running parallel only a few yards away, but it was a legitimate short cut, and using it would raise no eyebrows. "You only need to be careful when arriving and leaving. To avoid any suspicion I suggest you arrive separately, one from each end of the jitty, and leave likewise. And don't come here too often or too regularly. No more than twice a week, say." He took us back to the room. "Well, will it do?"

We looked at each other, our hearts full. "It's incredible, sir," muttered Andrew. "Sir, why are you doing this?"

"Obvious, isn't it? You're showing classic withdrawal symptoms. As a master, I have to prevent your academic standards slipping. As chaplain, I'm committed to helping souls in torment. As a human being, I'd hate to be in your present shoes. No, I'm serious. But once again, this is a bit of private enterprise, not an official provision." The unspoken message seemed to be that, if it came to the point, we should not split on him. "Right, I'll leave you now. Oh, by the way, there's an alarm clock there" - he pointed - "It's old, but it works. It might be worth setting to remind you when it's time to go, in case you get, ah, absorbed. Good luck!" He went out, but stuck his head in again. "Don't forget to turn the light out when you go. And lock up." This time the door shut.

In the blink of an eye we were on the sofa and in each other's arms. The power cut was over. The switch had been thrown, and the current again flowed freely between the terminals. We felt ourselves being revitalised. Next, we made up for lost time with mouth and tongue. Only then could we sit back, still in contact, arms round the other's waists, and look at one another uninterruptedly. The healing process was already under way, and our cheeks were wet. "Oh God, aren't some people good," was all I could say. And "Oh God, you're good."

As we got back to our house (Steve was right - the alarm clock was essential) we met Jim. "Hullo!" he said, looking carefully at our faces. "You've been looking like wet weekends in Wigan, but you've suddenly changed into sunny Sundays at Skegness. Something's up, isn't it?" We told him quietly, without the details. "Oh, smashing! I was getting worried. That'll be your salvation." He was right. Half the pain, more than half, was banished at a stroke. We were whisked back to where we'd been when practising at Oxford. Of course it wasn't ideal. But now that the safety valve could blow every few days, the pressure was tolerable, and our work and our games returned to normal.

We soon got into a routine. Not a regular one: rarely more than twice a week, sometimes only for five minutes at a time, sometimes for an hour or more. We were cautious in coming and going. A couple of times we saw Mrs Phillips hanging out her washing, and she merely smiled at us. We agreed not to refer to our hide-out as 'Steve's place' in case we were overheard. Instead we would use a code-name. We debated the pros and cons of 'the back passage,' but though it tickled our sense of humour it invited serious misinterpretation. So we plumped for 'the buttery,' because the real one lay in the same direction and the jitty was a not unreasonable way of getting there. One evening I bumped into Andrew in Green Lane as he was jogging back to the house from rugger practice, still in full gear, shiny with sweat, and we decided there and then on a quick one at the buttery. As he hugged me damply and niffily I couldn't help murmuring,

"What slender youth bedewed with liquid odours
Courts me on roses in some pleasant cave?"

It kept him giggling for a whole day, and complaining about the absence of the roses.

*

The rest of the term passed as smoothly as circumstances allowed. We tended to save serious talking for our Sunday walks, and one day I introduced him to the Phaedrus, which after the Symposium was Plato's most serious discussion of love. In this case, I explained, the soul in pursuit of its beloved is likened to a chariot with a pair of horses. One is white, the heavenly horse of the emotions, obedient, well-bred, full of pure ideals. The other is black, broken down and unruly, representing the baser appetites, always wanting to go his own way. The charioteer himself is Reason, trying to balance their opposing instincts and avoid being upset or pulled off course. "I think it fits us," I said. "We can let the white horse dominate in term time and, thanks to Steve, let the black one have the occasional little frisk. But he'd upset the whole apple cart if we didn't give him free rein in the holidays."

"Roll on the day," remarked Andrew with feeling.

At last it did. We made our way home to Park Town in Oxford and to a great welcome. None the less, after dinner we went up early to our bedroom, as we had an urgent appointment. "Come to my arms, my beamish boy!" I cried when we got there. We stripped off. Revelled, after far too long an abstinence, in our naked bodies, skin on skin, flesh on flesh, cock on cock. Felt, stroked, explored, kissed, writhed, culminated in sixty-nining and in crashing simultaneous orgasms. Recovering, we lay side by side, tight against each other, with silly grins on our faces, till we dropped off.

It was still dark when a full bladder woke me and, as I crept back into bed after attending to it, Andrew stirred. "Who's that?" he mumbled.

"Who d'you think? It's a gentleman's first duty to remember in the morning who it was he took to bed with him."

He giggled sleepily. "Might be any of my harem. Can't see which." He explored my nether regions with his hand. "Ah yes. Recognise you now. Must be Leon." He woke up still more. "Yes, you do belong to me. You know, it sounds daft, but whenever I saw you at school, maybe in the changing room, even the other side of the quad, I'd say 'Look at him! He's mine! Isn't he great! Aren't I lucky!' Say to myself, of course. But somehow it helped keep me going."

