In Spite of Everything

by Charles Lacey

Chapter 8

Aiden

After we were caught in the hayloft, poor Paul was in awful trouble. I'd told my Mum about it, and she wanted to know what we'd been doing. So I told her the truth, that we'd exchanged the Kiss of Peace, and then just sat together in the hayloft, talking. She did say that if I had been doing anything wrong, then I must tell my Confessor.

I did wonder what had happened to Paul, and I found out sooner than I expected. Obviously I didn't go to his house, as we'd already been warned off. But Mr Tootell sent me to the shop for something that Mrs May needed urgently, and Mrs Harper, the postmistress, told me that Paul had been sent away, and he was living with his grandmother in Derby, but she didn't know the address. In the next holiday I went to Derby to try to find her. I tried the street directories, the telephone directory, even the Town Hall. There were a couple of Blandys, and I called on each of them, but to no avail, and they didn't know of any other Mrs Blandy. What I didn't then know was that Mr Blandy, her first husband, had died in the Great War and she had re-married; her name was now Mrs North. So in the end I had to abandon the search, though I never abandoned hope that Paul and I might meet again. But it made me fully aware that I loved him. I loved him like the brother I never had. It reminded me of the Gospel passage where St John leans his head on Jesus' breast, and the others say "see how he loves Him". And just as I am certain that the love Jesus and John had for each other was pure and holy, so I am that my love for Paul and his for me was just as pure.

I spent altogether three days searching in Derby for Paul. I even called at his parents' house in the village in the hope that I might catch his father and persuade him to tell me where his son was, but as soon as I started to speak to him Mrs Blandy appeared. She screamed hysterically at me and slammed the door. Mrs Harper at the shop knew no more than she had told me already, and no-one else in the village had any idea.

So I went back to St Anselm's, sad indeed at heart, but still unwilling to abandon hope entirely. That term, we had a new master. Unusually for St Anselm's, he was neither a priest nor a monk, but plain Mr Leyburn. He taught biology and chemistry. Clearly St Anselm's was at last emerging from the Middle Ages! I liked Leyburn, though. His nickname among the boys was "Bugs", no doubt due to his interest in all small creatures, and insects in particular. But his lessons were exciting, far more so than the French of Brother Callum or the History of Father Andrew. The Governors of St Anselm's, I later learned, had decided that the curriculum should be brought more up to date. Apart from anything else, war was looming, and it was clear that scientists would be needed.

I discovered in myself a keen interest in the sciences, and even exerted myself more in Maths in order to keep up in the new subjects. Chemistry in particular has quite a strong mathematical basis, once you get beyond the early stages of stinks and bangs. Once in the Fifth Form we were allowed to drop one or two subjects in order to concentrate more on those we wanted to study in more depth. I gave up History and Geography, with some relief as they were taught by the elderly, saintly and unbelievably dull Father Andrew. I substituted German for French as well; I had a shrewd idea that it might come in useful, with the way things were progressing in Europe. But I did have to work. This was all to the good as it took my mind, to some extent, off my sorrows. But every night in my prayers I remembered Paul, and asked St Anthony and St Francis to look out for him and keep him safe. There was never a day went by that I did not think of him and remember the touch of his hands, the feel of his lips on mine. At the end of the year I took School Certificate in English, Maths, Chemistry, Biology, German and Latin, and was delighted that I passed in all six. Passing in German pleased me particularly as I had only been learning it for a year. And so I was all set to go on to Higher School Certificate, which would be my passport to University.

During the Summer holidays I'd had a long talk with Sir Russell. He was the pattern of a true English gentleman, one of the last of the old style. He was keen for me to improve myself and said that if I were able to pass Higher School Certificate to a good enough standard to be offered a University place, he would pay the fees for three years. As you can imagine, that was a pretty powerful stimulus, and I set myself to work. Father Martin noticed, and encouraged me to persevere. But without Paul in my life I needed plenty to do to keep me from brooding. True enough, I had some friends at school, but they were just ordinary friendships. My memory of Paul's lovely face with its sweet smile and dancing green eyes, his slim figure and his warm and friendly personality remained vividly in my mind and in my dreams.

I'd decided that I wanted to be a teacher. I knew I had no vocation to the Priesthood, rather to Father Martin's disappointment, but he nevertheless gave me some extra tuition. My bias was very much towards the sciences, and particularly biology and chemistry. Father Martin's help with mathematics was invaluable, and Mr Leyburn found me a willing worker.

