Adam Mars-Jones - Pilcrow

‘Why don’t you tell me?’ I was a little sullen as well as curious. Luke had started with a compliment, but had moved rapidly on to doing what the whole world did, making me feel small.

‘That was a Lesbian Orgy,’ he said. ‘And you did a good job.’

‘Lesbian Orgy,’ I repeated, copying the assurance of his tone.

‘You do know,’ said Luke, ‘that Lesbians exist, don’t you?’

‘Yes of course.’

‘In fact … Lesbians are closer than you might think.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘I mean Miss Dawkins and Miss Salisbury. That’s what I mean. They’re lovers. L-O-V-E-R-S.’ He did a beautifully rendered double-take, to convey his surprise at my unawareness. ‘You really didn’t know, did you?’

Miss Dawkins was one of the nicest of the matrons, usually working nights, and Miss Salisbury was a junior physiotherapist, blonde and absent-minded. Marion favoured physios who made us work rather than moving our limbs for us — all part of the goading agenda — but Miss Salisbury was a bit of a softie who would sometimes go easy on us and manœuvre recalcitrant limbs without expecting too much effort from the patient. She wasn’t a Gisela Schmidt, though. There was no massage.

‘What makes you so sure?’ I asked.

‘I’m surprised you haven’t noticed yourself. It’s not that hard to work out. They always arrange to have the same weekends off. That’s the give-away.’ While I was absorbing this fascinating information, Luke started to fill me in about lesbian love. ‘They make love all weekend. They forget to eat. Very slowly they take their clothes off. If it’s cold, they sit by the fire. If it’s warm, they go into the garden. They lie down and rub each other’s bosoms. Then Miss Dawkins puts her tongue in Miss Salisbury’s ear, while Miss Salisbury puts her tongue in Miss Dawkins’ ear. That’s called a Telephone Call. Lesbians have very long tongues. Then Miss Salisbury puts her face in Miss Dawkins’ lap, and Miss Dawkins puts her face in Miss Salisbury’s lap, and they stay like that for hours. That’s called 69. That’s called a Lesbian Sandwich.’ He smiled. ‘So now you know. There’s a lot goes on in Farley Castle. It pays to keep your eyes and ears open.’ The implication was that it all went on with his knowledge, perhaps even depended on his approval.

All the time he was talking he cupped his hand round his groin. His black trousers looked new. He was very smart and well scrubbed in a white shirt and black tie, but it was the trousers that held my eye, as they did on the waiters at the Compleat Angler. At first I couldn’t believe he was really making that cupping movement round his groin, so I kept having to take another peek to make sure. There was no mistake.

‘Do you like my trousers?’ he asked. ‘They have a permanent crease.’ Pretending not to be too interested I asked, ‘What’s a permanent crease?’

‘It means that you can wash them as much as you like and the crease will never go, even if you don’t iron them. They’re also drip-dry. My mother ironed them anyway, so the crease is even sharper — come closer and see. You could slice ham with those creases.’

It was at this point that I noticed that an additional reason for Luke’s unique posture was the fact that he didn’t have any side arms on his wheelchair. With side arms, he wouldn’t have been able to get his strong hands easily onto those huge front wheels, would he? He was a brilliant boy. At that moment I loved and envied him so much for his ability to flow around in all directions and all classrooms with his bulge on display.

The permanent crease was a wonderful thing, sharp as a mountain ridge. He glided in closer to me so that I had a better view. I rested my hand on his knee for a bit, and followed with my eye the two ridges as they ran up his legs till they were overshadowed by the genital tumulus, round barrow pulsing with secrets.

Again he squeezed his groin with his long flat hand. ‘Why do you keep doing that?’ I asked.

‘I need to dissipate the extra heat,’ he said smoothly. ‘It’s an area of the body which generates more heat than the rest. Here, hold my hands for a minute — feel how cold they get from pushing on these wheels.’ I held his hand, and it was indeed very cold, and rather calloused, too. He went on to say that when the school’s new block, so long in the planning, was finally built, he would have a lot of extra pushing to do to cover the extra ground. I asked him if he had seen the plans and he said, ‘Of course,’ as if the go-ahead for construction could hardly be given without his say-so.

His hands would get even colder as he made the journey in the open through the empty spaces between the Castle and the new block, so he had developed this technique for making heat flow out from the central knoll in his lap. He took my hand and pressed it there and yes, it was true that a wonderful amount of heat radiated out from that place.

I was thrilled but also dismayed. For years I had worn black flannels and complained about the cold, and now Mum had bought me grey corduroys to keep me snug. Now I was mortified that I hadn’t persevered with the black flannel pants which looked so good on Luke.

‘I have to go now,’ he said. ‘I’ll be missed. There are spies everywhere, you know,’ and he gave me a wink. ‘If there’s more you need to know, you know where to find me.’ Then he manœuvred himself elegantly backwards and glided off on his marvellous wheels. They made only a hushed crackle on the gravel. I waited where I was for the arrival of my endlessly patient human taxi.

Luke had spoken by daylight and outdoors about matters which had been restricted in my experience to darkness and the sanctuary of the dorm theatre. He had spoken with great authority, whereas I made things up as I went along. And after he had taken my breath away with new vistas of perverse knowledge, he had offered to answer any questions I might have in the future.

When he described the Lesbian amours going on among the staff of the school, Luke had specified the slow taking off of clothes, but when I visualised the scene later I imagined it played out with the women fully clothed. Miss Dawkins’ glasses steamed up, and Miss Salisbury was split and mended under her physio’s smock by dry orgasms like my Enid Blyton ecstasies over Julian (the original Julian) and Dick.

Soon after that, Luke Squires’s reconnaissance mission in the Blue Dorm came to an end, and Roger Stott came back from exile. We waited for repercussions from Luke’s report to Miss Willis, but nothing seemed to happen. All the same, he became a figure of fascination for me.

The Vulcan School was an austere place, but every possible delight was put on show by prodigal Luke in his wheelchair. Without sound or fuss, gliding by on silent wheels, he seemed to be in many places at once.

It’s never much of a problem to feast your eyes on the trousered groin of a wheelchair occupant, since his bottom and legs are already on a kind of tray. If you’re at a distance of only two or three feet and at the same level yourself, there’s much less of an angle for your eye to swivel through, if it so happens that you wish to inspect the nether regions. The same intensity of ogling directed at a vertical schoolboy would be bound to draw attention.

For Luke, that tray was offered to the world in uniquely tempting style, thanks to those large front wheels which tilted the dish up a little higher, at the front, than the horizontal. His one-of-a-kind wheelchair gave as tempting a view of his legs and neatly trousered bum as anyone could wish for. On top of which his hands were always framing his privates, plumping them up for inspection. Once you had noticed this, it was shameless, actually. I was amazed that he got away with it the way he did.