An Opportunity and an Awakening
by Harry Paulson Fordclough
It was 1988, and the stone arches of the cathedral echoed with the sharp, rhythmic precision of Thomas's playing. At sixteen, Thomas was a piano prodigy. He was very aware of his talent, but still modest, perhaps even shy. Despite his musical inclinations, he had found a way to to seem ordinary, to blend in with the others of his age. Outside of school, he might be seen visiting the cinema or shops with his friends, or on occasion playing football - probably the only time he would be seen in shorts. Today, however, he was focused on practicing the piano accompaniment parts for a visiting French choir from the Saint-Étienne Cathedral School. An assignment that he had been encouraged to take by both his French teacher and of course his piano teacher.
As he played, he couldn't help but steal glances at the singers. They were elite, their voices like spun silk, but their appearance was what truly caught his eye. The French boys wore a traditional uniform that seemed frozen in another century: rich burgundy velvet jackets paired with matching velvet shorts that were daringly short. These ended high on the thigh, and combined with sheer white knee-socks and black patent-leather Mary Jane shoes, the look was other-worldly, even archaic. Thomas found it quietly hilarious; even the boys his own age stood there with their entire legs on display, looking like ornate porcelain dolls. He felt quite superior in his fashionable, casual clothes.
When the final note faded, the choir mistress, Madame Lefebvre, tapped her baton. "Excellent, Thomas. Your timing is impeccable." She beckoned him over as the other boys began to chatter. "But for the gala tomorrow, consistency is key. You must wear the official ensemble to match the choir."
Thomas gulped. "Erm, oh. I have a dark suit, Madame," he offered.
"Non," she smiled, handing him a garment bag. "To be the accompanist is to be part of the visual tapestry. This set is a spare - it belongs to Lucas, one of our boys, he could not come to England this time. It is a pity, but we have his uniform. He is nearly your age, although a little smaller - not to worry, I'm sure it will fit."
In the dressing room, Thomas's earlier amusement turned into dismay. As he donned the burgundy velvet, he realised the tailoring was much more fitted than the English styles he was used to. Sifting through the pile, he saw that the shorts were cut in a traditional European fashion, much shorter than any athletic gear he owned, and the fabric felt heavy and formal. Once he pulled on the white knee-socks and fastened the straps of the shoes, he looked in the mirror in dismay. He barely recognised himself.
When Madame returned, he stood there silently, feeling the cool air on his legs, which now seemed to go on forever. The top of his thighs were noticeably paler than his knees. Perhaps if he had kept his old shorts, cut in the style prevalent a few years before, he might have more colour on his legs. Instead he had insisted his parents buy him a pair in the new, "Bermuda" style that was catching on.
The white knee-socks were unforgiving. They seemed to underline everything he didn't want on display. They screamed out formality and compulsion, as no boy in England would be seen willingly in socks that echoed what girls wore ten years ago. And, just as the socks drew attention to the what was above them, then so did the shoes. The shiny black patent leather, and their T-bar strap were perhaps worse than the rest of it all. It would not have pleased Thomas to know that this style of shoe was sometimes called by the somewhat feminine name "Mary Jane". Together with the socks and the shorts, the ensemble proclaimed itself to be about the least likely outfit imaginable to be seen on a teenage boy.
The change from his usual relaxed clothing to this precise, ornate uniform was severe. He looked like he had stepped straight out of a historical painting. Every time he moved, the structured suit reminded him of the formality of the occasion. When he sat down at the piano stool, the velvet material caught the wood grain and rode up further. Thus, whilst he was playing, the great bars of his thighs shone out conspicuously. He had spent the afternoon finding the French boys' attire curious; now, he realised that he would soon be sitting here, centre stage, an English teenager fully transformed into a member of a select French tradition, and fully on display in an outfit that deliberately invited scrutiny and comment.
Madame Levebvre smiled. "You look superb, Thomas. You can wear this to go home, if you like? To show your family?"
"No!". He barked, before quickly changing his tone. "Thank you, Madame, but I will change back this evening. The uniform is quite … special. I promise I will look after it."
She turned to leave, fully satisfied that everything was now in place for a memorable and perfect concert the following evening.
"I want to burn it", said Thomas under his breath.
The day of the concert came. The teenage pianist had resisted his mother's suggested to change into his concert uniform at home, and walk with them across town. At the cathedral, he changed amongst the French boys, several of whom cast smiles in his direction, and knowing glances toward his legs. As he strode on stage he felt the gaze of the audience in a way he hadn't before, but he stayed focussed on the performance, giving the best he could.
The applause had barely faded when Thomas tried to make a break for the dressing room, but Madame Lefebvre caught his sleeve. "No, Thomas, there is no time! The reservation is in twenty minutes. We go as a group."
