The Horatio Stubbs Trilogy. Brian Aldiss
we pieced together a bit of news here and a rumour there. Sister was arty. Sister had actually been seen sketching, all wrapped up and sketching bloody fucking Six Sisters. Six Sisters was a hated local landmark, six – actually five by that time – miserable stunted trees to which we had to run once a fortnight, exposed to all the inhospitable gales of Derbyshire. And Sister wanted to paint them! Her stock fell even lower in the junior school. I joined the art club.
I was one of the school slobs, rough but not aggressive (despite occasional bouts of old enemy temper), plodding rather than clever, jocose rather than witty. My friends and I formed the sporty and philistine side of the sixth, still reading Frank Richards’ stories about Greyfriars and St. Jims – because, we said defensively, we were amused that the smoking and drinking (and, by inference, the pulling off, for who could imagine Tom Merry with a hard-on?) which went on at those colleges was always done by slackers, whereas at Branwells most of the venery was committed by the stars of the first fifteen. We were on good terms with the arty half of the form, even though they read Conrad and that ass R. L. Stevenson. But it was felt by everyone, including myself, that I was an incongruous figure in the art club.
Despite the incongruity, I did rather well. I discovered I could paint. During my second term in the art club I was out painting the Six Sisters myself, when not playing rugger. By then I was big enough to belt anyone who laughed.
In other ways my horizons were widening. I became interested in socialism, and that in a curious way.
Most of my sexual liaisons were with fellows of about my own age. But a much younger boy called Brown had caught my attention. Brown was in my dormitory, and had distinguished himself by being the youngest boy ever to make a pilgrimage round the beds – generally, the younger members were more sinned against than sinning. Brown, however, was keen. Keen on everything and sex most of all. He had bright ideas, with a natural flair for the erotic; after I had spent a couple of hours in bed with him I felt was destined to go far – and downwards all the way.
He confessed to me that he was in love with another boy in the sixth. Torturing him by threatening to leave him on the brink of orgasm, I got from him that this boy was Webster. I burst out laughing, because Webster was someone whom none of us took seriously. He spoke with an affected ‘upper-class’ drawl – I believe it was affected, although he never entirely dropped it; he could increase it in class, in order to infuriate masters. His parents were known to be well heeled – his father was someone high up in Imperial Tobacco. But Webster was a socialist, or a communist, for neither he nor we were too sure of the difference; he had a catch-phrase, and used to preach to us that things would be different after ‘the absolutely bloody revolution’. It was hard to visualize him as Brown’s ‘lover’ (a word, incidentally, that transgressed the Branwells code).
Through our mutual interest in Brown we got together for an ‘insurance’, the three of us. This was behind an outbuilding at Rowe’s Farm, a couple of miles from school. With rubber bands, we coupled our pricks together, Webster’s and my turgid black things on the outside, Brown’s elegant pink-and-white weapon in the middle, like a grotesque sandwich of cod’s roe between two salamis. Webster’s tool had been badly scarred by the rite of circumcision, and we were all scared temporarily by the rubber bands before we were finished. On the way back to school, Webster chatted about all the injustices in England, how wrong it was to have servants, and so on.
‘One glorious day, laddies, the down-trodden workers of Britain will arise and free themselves, and the skivvies of England will dashed well knife their masters in their beds.’
‘Will the skivvies jump into the beds of the young masters?’ Brown asked.
‘Yes, and cut off their little rigid plonks!’
What fascinated me even more than that particular vision was the fact that Webster actually knew working men, and showed no particular antipathy for them, although, with his accent, he would surely have been one of the first to go under when they rose on the day of absolutely bloody revolution. His outlook was novel in my experience. I knew only the distaste and fear with which my mother and father and their friends regarded the workers. Even Liberals were bad enough, but the workers … Father hated to see them drawing the dole, believing that the principle of giving money away was wrong. He had been heard to call the destitute of the town, ironically, ‘Our non-banking friends’.
‘Non-washing, you mean,’ Mother said. It was not their financial so much as their hygienic habits she loathed.
Now here was Webster saying that these blighters might get the upper hand some time. My parents would be the first to go.
I thought over what Webster said for a long while before asking him, some days after the rubber-band experiment, ‘Supposing the workers do revolt, surely the upper classes won’t let them kill off all the middle class?’
He chuckled, richly and patronizingly. ‘Stubbs, old man, the upper classes and the aristocracy absolutely hate the bloody guts of the middle classes!’
Art. Sex. Socialism. And the greatest of these was sex. But even sex was changing now. England had recently enjoyed (or suffered) the spectacle of their king relinquishing the throne to marry the woman he loved. For many, the issues arising from this crisis in the monarchy were complex; at Branwells it signified only one thing: that the adult world outside our stony walls was as mad about sex as we were, whatever it hypocritically pretended. And our discussions centred round whether or not Mrs. Simpson was attractive.
The abdication also focused the attention of the older boys more sharply on women. Whatever we did with other boys, faute de mieux, it was women we thought about, women we talked about, given a few exceptional boys. Women, we could see, were what we needed, as surely as we lacked them.
Although my father remained aloof from me, never interesting himself in what I did or said, I had by now seen enough penises – ‘a clutch of penises’ was the agreed collective noun – to persuade me that my circumcision, however barbaric, had not been directed at me. It was something bank managers had done to their sons at birth, a sort of caste mark; while the postman’s son, a Branwells day-boy, was allowed to keep a foreskin like the end of a fire-hose.
With the allaying of this anxiety, and such minor and common anxieties as to whether my organ functioned as well as, or was as large as, other people’s, I began to lose interest in pricks, although not in masturbating; that remained a never-ending pleasure. But the fantasies connected with masturbating became increasingly preoccupied less with Beatrice and more with Sister Traven, as gradually I managed to win what seemed like her friendship.
In my fantasies Sister sometimes changed shape and became Esmeralda. I had written to Esmeralda and she wrote back, somewhat to my surprise. Her letters were never very long, but they gave me a delight out of all proportion to their length or content. I was none too sure that I did not love Esmeralda.
Did I also love Sister Traven? It must have been some such kind of madness that made me hope to make love to her; or perhaps that is an egocentric view, because many boys at Branwells also dreamed of her in their hard little beds. Not only was she fairly attractive; she was safely inaccessible; and, supposing she were attained, then she was safely old enough to play her role in a motherly way.
She definitely took notice of me individually, I told myself. It needs terrific effort to make yourself individual to an outsider when you are just one of a herd of boys. Overcoming my shyness, or, rather, battling with it all the way, I trotted some of my water-colour sketches along to show her. She actually recognised where one or two of them were supposed to be.
‘Do you paint in the holidays?’ she asked.
‘Oh yes, pretty often.’ I had never touched a paintbrush since I was about six.
She asked me where I lived. I told her. She was pleased. Pleasure always caused her to raise her eyebrows slightly, as if her pleasure somewhat amazed her.
‘I don’t live too far from you. Have you heard of Traven House? Perhaps you’d like to come sketching with me some time? I could get the chauffeur to come and pick you up in the car. We have some lovely views in our grounds.’
Confusedly,