"Now there's an odd thing. I've felt exactly the same about you. Proprietorial. Great minds again."

"Maybe. Certainly great lovers." And he returned to the matter in hand.

Christmas proceeded its cheerful way. After tea on Christmas Day we opened the small gifts from the tree. Ours included a razor and a tube of Colgate shaving cream apiece. "I don't think you need them quite yet, Leon," explained Mum. Which was true, though things were advancing steadily and I would within the year. "But it's high time Andrew started."

He had a fair crop of thistle-down fluff by now, undeniably ready for harvesting, but it was sensuous to stroke, and I liked it. I also liked teasing him about it. "What a pity," I complained. "I like them fluffy.

Not huffy or stuffy, nor tiny or tall,
But fluffy, just fluffy, with no brains at all."

"Right, you. I'll get you properly for that, when we're alone. Meanwhile ..." He launched himself at me, pinned me to the floor - I'd no hope of out-wrestling him - and tickled my ribs, my weakest spot (well, almost my weakest, but we were in company), until I squealed for mercy. After all, we were still boys. Sometimes.

"A word of advice, if you've quite finished," said Dad, laughing. "When you stagger into the bathroom in the morning with your eyelids gummed together, don't put the shaving cream on your toothbrush. It's foul. Even more important, don't spread toothpaste over your face, specially if it's spearmint. Hurts like hell. Believe me, I know."

"Didn't know you got hangovers, Dad."

"Haven't had one for years. But in my giddy youth, well, enough said."

That night, on the way to bed, we experimented with the razor. Or rather Andrew did, while I gave useless advice. The result, by emphasising the shape of his jaw, made him look older and, oh God, even more desirable. As we slid between the sheets I was randy as hell, and made it plain. "One-tracked mind," he said. "Can't think of anything else." He measured my cock with his fingers, and felt all round my balls. "Yes, I thought so.

Both niffy and stiffy, and tiny, not tall,
And fluffy, bum-fluffy, with his brains in his ball."

Retaliation was called for. I echoed his words. "Right, you," and proceeded to try something out on him that I'd never tried before. Andrew responded with startled delight. "Good God!" he said when it was all over. "That was incredible. Wherever did you learn that? At your last school?"

"Good grief, no, not there. You can't expect a boy to be depraved until he's been to a good school. Yarborough teaches us to think for ourselves. That was the product of my own brain, wherever I may keep it."

He chuckled. "You know, Leon, if there was an A-level course in practical love-making you'd get full marks." And before we fell asleep we drew up a complete syllabus for it.

The black horse had a good run for his money, that holiday.

*

The Lent term picked up the routine once more. With discipline and some pain, the charioteer still kept the demands of his horses in tolerable equilibrium. On a Sunday walk late last term a new idea had germinated, but Andrew had, as usual, taken time to think it over. Now he'd accepted it, it began to bear fruit. Hitherto we'd only declared our love in the most informal, private, way. We were, in a manner of speaking, only engaged, but now we felt the need to get married. Our love had been tested in trying circumstances, and had emerged not weakened, but confirmed and strengthened. We were ready - inspired, even - to make a more formal commitment, in front of witnesses: just Mum, Dad and Jim, provided they were all in sympathy. It could only be a symbol, but the more we talked about it the more important it seemed. We didn't want a pastiche of a wedding, only the simplest of ceremonies, at home. We'd merely exchange promises adapted from the Book of Common Prayer, shorn of religious connotations, but preserving the incomparable language.

We first tried out the idea on Jim, and he proved enthusiastic, as well as envious in that it would be years before he could do the same with his Sally. On their visit in late February, Mum and Dad invited him to a meal at the Red Lion. We owed him a lot, and they knew it, and got on famously with him. As all five of us sat in the lounge digesting our lunch we broached the subject of marriage. "We know it'll have no legal force. Or religious. We just want to make a personal commitment." But they understood. They also suggested it would be courteous to tell Steve, not that he'd be likely to object. And they asked if we'd be exchanging rings.

"We've wondered about it," replied Andrew, "but we couldn't wear them, not in public, until we were, well, at university, if then. Anyway, we couldn't afford proper ones."

"But there's no reason why you shouldn't exchange them as tokens of your promise, and then put them away," said Dad. "And when you're at home get them out and gloat over them if you're feeling soupy. And we'd be more than happy to make them our contribution to the occasion."

Bless them. We opted for plain gold ones, identical, and by experimenting with Mum and Dad's wedding rings discovered the right size, allowing a bit of leeway for our fingers to expand. We agreed that Jim should come home with us straight from school - he was happy about that as Sally was being dragged off to visit relatives - and spend a few days in Oxford. The ceremony itself would be on the third of April. It was only when the date had been fixed and everyone had written it in their diaries that I realised why it was resonating unrecognised in my mind.