Walking to the restaurant, Thomas felt nervous. He tried to distract himself from his attire by thinking about the music. Being a shy boy, hadn't really clicked with any of the French boys, and there was a language barrier to overcome.
They didn't make it easier by being more confident than him and speaking only amongst themselves in rapid French that was difficult to follow. But there was one boy, about his own age, walking at the front of the group, who had a smile and a kind demeanour. He had offered a few words of encouragement. He had even looked pleased when Thomas attempted some French. He had introduced himself as Julien.
The restaurant was crowded with families and locals, and the sight of twenty French schoolboys in burgundy velvet, followed by a local boy some of them recognised, caused a collective pause in conversation. Thomas felt every inch of his exposed legs as he moved between the tables, the white knee-socks feeling like neon signs.
His family was already seated at a table. As he approached, his two teenage cousins, Sarah and Mia, didn't even pretend to look at his face. Their eyes went straight to the short velvet hems and the expanse of pale, slim leg between the shorts and the socks.
"Well, look at you!" Sarah teased, her grin widening as Thomas sat down, the velvet shorts riding even higher as he bent his knees. "I didn't know you were auditioning for a play, Tom. Is it set in a Victorian Dame school?"
"It's a traditional uniform," Thomas muttered, his face matching the burgundy of his jacket.
"It's adorable," Mia added, leaning over the table to get a better look at the buckled Mary Janes. "I've never seen your legs look so... long. You've got legs for miles in that outfit! Honestly, you're showing more skin than we do in our summer dresses!"
His uncle chuckled, and his aunt reached out to pat his arm. "You played beautifully, dear, but I must say, those French schools certainly have a unique... aesthetic."
Throughout the meal, Thomas tried to hide behind his linen napkin, but the interest didn't wane. The waiters hovered a little longer than usual. One of them continually fussed with his napkin, arranging it carefully and slowly over his bare thighs. His cousins spent the entire main course whispering and giggling, and when the boy had to get up to go to the toilet, they pointed out how the "dainty" shoes really completed the look. He looked over at the French boys, who were chatting away unbothered, seemingly oblivious to the spectacle they created. Only Julien caught his eye from the next table, offering a sympathetic shrug that said "Welcome to our world.".
The next day, the choir left on a coach, for a short tour of England, singing a different programme, for which he wasn't needed. Apparently they had secured the services of an organist who was a Cambridge scholar in his mid twenties. Thomas wondered if Madame would insist that he wore the velvet short-trouser outfit as well.
On Monday, Thomas returned to school, and found that word had got out about his outfit. One of the boys had taken to calling him "Frenchie". Some of the boys in the 'townie' gang had talked about coming to the Saturday concert, when the choristes would return. It seemed unlikely, they were usually obsessed with sport and trainers, not culture. "We've heard you're worth coming to see, we want to know what all the fuss is about!", said Lee.
There was to be an afternoon rehearsal before the next concert - in uniform, of course, and in the dressing room, Thomas smiled and began to talk to Julien, his new friend. "The uniform suits you very well, you know. I should get a photograph."
Thomas became tense. "A photograph?"
"Yes, for Lucas. The boy whose uniform you're wearing. He would be amused - he always complains about the shorts being small, but if only he could see how they are on you!"
"I feel like I am an exhibit in a museum." he answered.
Julien laughed lightly. "It is just tradition. It's normal in France. You should come to visit later in the year. You could stay with me. And my family."
At 7.30pm, he once again stepped out on the stage to his own round of applause, the choir already in place. His thighs gleamed bright in the spotlight. As he took a bow, he saw that several people in the front row were not looking at his face, instead their attention was almost entirely fixed below his waist. Scanning their faces he saw several older men, a couple with a daughter who looked puzzled as she took in the sight of a boy in sheer white socks just like she had to wear. And next to them were Lee, Jack and two girls they had brought along, probably in an attempt to impress with their sudden, feigned interest in music.
The final notes of the finale had barely stopped echoing when Thomas hurried toward the backstage exit, desperate to change. But before he could reach the dressing room, he was cut off in the narrow stone corridor by Lee and several others from the football squad. Fortunately the girls they had brought were nowhere to be seen. "They'd probably walked out, figuring out what idiots Lee and Jack are." mused Thomas.
"Oi, Tommy! Nice pins, mate!" Lee chuckled, leaning against the wall. "Seriously, where do you buy shorts that small? The infants section?"
"Give us a twirl, Tom," another lad jeered, pointing at the buckled Mary Janes. "Do the shoes come with a matching handbag, or just the socks?"
Thomas froze, his face burning. The velvet felt suffocatingly tight, and the vast expanse of his exposed legs felt like a target. He opened his mouth to snap back, but his voice failed him.
