Sweet Sorrow(5)

‘Not for … twenty minutes.’

Like the best of our athletes, Helen Beavis was a dedicated smoker, lighting up more or less at the gates, her Marlboro Menthol waggling up and down like Popeye’s pipe as she laughed, and I’d once watched her place a finger over one nostril and snot a good twelve feet over a privet hedge. She had, I think, the worst haircut I’d ever seen, spiked at the top, long and lank at the back with two pointed sideburns, like something scribbled on a photograph in biro. In the mysterious algebra of the fifth-year common room, bad hair plus artiness plus hockey plus unshaved legs equalled lesbian, a potent word for boys at that time, able to make a girl of great interest or of no interest at all. There were two – and only two – types of lesbian and Helen was not the kind found in the pages of Martin Harper’s magazines, and so the boys paid little attention to her, which I’m sure suited her fine. But I liked her and wanted to impress her, even if my attempts usually left her slowly shaking her head.

Finally the mirror-ball was deployed, revolving on its chain. ‘Ah. That’s magical,’ said Helen, nodding at the slowly spinning dancers. ‘Always clockwise, have you noticed?’

‘In Australia, they go the other way.’

‘On the equator, they just stand there. Very self-conscious.’ Now ‘2 Become 1’ faded into the warm syrup of Whitney Houston’s ‘Greatest Love of All’. ‘Yikes,’ said Helen and rolled her shoulders. ‘I hope, for all our sakes, that the children aren’t our future.’

‘I don’t think Whitney Houston had this particular school in mind.’

‘No, probably not.’

‘The other thing I’ve never got about this song: learning to love yourself – why’s that the greatest love of all?’

‘It makes more sense if you hear it as loathe,’ she said. We listened.

‘Learning to loathe yourself—’

‘—is the greatest loathe of all. That’s why it’s easy to achieve. And the great thing is, it works with nearly all love songs.’

‘She loathes you—’

‘Exactly.’

‘Thanks, Helen. That makes more sense to me now.’

‘My gift to you.’ We turned back to the dance floor. ‘Trish looks happy,’ and we watched as Patricia Gibson, hand still clamped over her eyes, contrived to simultaneously dance and back away. ‘Colin Smart’s trousers have arranged themselves in an interesting way. Weird place to keep your geometry set. Boing!’ Helen twanged the air. ‘I had that once. Christmas Methodist Disco with someone whose name I’m not at liberty to repeat. It’s not nice. Like being jabbed in the hip with the corner of a shoebox.’

‘I think boys get more out of it than the girls.’

‘So go rub it against a tree or something. It’s very rude, by which I mean impolite. Leave it out of your arsenal, Charles.’ Elsewhere, hands were seeking out buttocks and either lying there, limp and frightened, or kneading at the flesh like pizza dough. ‘It really is a most disgusting spectacle. And not just because of my much-vaunted lesbianism.’ I shifted on the bar. We were not used to frank and open discussion. Best to ignore it, and after a moment – ‘So, do you want to dance?’ she said.

I frowned. ‘Nah. M’all right.’

‘Yeah, me too,’ she said. A little time passed. ‘If you want to go ask someone else—’

‘Really. I’m all right.’

‘No big crush, Charlie Lewis? Nothing to get off your chest in these dying moments?’

‘I don’t really do that … stuff. You?’

‘Me? Nah, I’m pretty much dead inside. Love’s a bourgeois construct anyway. All this –’ She nodded to the dance floor. ‘It’s not dry ice, it’s a haze of lowlying pheromones. Smell it. Love is …’ We sniffed the air. ‘Cointreau and disinfectant.’

Feedback, and Mr Hepburn’s voice boomed out, too close to the mike. ‘Last song, ladies and gentlemen, your very last song! Let’s see everyone dancing with someone – courage, people!’ ‘Careless Whisper’ came on, and Helen nodded towards a huddled group that now emitted a single girl. Emily Joyce walked towards us, starting to speak while too far away to be heard.

‘…’

‘What?’

‘…’

‘I can’t—’

‘Hello! I just said hi, that’s all.’

‘Hello, Emily.’

‘Helen.’

‘Well, hello Emily.’

‘What ya doing?’

‘We are being voyeurs,’ said Helen.

‘What?’

‘We’re watching,’ I said.

‘Did you see Mark put his hand up Lisa’s skirt?’

‘No, I’m afraid we missed that,’ said Helen. ‘We did see them kissing, though. That’s quite something. Did you ever see a reticulated python swallow a small bush pig, Emily? Apparently they dislocate their jaws, right back here—’

Emily squinted irritably at Helen. ‘What?’

‘I said, did you ever see a reticulated python swallow a small—’

‘Look, do you want to dance or what?’ snapped Emily impatiently, poking at my kneecap.