Although I'd hardly thought about it since Love divine had been the hymn in chapel, 3rd April 1956 was engraved on my heart as the blackest day of my young life. It was the day, nearly two years ago, when I left my prep school, that hell on earth which I knew all too well. I was soon to be launched into the great unknown that was Yarborough. I'd been there briefly for the scholarship exam, but had met only a few rather forbidding masters and no boys. In my ignorance and my pessimism I fully expected it to be as bad as my present school, or worse. Better the hell you know ... As a result, over the last few weeks, fear of the future had spread its icy fingers over my mind, and frozen it. My marks had wavered, dipped, and crashed. Not a soul offered help or advice; nothing but scorn. My only asset, as far as I was aware, was my brain. But my brain had now ceased to function.

And that one talent which is death to hide,
Lodged with me useless.

On my last night my dormitory companions, by way of a leaving present, tossed me in a blanket and deliberately dropped me, several times. I arrived home at Cambridge with a black eye, bruised face, and broken glasses, only to be berated for getting into a fight. When I produced my dismal school report I was reviled for slacking. I was given a bucket and brush and made to scrub ten weeks' worth of greasy grime from the kitchen floor. I tried to strike a spark of independence, of resistance, of revolt, from my numbed brain. To no avail. Lodged with me useless. In a few weeks' time I'd be at Yarborough, the top scholar of the year, all eyes on me, expected to shine. How could I conceivably shine with my mind switched off? Lodged with me useless. Before me loomed that last black gateway, its lintel inscribed All hope abandon, ye who enter here, and I passed through it. I ran a hot bath to help the blood to flow. I sat in the water, wrist outstretched, one of Father's razor blades poised, my head thumping. Empty. Lodged with me useless.

I came round to a hammering on the door, as Mother demanded to know what I was up to. My body was slumped forward, eyes and forehead and hair under water. Luckily the water was not deep - deep baths were not allowed - and it was now cold. And there was no blood in it. Nor on my wrist. I croaked some reply, and found myself working out what had happened. Found myself thinking, with my brain. No longer lodged with me useless. It told me, unbidden, that I didn't know that Yarborough would be hell. There was at least the faintest of hopes that it might not be. So I wouldn't use the razor blade now. I'd take it with me and use it when I was certain, absolutely certain, that there really was no hope. For weeks I'd been too numb to cry, but I cried that night. I now had a hint of light to follow, a glimmer which, through the rest of the holidays, guided my footsteps up the rocky path. Little did I know it then, but beyond, still unseen, lay the splendour of heaven, of redemption, of love. The love which moves the sun and the other stars.

Was my despair that day a good or a bad omen for what was about to happen now, two years on? Shaken by the morbid virulence of my memory, I wasn't sure. Better play safe, don't mention it.

"You're very quiet, Leon. Not cold feet, I hope."

"Quite the reverse. Hot feet." Fatuous answer. Downright evasion.

Chapter 14 - Crisis

Next weekend, on our Sunday walk, we headed for Alvingham, a small village some distance away, whose former importance was proclaimed by a large and isolated church. There were said to be some interesting tombstones there. We found the church was close to the road, with the graveyard behind it, and started investigating the lichen-covered headstones. Before long we heard the vestry door close, and a gentle voice saying "Good afternoon. May I be of assistance?" It was a small and ancient clergyman, presumably the vicar.

"Oh, thank you, sir," I said. "We were looking for your famous tombstone. The army officer who was shot."

The vicar chuckled. "Of course. Though infamous might be a better description. It's over here. But personally I find the humbler stones more to my taste. As Gray has it,

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade,
Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap,
Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,
The rude Forefathers of the hamlet sleep."

Wonderfully apt, and I couldn't resist quoting another verse back at him:

"Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;
Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile
The short and simple annals of the poor."

"Ah! A scholar, I see! Then this stone might claim your interest." He pointed to a limestone slab, bearing the date 1682 and the simple inscription:

Here lies John Beaver, that honest man
Which stood up for the Common of Alvingham.

"Common?" I asked. "Common people, or common land?"

"Nobody knows, though I suspect the latter, with the good Mr Beaver defending it against enclosure."

"Oh, I see.

Some village Hampden that with dauntless breast
The little tyrant of his fields withstood."

"Precisely."

"Well, sir, I suppose he's lucky to be remembered at all. After all, some there be that have no memorial; who are perished, as though they had never been."

"Does it matter? Their bodies are buried in peace; but their name liveth for evermore. Even if known only to God. But here is the stone you were seeking."

We squatted down to read it, and laughed.

Sacred to the memory of Major James Brush,
who was killed by the accidental discharge of a pistol by his orderly,

14th April 1831.

Well done, thou good and faithful servant.

"Amusing, yes. But I feel that John Beaver rates higher in the scheme of things, do you not? Now, I wonder, having two strapping young fellows at hand, if I might beg a favour?" He led the way to a headstone which had toppled across the path. "Would you be so kind as to lift it out of the way, against the time when the sexton can replace it?"

It was very dirty, and we removed our jackets for the job. It was also surprisingly heavy, but with much grunting we lifted it and laid it on the grass by the nave wall. "I am deeply indebted to you," said the vicar. "You are clearly from Yarborough. From which house, pray?"

"Mr MacNair's, sir."