But I was developing from a boy to a youth to a young man. It puzzled me greatly that I did not find girls in the least attractive. Not that I had much opportunity to meet girls, though now that I was in the Sixth form I was able to go to the dance which was held each term in collaboration with St Ursula's, the convent school for girls. My word! The nuns who ran St Ursula's kept a strict eye on their charges. So I danced with some girls, and found them pleasant enough, if inclined to be a bit giggly, but wholly uninteresting. And then came Father Bernard's Talk. This happened every year in the Lower Sixth. Father Bernard, a Benedictine priest who specialized in this kind of thing, came for a week to conduct a Silent Retreat, during which he gave us a series of talks on Sin. I say talks; they were sermons, really, but his manner was different, less preachy than any of the priests we were used to, and the subject was one which, let's face it, will interest any young person.

During one of these talks, he touched on bodily sin which could be, as he put it, either 'according to nature' or 'against nature'. Pressed for more detail, he explained that a few unfortunate souls were tempted to sin, not with women, which was bad enough, but with other boys or men, which was very much worse. At last I knew. It had been clear to me for some time that I was not cut out for marriage. I asked Father Bernard what the alternative was. He was uncompromising. "Those," he said, "who are not married, are called to a much higher and holier vocation, that of the celibate life." Well, there were worse things, it seemed to me. Although I now knew that I did not have any calling to the Priesthood or to the Monastic life, I could be, like Mr Leyburn, a teacher. I didn't know that I wanted to be especially holy, but I did feel that if I were celibate it would solve a lot of problems. Father Bernard referred me to the lives of several Saints who had lived good lives without either priesthood or marriage. St Francis was one of his particular favourites. I had always rather taken to St Francis, with his wholehearted enjoyment of the natural world.

But this did not deal with one ongoing problem that I had. My body was maturing, and erections were a frequent occurrence. One night I woke from a doze to find that I was rubbing myself. Of course I desisted immediately, but eventually the urge became too strong. Was this the self-abuse that Father Bernard had spoken about? If so, I had better confess it and try not to do it again. What I hadn't expected was either the very great pleasure that came suddenly, or the jet of fluid that came with it. I thought I had involuntarily urinated, and got out of bed to change my pyjamas, but found that what I had produced was much stickier than urine. Could this be the "seed" that was given by a man to quicken a woman?

Of course, once he has discovered the delights of masturbation, a boy will find it impossible not to continue, however dire the threats, however, awful the warnings. It seems very sad to me that the practice has been so much surrounded by misinformation and prejudice. It is, after all, an entirely natural and universally practised activity – I had almost written the word, Vice here, but of course it is not – which helps a young man to discover the secrets of his body as it matures, and before he is emotionally ready to embark upon a serious relationship. But I give myself credit for working out that the warnings of physical debility, blindness and all the rest of the rubbish were so much nonsense. What, I argued, was the difference between rubbing the phallus against the inside of a woman's body and the inside of one's own hand? Having formulated the question, the answer became obvious.

Morally, however, I was more concerned. But having on several occasions found wet and sticky patches on my pyjama trousers when waking in the morning, I concluded that if I did not give myself relief at least regularly, though not frequently, this would continue to happen as the pressure of liquid within needed to be discharged. And so I concluded that if I rubbed myself to give pleasure it would be a sin and must be confessed, whereas if I did it for purposes of relief it was as much a necessity as passing water or eating. I eventually decided that once a week was necessary, and mostly stuck to that rule.

And so I came into the Upper Sixth, and to prefectorial duties as well as study. I found being a prefect exceedingly irksome, having to waste a good deal of time supervising younger boys who were apt to be pert and irritating. No doubt I'd been just as bad at their age, but it was tiresome nevertheless. However, I coped with this and other annoyances, and applied myself to gaining enough knowledge to pass the exams. My exertions paid off, and I was offered a place at Liverpool University to read Biochemistry.

But there were other matters to attend to. War was looming, for the second time in a generation. Germany had secretly re-armed and, led by that raving madman Hitler, was busily engaged in annexing various bits of Europe. They had started with Austria, then the Sudetenland, the German-speaking part of Czechoslovakia, and were now threatening Poland. It was not to be borne, and the British government sent them a note telling them to pack up and go home.

