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Boarding school, 20th December 1956
Jack hadn’t expected his father to come. Not fully, anyway.
Had he hovered by the phone the night before in case his father called?
Yes.
Had he ran to the window every time he heard a car approaching the next morning?
Yes.
Had he hoped? Had he awaited the arrival of his father’s fancy green car in the driveway? Had he imagined introducing his father to his friends?
Unfortunately.
But deep down he’d known it would end up like this. It had been this way every year since he was ten, since he started this wretched school.
It was six o’ clock on the first day of the Christmas holidays and Jack Merridew was curled up in bed three hours before lights out, staring into the dark and feeling his eyes sting. Downstairs was silent now. Earlier, he could hear chatter, laughter and music no matter where he was. It drove him mad, listening to all those boys and their happy families. He was glad they were gone now. He only wished he could’ve gone with them.
Earlier that morning, he hadn’t said a word to anyone, other than telling Ralph to shut up mid-sentence because he thought he’d heard a car in the drive. He hadn’t eaten a thing at breakfast - his stomach was twisting so much with nerves and excitement that he was sure he’d be sick if he ate. It was customary for the boys to give their friends Christmas gifts before the holidays. He only got one present, from Simon, a book. He barely glanced at the cover before he heard a voice that sounded like his father and hurried to the door.
Now tears threatened his eyes, but he blinked them back adamantly. He wouldn’t cry. He’d cried on this day for the first two school years after his father had promised and failed to arrive. The second time a few older boys had caught him in the bathroom with tears running down his face and jeered at him, calling him a baby and some other words. Jack didn’t know what those other words meant, but the way they said them, like spitting, made it sound as if they were disgusting things. He certainly felt like a disgusting thing after that.
Last year Jack hadn’t allowed himself any tears. He’d spent the day with Simon and defied himself to think about his father at all. It was a wonderful day. Jack had been proud of it. But this year was different. His father had made so many promises over the phone to come and see him, and in the end he hadn’t even called to wish his son a merry Christmas. It stung.
His thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the door. He didn’t answer, praying whoever it was would assume the dorm was empty and leave him be. Alas, a minute later, he heard the door creak open.
“Jack? Are you in there?”
Jack knew who it was immediately. Simon. His family mustn’t have shown up for him either.
Thank god it was Simon. He wouldn’t tease Jack for crying. Jack still didn’t want him to see, though. He felt that if Simon saw him in this state, it would give him some kind of satisfaction. It was a ridiculous thought; he knew Simon didn’t gain any joy from him being upset. His mind knew, his heart didn’t.
“Go away.” Jack said, muffled by the pillow. His voice came out a lot more tearful than he would’ve liked. “I’m trying to sleep.”
“It’s only six. Aren’t you feeling well?”
Jack felt the mattress dip at the end of the bed. He didn’t answer, or turn around.
Simon’s tone grew even softer. Not gentle, exactly. Wise. “It’s because of your dad, isn’t it?”
It wasn’t really a question. Simon knew the answer.
Jack pressed his fists into his eyes. Why did Simon have to ask that? Why did he have to be so understanding? Understanding everything, somehow, knowing things about Jack that Jack didn’t know himself? Now all he wanted to do was bawl like a baby.
A sob escaped Jack before he could stop it. He tugged the covers further over his head. “Just leave me alone.”
Simon did the opposite; he leaned in further, placing a hand on Jack’s shoulder over the duvet. He stroked his arm through the fabric for a second, making Jack tense up.
“Move over.”
Jack peered up from the blankets. “Why?”
“You’re upset.” Simon stated. Jack didn’t argue with that. From the way Simon said it, it was obvious that there was no point in arguing. “Can’t have you crying on Christmas.”
“It’s not Christmas. It’s only December 20th.”
Simon ignored that remark.
Jack’s stomach was churning slightly with nerves, the way it sometimes did when Simon got too close to him. He’d convinced himself that this reaction took place because he disliked Simon, but lately he’d been suspecting it was the opposite. Like he’d done so many times before, he shoved it down to the pit of his stomach, where he kept all of the feelings his father wouldn’t approve of.
“How many times do I have to tell you to get out?” He sniffed. “I don’t want you here. You don’t know anything about—”
“I know what fathers are like.” Simon removed the duvet from Jack’s face, revealing his tear stained cheeks. “Mine didn’t turn up, either. I expect you didn’t notice?”
Jack shook his head, feeling slightly guilty. He should’ve realised - Simon’s father never came. He didn’t know much about Simon’s family, but he suspected that Mr. Cambourne and Mr. Merridew would get along splendidly.
“I thought I would spend the day with you instead,” Simon continued, “you know, like we did last year. But I couldn’t find you anywhere. You’ve been hiding in here all evening?”
Jack wasn’t sure what to say. The thought that Simon had actually planned to spend Christmas with him…
The thought that, not just because it was convenient or because it was his only option, Simon had chosen him, made his heart do something funny and he didn’t like it. He just shrugged.