"Ah! I have the pleasure of his acquaintance. Please give him my regards. My name is Venables. Thank you, dear boys. I must be home now. I have still to write my sermon for evensong. Good day!" And off he toddled along the footpath to the village.

We grinned at each other and made our way round the west end of the church, pulling on our jackets as we went and wiping our hands on the grass. "What a lovely man," said Andrew. "Bumping into him was a bit of good luck. I enjoyed that."

Back home, because we'd been out for much more than the statutory hour, there was little time before evening chapel, which was immediately followed by tea. As we left the dining hall Jim, who sat at a different table, steered us urgently into my study. "The cat's out of the bag, chaps. That worm Thorne's just been telling half our table that you're queer and that he found you having sex this afternoon."

"Christ!" said Andrew. "He didn't. We didn't. That's a load of balls. But how the hell's he know we're queer?"

"Trouble is," I added, sick with worry, "if the cat's out of the bag, there's no way of getting it in again."

We were interrupted by a knock, and Thorne himself looked in, smirking. "Wally wants to see you both. With me." He led the way importantly to the private side, pursued by venomous looks from Jim. "Here they are, sir," he announced.

"Ah! Leon and Andrew," said Wally cautiously, as if mindful of past difficulties with Thorne. "Robert tells me has an accusation to lay against you" - it took a moment to sink in that Robert was Thorne - "and it seems only fair that you should hear it from his lips. Carry on, Robert."

"Well, sir. Knowing that they were queers, I suspec ..."

Wally contrived to look astonished and wary at the same time. "What makes you think that?" he interrupted.

Thorne had evidently expected Wally to know about it, and was caught on the wrong foot. "Well, er, everyone must know it, sir. I mean, um, all the masters." He had the air of someone being pushed into a corner.

"But who did you hear it from?"

"Um, well, er, Mr Phillips, sir."

Wally was clearly non-plussed, and played for time. "Very well. We'll come back to that later. And knowing what you thought you knew, what then?"

"Well, sir, I thought, if that's the case - and I wasn't surprised - I've noticed they usually go on Sunday walks together - I thought they were probably, um, you know, having sex out in the country somewhere. So this afternoon I trailed them. They went to Alvingham, and disappeared behind the church. I heard them laughing, and then grunting as if they were, er, um, you know. After a while they came out again, putting their clothes on and, er, cleaning themselves up. And I heard Goodhart talking about - I'm sorry, sir, it's what he said - a good fuck and that he'd enjoyed it." Thorne was looking very pleased with himself again.

"That's all?"

"Yes, sir. There wasn't time to tell you before chapel."

"Andrew and Leon?"

"We did indeed go to Alvingham, sir," I said. "But if he'd followed us behind the church he'd have found us talking to the vicar, who sent you his regards, by the way. We were talking about graves and epitaphs, and swapping quotations from Gray's Elegy and Ecclesiasticus. We were grunting as we moved a fallen tombstone for Mr Venables. For which we'd removed our jackets, and which made us dirty. And as we left Andrew remarked on our good luck in meeting the vicar."

"I see," said Wally. Thorne's face was losing its confidence.

"But that's not the end of it, sir. We hear that at tea just now Thorne was telling all and sundry that we were queer and were having sex."

Wally cast a withering look at Thorne. "Robert, wait in the sitting room next door, please, while I have a word with Andrew and Leon."

"I'm all at sea," he admitted as the door closed. "I must speak with Mr Venables first." He checked a number, dialled, and had a brief conversation, while we looked at each other and agreed, without words, that we had to tell the truth. "Well, that part's all right," said Wally, putting down the receiver. "Mr Venables entirely confirms your story. You made a very favourable impression on him. But what's this about Mr Phillips saying you're qu... homosexuals? I've heard nothing of that."

"That part's true, sir," said Andrew. "We do love each other. Our parents know, and approve. But we do not have sex. And we've taken very great care that nobody should find out about us. There's only one boy who knows. Jim Bates. We told him, and we trust him. I'm quite sure he won't have passed it on. And only one master - Mr Phillips. We told him last September, in confidence, and he'd hardly have broken that."

"More likely," I added, "Thorne's found out in some underhand way, just as he stole Jim's letter last year."

Wally ran his hands through his thinning hair. He looked suddenly weary. "Wait a minute." He picked up the phone again, and we heard him asking Steve questions. "Could I trouble you to come round here, straight away? Many thanks." He turned back to us. "I fear you're right. Mr Phillips has told nobody. Would you please go to the sitting room and wait there, and after a minute send Thorne to me." As we left he picked up the phone again.

Thorne, as we gave the message, was visibly wilting. "Oh Lord," sighed Andrew when he'd gone, "what a spiteful, vindictive, small-time crook. I wonder what Wally will do with him."

"And what Wally will do about our secret that's no longer a secret. He's bound to tell the HM. Oh God."

We agonised helplessly. We heard two people arrive and go to the study. Ten minutes later we were called in again. Thorne had gone. Instead, Wally had the HM and Steve there. All three looked harassed. "Sit down, Andrew, Leon. That ..." - he seemed on the point of saying something highly unschoolmasterly - "Thorne has stirred up a hornet's nest, and you have the right to know what's happening. It wasn't your fault that your secret got out."