Suddenly, a firm hand landed on Thomas's shoulder. Julien stepped forward, moving with a calm, aristocratic grace that made the rowdy schoolboys look clumsy and unrefined.
"Is there a problem?" Julien asked, his French accent thick and cool.
"Just admiring the view, mate," Lee smirked, though he shifted uncomfortably under Julien's sharp gaze. "Didn't realise the choir came with a bodyguard." The boys roared with a cruel laughter.
Julien didn't flinch. "You laugh because you are children who see only cloth. You do not have the courage to wear a tradition, and you certainly do not have the talent to play like he does." He turned to Thomas, his eyes softening instantly, ignoring the gawking crowd. "They are loud, Thomas, but they are empty."
The hallway went quiet as the English boys looked between the two of them, sensing the shift in the air.
"You think he's something special, then?" Lee muttered, trying to regain his footing. "You two look like a pair of dolls."
Thomas looked at Julien—the boy who had seen him at his most vulnerable and offered nothing but respect. A sudden, defiant heat rose inside Julien. If they wanted something to talk about, if they wanted to treat his appearance as a spectacle, he would give them a performance they would never forget.
"Actually," Julien said, his voice finally steady, "he's right."
Before Thomas could respond, Julien reached out, his fingers brushing the velvet of Thomas's lapel. He leaned in, closing the gap between them. Thomas didn't pull away; he met him halfway.
The kiss was firm and lingering, a bold, silent roar of defiance against the crowded hallway. For a long moment, the only sound was the faint rustle of burgundy velvet, coupled with the sharp intake of breath. When they finally pulled apart, the gang of boys stood in stunned, open-mouthed silence. The teasing about the shorts and the shoes had suddenly become the least interesting thing in the room.
Thomas adjusted his jacket, a small, triumphant smile playing on his lips. "Now," he said to the speechless group, "was there anything else you wanted to comment on?"
Thomas took Julien's hand, their fingers interlocking, and both stared defiantly at the speechless ruffians. Then the French boy led him down the hall, leaving his schoolmates staring at their retreating backs—and their long, bare legs—in absolute silence.
They retreated to the quiet of the cathedral cloisters, the moonlight catching the sheen of their matching burgundy suits. The adrenaline of the confrontation was still humming through Thomas's veins, making him feel braver than he ever had in his school blazer and trousers.
"You are very bold, mon ami," Julien whispered, his hand again firmly clasped in Thomas's. "I thought I was the one coming to your rescue, but I think you rescued yourself."
Thomas looked down at their joined hands, then up at Julien. "I've spent my whole life trying to be invisible. But standing there in this... this tiny suit, with everyone staring at my legs and waiting for me to trip up... I realised I didn't care what they thought. I cared what you thought."
Julien stepped closer, the velvet of their sleeves brushing. "I thought you were beautiful the moment you sat at the piano. The uniform only made me see how much you were willing to give for the music. And the kiss..." he smiled, "that was for the music too?"
"No," Thomas said softly, leaning his forehead against Julien's. "That was just for us."
They talked for an hour, sharing the strange, sudden intimacy of two people who had found a kindred spirit in the middle of a circus. Julien confessed he'd been lonely on the tour until he saw the English boy who played Rachmaninoff with such fire, and Thomas admitted that he'd never felt more seen than when he was dressed as a French chorister. The next morning, however, reality hit with the cold English rain.
Thomas walked through the school gates in his standard school trousers, feeling strangely uncomfortable now that his legs were covered. The silence in the hallway was heavy. It wasn't the mocking silence of the night before; it was the hushed, awkward quiet of a student body that didn't know how to process what they'd seen. As he reached his locker, Leo was there. He wasn't laughing.
"So," Leo said, kicking the base of the locker. "You and the Frenchman."
"Yeah," Thomas said, bracing himself. "Me and the Frenchman."
"Right. Well." Leo, caught off-guard by Thomas's indignant response, awkwardly rubbed the back of his neck. "My sister saw the video Sarah posted. She said your piano playing was 'world-class' and that I'm a 'neanderthal.' So... sorry about the leg comments, I suppose."
Thomas blinked, surprised. As he moved through his classes, he noticed a shift. The rugby players gave him a wide berth, but the girls from his chemistry set actually stopped to ask when his next recital was. He was no longer just the quiet kid at the piano; he was the boy, the gay boy, yes… the gay boy, who had worn the velvet shorts and owned the room.
At lunch, he found a note tucked into his bag, written on Saint-Étienne stationery.
The bus leaves at noon. My legs feel heavy without you nearby. Come to France in the summer? J.
Thomas looked out the window as the white bus pulled away from the kerb. He caught a glimpse of a burgundy sleeve waving from the back window. He smiled, realizing that while the uniform was gone, the version of himself he'd found while wearing it was here to stay.
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