“Now, will you move over?”
Jack didn’t protest this time. He shifted to the side and lifted the corner of the duvet, allowing Simon to climb in.
Simon pulled the covers up to his chin and sighed softly. There was a slightly awkward silence for a few minutes. Simon was lying there with those perceptive eyes of his on Jack, whose back was to him, both saying nothing. Jack was too shocked and thrilled by the fact that Simon Cambourne was in his bed to speak.
Eventually, Simon spoke: “I’ll read to you. If you want.”
Jack didn’t answer.
Simon picked up the book - his present to Jack - from where Jack had carelessly tossed it on the bedside table. It was The Coral Island.
Jack remained silent, but turned so that he was lying on his back and glanced up at Simon expectantly.
Simon began to read in a calm, hushed tone. He did some funny voices, but Jack was too tense to give more than a small smile. It was a good story, full of pirates and shipwrecks, and character with his name who Jack quite liked. He wondered what it’d be like to be stranded on a desert island like the boys in the book. Undeniably scary, if he was alone. If he could bring Simon with him, maybe it would be a good adventure.
Simon’s quiet reading voice was incredibly soothing. After a little while, Jack’s eyes began to droop, and he stopped processing the words he was hearing.
Simon paused and glanced down at him. “You’re exhausted.” He remarked, brushing the ends of Jack’s hair with his fingers, just barely.
“I couldn’t… I couldn’t sleep last night,” Jack mumbled, turning pink — he cursed his telltale pale skin. He sounded pathetic, stumbling over his words just because Simon touched his hair. He took a deep breath, trying to compose himself. “I was all… buzzing. Thinking of seeing my—“ he paused. “Thinking of Christmas.”
His voice wavered at those last words. Simon closed the book, placed it on the bedside table and sank down in bed.
They were facing each other now, legs almost touching under the blankets, which just about summed up their relationship over the past year. Almost touching, but not quite. There was a line separating them. It took the form of priests, fathers and the other boys at school who whispered about filth and sin.
Jack was terrified to cross the line, but what scared him more was the thought that the line would be there forever, a silent barrier keeping them apart.
Simon was so close now that his breath tickled Jack’s nose. His eyes were wide and hopeful. If Jack drowned in those eyes, he thought suddenly, he would die a happy man.
Slowly, tentatively, as if he was approaching a cat with a tendency to scratch, Simon lifted his hand and rested it on Jack’s head for a second. Simon used his big eyes to ask for permission, so Jack tried to use his to say yes.
Simon’s fingers began to comb through Jack’s hair, properly this time, nails scratching at his scalp. His hair was all mussed from lying in bed. Simon smoothed it down, tucking strands behind his ears with the care of a doctor dressing a wound.
Jack didn’t know where to look. He could feel his heartbeat everywhere. He felt like he was about to projectile vomit and burst out laughing at the same time. His palms were sweating enough to feed a thirsty village.
Simon, who was doing a good job at concealing his own fear, gave a small smile.
“Calm down, warrior. You’re all shaky.”
Jack shivered even more at the nickname. Simon had called him that years ago, when they were little and they used to have pretend battles. Hearing it now felt like enough to make Jack’s heart stop beating entirely.
Simon played with the ends of Jack’s curls, rearranging them, fingertips brushing his cheek. His brow furrowed with concentration. Jack had a strange urge to reach out and smooth the crease in the smaller boy’s forehead. He balled up his fists to refrain from
touching him.
Simon’s hand slid from Jack’s hair to his cheek. Jack’s breath caught audibly.
He feared simon as much as he loved him. Simon wasn’t scary. He was sullen sometimes but his heart was kinder than any other boy in school. The things he made jack feel, however, were terrifying.
Before Jack had a chance to flinch, Simon was kissing him.
It was a childish kiss, soft and curious, but Jack he felt a sensation in his heart akin to a million birds taking flight. He didn’t kiss back; he was in too much shock. He lay there, frozen, until the kiss ended as suddenly as it began.
Neither of them spoke afterwards. Jack felt like he might burst into tears again, so he blinked rapidly to prevent it. Simon’s expression was unreadable. They were both waiting for the other to say something.
Simon broke the silence abruptly.
“Goodnight, Jack.”
With that, he rolled over and switched off the lamp, plunging them into darkness and leaving Jack to wonder if the kiss had really happened or if he’d imagined it.
The taste of Simon’s mouth, still clinging to Jack’s lips, was too vivid to be imagined. Something sweet, cinnamon. Jack ached to try it again, but Simon’s back was to him now. Jack guessed he didn’t want to talk about it.
Some part of Jack felt rejected by how Simon had turned away from him without a word other than “Goodnight.” Did Simon regret it? Didn’t he like Jack?
He kissed you first, he reminded himself. That thought made his face turn red. Again.
Eventually, Jack drifted into a light, fitful sleep, both excited and scared for what the morning would bring.