"It was mine, I'm afraid, if it was anyone's," Steve broke in. "Thorne came to see me this morning after chapel, on a totally different matter. I'd been writing a letter to your parents - you can guess the reason for it - and while I was looking something up he read it on my desk. He admits it, when pressed. Just the first few words on top of this sheet." He passed it over, and we read 'Andrew and Leon's love for one another has reached such a point ...' "I'm sorry about this."

"Hence Thorne's subsequent actions," Wally resumed. "He's a malicious and unsatisfactory character, I'm afraid, and his intelligence wouldn't incommode a beetle."

"He was getting his own back on us, sir. Last year Andrew paid him back for bullying me. Then I found him bullying a new boy, and sent him off with a flea in his ear. He doesn't like us."

"I didn't know that. The immediate problem, of course, is the story he's circulated, half of it true, half of it false. I'm afraid it'll be all round this house by now. If we can stop it spreading further, the damage will be less, but I'm not optimistic." There was a knock at the door. "Yes, what is it?" A boy looked in to report that he was back from violin practice. "Right, Simon. Oh, before you go, did you hear a rumour that was circulating this evening about Leon and Andrew here?"

Simon was looking wonderingly at the HM and at us. "Yes, sir."

"And did you pass it on to other boys in the violin class? No blame if you did."

"Well, yes, I did, sir."

"Right, thank you, Simon." Simon disappeared.

"Too late. It'll be round the whole school tomorrow." They all sighed.

"In that case, Mr MacNair," said the HM, "you tell your boys tonight that the core of the rumour is untrue. And instruct your prefects to help scotch it." He looked at his watch. "I must get back to School House for prayers. I will inform the other housemasters tonight, and make a statement at Assembly tomorrow." He turned to us. "The other problem is what to do about you and Thorne. But that will have to wait until the morning." He swept out.

Steve stayed only to say "Andrew, Leon. Last September you told me things in confidence which ought now to come out, for your sake. Do I have your permission to disclose them? Not everything. Only what's relevant. Will you trust me on that?"

"Yes, sir. Of course." He too left.

"I've already taken Thorne out of circulation," said Wally, "and I'm afraid you'll have to go into quarantine too, at least temporarily. I must go to prayers now, and lay down the party line to the prefects. Wait here till I come back."

Mentally battered, we sat and listened to the distant sound of a hymn, After a while Wally returned, accompanied this time by Jim. "You'll be sleeping in a spare room tonight, and you won't be going into school tomorrow, at least for the morning, but you can put in a bit of work by yourselves. Tell Jim what books and notes you need, and he'll bring them, together with your night things. I must go and see about Thorne."

He went, and we brought Jim up to date, to his disgust. He told us in return that after prayers Wally had looked round his fifty or so boys and said, simply and firmly, 'A malicious tale has been spread that two boys in this house have been found engaging in sexual acts. It is totally untrue. They are blameless. For their own sakes, they will be spending the night on the private side. So will the boy responsible for the lie. The headmaster will be addressing the whole school on the matter at Assembly tomorrow. Goodnight.' He had signed to the prefects to stay behind, and the rest of the boys had trooped out amid a buzz of gossip and speculation. "So far so good," said Jim. "But Thorne made it clear that he'd found out you were queer before he discovered your supposed romp. Well, Wally's disposed of the romp - nobody'll believe that now - but he didn't deny you were queer. People will remember that. I'd better go and get your things. What do you need?"

Five minutes later he was back with them, and left us to brood and speculate. Only two outcomes seemed possible. They might, with an effort, accept our love and put a gloss on it for public consumption. Or they might wash their hands of us and boot us out. Humiliation was very much on the cards. "Andrew, my love. At the worst, we'll be kicked out. But it won't be the end of the world. We've still got each other. We've still got Mum and Dad. It could be worse."

"Leon, my heart, so long as I don't lose you I can face anything." Brave words, and they helped.

At that point Wally reappeared and showed us our room, a not unpleasant one with two single beds. "The bathroom's next door. I've taken Thorne ... elsewhere, so you won't clash with him."

"Sir, what's going to happen tomorrow?"

"Talk. If you'd done what Thorne said you'd done, you'd be on your way home first thing. You didn't. But you're self-confessed homosexuals, and the headmaster has to decide what to do about that. He'll be consulting a lot of people, I'm sure. Maybe asking you questions too. What the upshot will be, I just don't know. But don't despair - there's plenty of room for hope. Goodnight."

We exchanged a questioning look, and silently agreed. We were alone in a private room, ostensibly free to do whatever we wanted. But we could only look at one another, could only use our eyes to calm our jangling nerves, to transmit and receive strength. We dared do no more, for Wally might be back to see if we were behaving. Sure enough, after a quarter of an hour, there was the briefest of knocks and he stuck his head in. He seemed relieved to see us sitting on our beds exactly as he'd left us. "I forgot to say that I'll have breakfast brought up to you. Goodnight again."