Unsurprisingly, the Germans took not the slightest notice of the 'final note' and proceeded to invade Poland. Poor old Chamberlain! I think he had genuinely believed that the threat of the British declaring war on them if they invaded Poland would put them off. Not they! And so we had air-raid shelters, and gas masks, and piles of sandbags in the streets. I was told that as a University undergraduate I would be eligible for postponement of my call-up, but I decided that I would do my bit first, and the University agreed to hold my place open for when I should return from service overseas.

I did my basic training at Park Hall Camp, in Shropshire, and put in to join the Army Medical Corps as an Orderly. To my surprise, I got my way. I think that probably since I had been accepted as an undergraduate at Liverpool to read Biology and Chemistry, whoever decides these things thought I might be more use as a hospital orderly than as cannon-fodder.

In the Army, you may be posted anywhere in the world at very short notice. Goodness knows who is responsible for these decisions; presumably some desk-wallah in Whitehall. But I was sent to Egypt, where I worked under Major Harding. In civilian life the Major had been plain Mr Edward Harding, a surgeon at the Radcliffe Hospital in Oxford. He was a brilliant surgeon. He could be bold and adventurous, but he was as careful with human tissue as if it were gossamer. Time after time I watched him repair horrific injuries, his fingers as delicate as a girl's yet moving with absolute certainty. He'd seen that I was quick on the uptake and when I was acting under his command I often found myself doing what was properly nurses' or even doctors' work. But it was wartime, and as far as the Army Medical Corps was concerned, senior surgeons ranked next to God, and their orders were never, ever questioned. I have seen a full Colonel reduced to a quivering jelly by a glare from a surgeon, and it was known that even Sergeant-Major Topping, that notorious martinet, was quiet and respectful in the presence of Major Harding.

So we worked at the Base Hospital in Aden, then in Khartoum, and then we were posted to India. We were sent to the Field Hospital at Mahratta. Apparently the senior surgeon there had gone mad and slit his wrists with a scalpel; his assistant was an incapable alcoholic and the Matron was at her wits' end. Major Harding blew in there like a fresh gale. The assistant surgeon was sharply told to sober up and stay sober, or else... The orderlies, many of them Indians, were instructed to get the place cleaned up. And I was put in charge of a detail getting the paperwork sorted out. The administration was in such a state of muddle that at first I despaired of ever getting it straight. But within a week or so we had cleared the worst of the backlog and put some more efficient systems in place.

One of my many tasks was to go through the admission papers of each man in the hospital. And there I saw, to my horror, the name of Lance-Corporal Paul Blandy, admitted with blast injuries. I dropped everything and ran down to the ward. And there he lay, unconscious, but yes, it was my beloved Paul. He was in a very bad way. He had caught the blast from a mortar bomb and had multiple shrapnel wounds as well as what looked like internal haemorrhage from the blast. I didn't like the look of his left eye either, which was very bloodshot. If the admin had been working properly he would have been operated on much sooner, but I hoped that he might still be saved. I kneeled by his side, shaking like a leaf, and murmured in his ear, "Paul? Paul, it's Aiden. Can you hear me? I'm going to do everything I possibly can to help you."Then I ran to Major Harding's office and told him that an old friend of mine was in the ward, with severe blast injuries, and please, please would he come and look at him?

Bless him! The Major came straight down to the ward with me and looked at Paul. Then he rattled out a string of orders, the result of which was that ten minutes later Paul was on the operating table. I have written above of my admiration for Major Harding, but this time he surpassed even himself. He was over four hours operating on Paul, sealing off internal bleeding, removing bomb debris and shrapnel from his body, stitching up the innumerable smaller wounds. Eventually he was returned to his bed. The Major said, "come back to your duties when you can…" and left me there with Paul. I sat beside his bed, holding his hand. Slowly, very slowly he drifted back to consciousness, and, hidden by the screens around his bed, I kissed his forehead, then each cheek, then his lips.

I looked at Paul's face. One eye was covered by a gauze pad, secured by a bandage around his temples. A gash on one cheek had been neatly stitched, and one lip was thickened where it had been crushed. There were burn marks as well. But it was still the same dear face as before, and to me, despite the damage, the most beautiful face in all the world. He opened his one good eye, murmured something and closed it. A few moments later he opened it again and appeared to be trying to focus on me. I said gently, "Paul, it's alright. You are in hospital. Don't try to move."

He mumbled something, tried to speak, making a syllable that sounded like "eh?"

"Lie still," I said, "Don't try to talk yet." But he made the same sound again. I realised that he was trying to speak my name.