We got ready for bed and turned the light out. We risked a quick kiss, climbed into bed and lay staring across at each other in the dim reflected moonlight, still desperately in need of the reassurance of physical love, of sexual release. But even if it had been safe to try, we'd undertaken not to. Eventually I heard the church clock strike midnight. "Andrew, my love," I whispered. "Hold out your hand." Mine just met his across the gap between the beds. "I haven't wanked since last summer. Haven't wanted any sex without you. But now we're together, sort of. We can't do anything more. But shall we wank? Holding hands?"

He said nothing, but squeezed my hand. So we wanked, gently, awkwardly in my case as I was using my left hand, while the electricity flowed between us. He almost crushed my fingers when he came. It helped greatly, being able to demonstrate our love, even if indirectly. We shared a handkerchief to clean up with, and fell asleep.

Wally himself brought us our breakfast, and told us to stay put and do some work. "Did Jim tell you what I said at prayers last night? Well, the headmaster will be saying much the same at Assembly. Then he'll be talking with Mr Phillips and myself and doubtless others. And he's called an emergency staff meeting at lunchtime. I'll do my best to keep you up to date, but I can't guarantee when I'll see you next. Don't spend your time worrying unduly. I've been thinking over my position, and I'll be pleading on your behalf." He bustled off.

We tried to work, but the morning passed slowly. At least Wally had been considerate enough to leave us together, in the comfort of companionship, exchanging strength, rather than separate us to agonise in solitude. And at least we had Andrew's portable radio which Jim had brought over the night before. We listened to a superb Third Programme recital of Purcell songs by the countertenor Alfred Deller, which did more to soothe our troubled minds. Our lunch was brought by none other than Alan Gregory the house captain, a firm but friendly chap who was much liked. As he put down the tray he cocked an ear to the Mozart horn concerto the radio was now playing. "Dennis Brain, surely? Nobody like him. How are you getting on, then?"

"Worried, like any innocents on trial," I ventured. He was the sort who would probably understand. "Gregory, what are people saying about us?"

"Public opinion's wholly against Thorne and very largely on your side, as far as I can see. Thanks especially to Bates, who's running a powerful campaign on your behalf. But there's a load of speculation and a complete shortage of hard fact. You're going to be swamped with questions when you come back to us."

"When? Or if?"

"When," he said firmly. Bless him, bless Jim, bless all friends.

It was mid-afternoon before Wally dropped in. "Things are going quite well, I think," he reported. "I don't want to raise your hopes too high, but it seems generally agreed by now that you should be accepted for what you are, provided of course that you continue to act with discretion. The staff meeting finally took that line, after some persuading. So did the school governors whom the headmaster's been phoning. The main debate now is on how the matter is presented to the parents. Speaking of which, I've been on the phone to your parents. They send you all their love and support."

We both let out a pent-up breath of relief. "Thank you, sir. Thank you very much. And sir, what's happening to Thorne?"

"His case has taken a great deal of discussion too. The headmaster's asked his parents to withdraw him, and they've agreed."

I sighed. Wally gave me a puzzled look. "Surely that doesn't disappoint you, Leon?"

"I don't know, sir. It would've been very difficult to live with him if he'd stayed, I admit. But I don't feel vindictive. I just see him as rather pathetic. Misdirected. Unfulfilled. More deserving of pity than anger."

"That's an unexpected thing to say, Leon. And a noble one. Well, I must be off again. I hope I'll be back within a couple of hours."

He was. "It is all right, it's all all right," he said, beaming at us. "The headmaster's ready to see you now. Mr Phillips is with him." And as we followed him out of the house Andrew and I squeezed each other's hand to the point of pain.

*

The HM installed us in chairs. "Well, Michaelson and Goodhart," he began, regarding us steadily and not unkindly, and speaking far less formally than in his public utterances. "You've presented us with a pretty problem. Not by bringing it into the open - you're in no way to blame for that - but by being the way you are. Let me start by putting you out of your suspense. We can find no justification for punishing you in any way. You may pick up your lives with no stain on your character. I will come back to that later.

"You'll think we've taken an unconscionable time to reach so simple a conclusion. That's because we had three successive steps to surmount. First, Mr Phillips filled me in on the background to your love. No blame to him for not telling me before - he was bound to respect your confidence. Had it not been for Thorne's misguided snooping, your secret would still be yours, and would probably have remained so. What you might or might not do in the holidays is not for me to enquire. Your parents and guardians confirmed that you had their total support. Then I had to consult Mr MacNair, your other teachers, and your house captain, who gave unanimously glowing reports of your maturity and responsibility, and reported no hint of your stepping out of line. You seem to have adhered scrupulously to your undertaking to keep your love totally private, and abstain from sexual activity here. So we climbed the first step.

"The second one was harder. The question of whether the school could countenance chaste homosexual love among its pupils hasn't raised its head before. It isn't catered for in the detailed rules or even the broad policies under which this school is run. I had my own view, but I consulted all the staff and most of the governors. Their opinions varied widely. Some few felt that love between males was simply wrong. Others were ready to accept it in general, but not in this context. They pointed to the prevalent confusion between spiritual love and physical sex. They argued that if your love became generally known, all too many boys, parents and potential parents would assume, however misguidedly, that Yarborough encourages homosexuality. And they felt the risk to our reputation was too great. I take their point. To get rid of you would undoubtedly be the safest and easiest course. The third view is that homosexual love, albeit unconventional, is natural and valid, as valid as heterosexual love, and that we have no right to attempt to suppress either.