"Yes," I said, "it's Aiden. I am here with you."

One hand and arm were strapped up: Major Harding had set the bones which were broken in several places, and then put the whole thing in plaster to immobilize it. But the other hand came out from under the blanket, feeling around. I clasped it in my own hand, and pressed it as firmly as I dared. His eye focused on my face and he tried to say "Aiden", though it came out as Ai'n. But he'd recognized me. A tear ran down from his one good eye, and I took out my handkerchief and dabbed at it.

I sat with Paul, holding his hand as he drifted in and out of consciousness. It takes a while for the anaesthetic to be eliminated from the body, but he was gradually becoming more wakeful. I spoke again. "Paul, you were badly injured, but Major Harding operated on you and you are getting better. I'm going to look after you." At that his mouth moved and I realized he was trying to smile. It nearly broke my heart, remembering the last time I had seen him smile, five years earlier.

Later on, when Paul had gone back to sleep, Major Harding called me into his office. He looked at me quizzically, and said, "Mitchell, I want to know just how you knew young Blandy, and what there is, or was, between you. If there is something… special… between you, you can tell me, and it won't go any further. If there is, for God's sake be careful. I personally couldn't care less who you want to sleep with as long as you do your job, and I have to say so far you've been exemplary. But there are those who think they have the right to pry into the affairs of others."

So, with some hesitation at first, I told the Major the whole story of myself and Paul, and how we had been caught in the hayloft, and how Paul had been thrown out of his home in consequence,

"And were you actually doing anything?" asked the Major.

"No, sir. Not a darned thing."

"God," he said, "there are times when I am glad I have no religion. I can't imagine that level of prejudice. Listen, Mitchell, in my time in the Army I've seen several pairs of men who have become close to one another. And every time it has brought only good results. A man will literally face death rather than show cowardice in front of his friend. I'm putting you on special duties from now on. You will look after Lance-Corporal Blandy until he is ready to be discharged. In such spare time as you are able to find, you will also do your best to keep the ward paperwork in order. No…" he held up his hand, "don't thank me. You've done a damned good job so far and…" here the telephone bell rang; he picked it up, listened for a few moments and said briskly, "I'm on my way now."

"That was an emergency," he said to me. "Come with me, I may need your help."

It was indeed an emergency; a man had been brought in whose leg had been severed. Fortunately his orderly had had the sense to ram his fist into the man's groin and then bind what was left of the leg as tightly as possible, but it was a very close thing.

In the hospital, I think a good many people one way and another were aware that I'd had what they would have called 'a thing going' with Paul, but there was no word of criticism. Paul gradually improved, though it was a slow and painful process. I had to do nearly everything for him at first. It was ironic, I reflected, that when we had been friends as boys I had never seen him naked, yet now I was handling him in the most intimate manner. But Army life, where there is no privacy, at least for enlisted men, gets you used to that very quickly.

At first he was in a great deal of pain, which I tried to relieve as best I could. I could see him struggling not to cry out when I moved him, though I did so as gently as I could. But gradually, a tiny bit at a time, he began to improve. The skin on his face peeled where it had been burned, and shiny new skin appeared underneath. He was still very far from well, but he was young and fit, and that gave him the strength and stamina he needed. Years later, he told me that it was my ministrations that gave him the will to keep going despite the pain. Even eating was painful at first, though I gave him the softest foods I could find: mostly soup to start with, and things like rumble-tumble, a curious Indian dish made from scrambled eggs with butter.

The day came when the Major said that Paul could get up. We got him sitting on the edge of his bed, then gradually he rose shakily to his feet. I supported him on one side, and Chandra Lal, an Indian orderly, on the other. He managed precisely three steps before collapsing. But each day he tried, and each day he managed a few more steps. He was the most gentle man I had ever known, but under that he had an indomitable will. Before long, with the help of a walking stick he could get across to the ward, and then a few days later he made it to the latrine.

I'd turned down some leave that was due to me in the hope that I would be able to go back to England with Paul when he was discharged. He was to go back initially to the Army hospital at Netley, and then, when he was well enough, back home to Derby. He would need to report for inspection every three months. But as it happened our unit was moved, at very short notice, back to North Africa, and I had to leave Paul behind. Major Harding did his utmost to get them to let me stay, but this time the authorities were adamant, and I had to go.

Before I left, we promised each other that we would keep in touch, and get together as soon as we were able to. Paul gave me his grandmother's address in Derby. He knew my home address, of course.

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