"The final decision is mine and, if I felt it right, I would over-rule even a majority verdict. In fact the majority do agree with me, and the dissenters will abide by my decision. Now, you have highlighted a conflict between expediency and principle. I would hate to forsake principle for the easy way out. At root, I am guided by a basic, over-riding, law. Edmund Burke put it very well - I hope I'm quoting him accurately - There is but one law for all, namely, that law which governs all law, the law of our creator, the law of humanity, justice, equity - the law of nature. Mr MacNair tells me - and all praise to you for it - that you hold strong views on humanity, justice and equity. These three principles alone put the heterosexual and the homosexual on an equal footing, at least in respect to the freedom to love. Provided one takes it no further, that statement implies no conflict with the law. The law does not forbid love between males. It only forbids sexual activity. As do our own rules already. That was the second step.

"The third step was a more practical one: having accepted your love, what do we do about it? We are cancelling the first lesson tomorrow, and Mr Phillips will instead address the boys in chapel on the subject of love in general and love between males in particular. Some boys will doubtless inform their parents, who may well be puzzled or disturbed or even angry at our attitude. In anticipation, we have drafted a circular which will be sent to all parents tomorrow. Here is a copy."

"We are taking a considerable risk in being seen to accept you. What the response will be remains to be seen. Minimal, we hope, but we can only play it by ear.

"Finally, as far as you are concerned, carry on as before. No sex, naturally. No public sign of affection. Since your love is common knowledge, you may of course talk about it, but please don't flaunt it. Play it down, stress its private nature, which is no more than the truth. Keep us informed of the reaction you encounter, especially if it is hostile. Mr Phillips has relayed your remark, before this year began, that if we couldn't accommodate your love, you'd feel obliged to leave Yarborough, but that you'd much prefer to stay. We appreciate the implicit compliment, and we return it. We would not like to lose you either. You emerge from this unfortunate episode with your characters not only untarnished but, in our eyes, positively enhanced. You have proved your responsibility by informing Mr Phillips in the first place, and your discretion by your subsequent restraint. Now, any questions?"

Oh, my God! Instead of humiliation, praise. Andrew and I looked at each other dazedly and shook our heads. "None, sir," I said. "We'd only like to thank you. When we first talked about this in August, we knew that Yarborough was a good school. We reckoned that was because the staff were good. Not only good teachers, but human beings. I'm not trying to be cheeky. But now we know we were right."

"Thank you. I appreciate that too. One other point. If, as a result of this, you're approached by any other boys who think they're in love, by all means tell them of your experience, but don't encourage them or discourage them. Persuade them, rather, to talk to Mr Phillips. No two cases are going to be the same. Now, back to your house and pick up your life. Oh dear" - he looked at the clock - "you've missed your tea."

Steve broke in. "May I steal them for a quick chat, Mr MacNair? And feed them at the same time? I'll get them back to you within the hour."

"Of course."

So we walked the short distance to his house, saying little, almost sick with relief, yearning to release the tension with a cuddle. Steve knew. "Right, first stop your hide-out, while Alice and I knock up a meal. Keep it quick. I'll drag you out in five minutes."

Five minutes was barely enough for immediate purposes before Steve hammered on the door and took us into the kitchen, where we were fed on poached eggs on toast, salad, ice cream, tea - more princely than we'd have had in the house. As we ate, Steve handed over some homework for me, and some for Andrew from his physics teacher, "Though we don't realistically expect it done by tomorrow."

"Thank you for the tea, sir, Mrs Phillips," said Andrew when we'd finished. "And thank you for standing up for us."

"Least I could do," replied Steve, "especially as I was the immediate cause of your secret getting out. But, to be honest, what really turned the tables was your past performance. I still think that if you'd put your proposition to them back in September they'd have turned it down and waved you goodbye. In view of the risk to the school's reputation, they wouldn't have trusted you. They've accepted it now because the past six months have shown that you are trustworthy."

"But we'd have failed quite early on if it hadn't been for your, um, hospitality, sir. Did you tell them about that?"

"No. It didn't seem relevant. Did you?"

"No, sir." We smiled at each other, the three of us, in understanding. I saw Mrs Phillips smiling at us all from by the cooker, and smiled at her too. Then tears suddenly flowed, and I put my head in my hands.

"Yes, go on, Andrew," I heard Steve say, and I felt Andrew's arm round me and his face against mine. I soared away on a wave of love and gratitude.

"Time you went back," said Steve after I don't know how long. We pulled ourselves together, thanked him, thanked Mrs Phillips again.

"Sir," said Andrew on the back doorstep, "I asked you this before, I know. But why do you do all this for us?"

"The answer's still the same. It's my duty - pleasant duty - as chaplain. As a man, well, homo sum; humani nil a me alienum puto. Get Leon to translate. Goodnight!"

"It's from Terence," I explained as we went out of the garden gate into the jitty. "Roman playwright. Homo doesn't mean what you think it means. It means a human being, as in homo sapiens. Loosely translated, I'm a human being, so I reckon humanity's my business."

Andrew thought about it. "What a good, good man. And, you know, it's somehow reassuring that homo can mean both a queer and a human being."

We got back halfway through the prep hour and reported in to Wally, who offered us a phone call to Mum and Dad, brief but heart-warming. We then went to our studies where I, for one, did no work at all. The bell rang for prayers, and we joined the throng heading for the dining hall. Jim's face lit up when he saw us, split by his letterbox smile. Others grinned at us too and, though we weren't allowed to talk, a murmur of welcome arose. Andrew, with his sunny disposition and his sporting prowess, was always popular. Some of his glory reflected on to me as his friend, and especially since my new look I was pretty well accepted too. It was good to be out of solitary confinement, back in circulation among friends. Wally came in and gave out the hymn number, 459, and the piano introduced Eisenach, the chorale melody from the St John Passion.

O love, how deep, how broad, how high!

How passing thought and fantasy.

Well! Evening hymns were chosen by the house captain. Alan Gregory would certainly have known that his flock was one short but not, after all, another two short. He was showing his solidarity, and I could swear I saw him wink at us. Afterwards, the final half hour of prep. And so to bed.

We had to go via the private side to collect our clobber, and were a little late into the dormitory. As we arrived, the chatter suddenly subsided. People were no doubt bursting with curiosity, but didn't know how to broach the subject. As usual we changed into pyjamas in our cubicles with the curtains closed, drew the curtains partly back, and stood at the foot of our beds to talk. The moment we emerged, Jim broke the ice by asking straight out what had happened on Sunday afternoon. He knew already: he was simply helping us through an awkward situation. We told the story unvarnished. It generated a gale of sympathy for us and universal condemnation of Thorne. So far so good. We knew that the details would be disseminated next morning. Then some bright spark spotted the unanswered question. "OK, Thorne's a wart and a liar, but he also said you were queers, and Wally and the HM didn't shoot that down. Are you?"

This was the moment of truth, in every sense. My cubicle being next to Andrew's, we were standing side by side, separated only by the end of the partition we were leaning against. I sensed him tauten up, and wanted to grab his hand. Beyond him I saw Gregory, who was also our dorm prefect and who'd been listening silently, nod very slightly. "Yes, we are. We're in love. But we're not into sex here. Wally and the HM know all about us, and don't mind."

There was a long pause as people worked out the huge implications. Finally, and inevitably, somebody said, "But that's illegal!"

"No," replied Andrew. "Sex between males is illegal. Love isn't."

"But it's not normal, it's a sin."

Alan stepped in. "The Wolfenden Committee thinks sex between males is normal enough to be legalised. Since the Archbishop of Canterbury agrees, can it be that sinful? Anyway, they were talking about sex. We're talking about love. I've read the Wolfenden Report. You ought to look at it. It's in the library. What specially caught my eye was someone telling the committee, the right which I claim for myself is the right to choose the person whom I love. That makes sense to me. I'm not queer. But has anyone got the right to tell me I can fall in love with this girl but not that one?" Nobody answered, but heads were shaken. "And if they can't dictate which girl I love, how can they dictate which person I love, boy or girl? You love a person, not a gender."

More thought. "Yes, but the Wolfenden thing's about people over twenty-one, not us," said the last-ditcher.

"You don't listen. I said, the report's about sex. We're talking about love. That's not something that suddenly switches on on your twenty-first birthday. I'm eighteen. I've got a girlfriend. Just to set your filthy minds at rest, I don't shag her. But I love her. Any objections?" There were none, and a hum of approval instead. "Leon and Andrew don't shag either. But they love each other. Any objections? I've got none." And he called for lights out. Perhaps he was using his authority a little unfairly, to give himself the last word, but Alan was a good chap. And well primed by Wally, maybe. If we had support like that, if that sort of sanity prevailed, all would be well. I fell asleep, knackered by the stress of the day, but with a relatively quiet mind.

The mood at breakfast was subdued. But it always was - people took time to wake up. It was Tuesday today, and on Tuesdays and Thursdays Assembly was in chapel, not in Hall. After the usual hymn, reading and short prayers, the HM announced that the first class was cancelled, and Steve climbed into the pulpit. This break from routine was unprecedented, and I doubt if any sermon in the chapel's hundred-year life had ever had such unbroken attention.

"It's usual to open a sermon with a text from scripture," he began. "But you can find texts in the bible to support almost anything you want. Instead, my text comes from Anatole France, the great French novelist. Christianity has done a great deal for love by making a sin of it. Now I'm supposed to be a Christian." He ostentatiously fingered his dog-collar. "But I'll be the first to admit that the story of Christianity has not been all sweetness and light. One of its earlier mistakes in eradicating older religions was to throw some very useful babies out with the bathwater of paganism. The Greeks and