Westminster
Competing obsessions in post-war England.
Written by Andrew
Rivers rested his hand on the brass doorknob on Upper VI Geography; Dodgson’s room at the top of Liddell House. He hadn’t expected someone to be there late in the afternoon after lessons, much less someone actually singing.
‘Just remember darling all the while . . . you belong to meeee.’
Rivers turned to knob and pushed the oak door open.
The room was full of bright summer sunshine and dusty heat. Book lined walls pushed in on long tables shared by sleepy pupils during form lessons. This afternoon though, the desks were empty.
At the far side of the room by the large eight over eight window, Liddon stopped singing.
‘Hello,’ said Rivers
‘Hullo,’ Liddon said.
Rivers hesitated. ‘I - I didn’t know you’d be – ‘
‘Nor me,’ Liddon interrupted with a broad smile, ‘Dodders gave me extra demerits for not going to the reception for old Winnie.’
‘Oh’ Rivers said
‘He said as a prefect that I needed to show some patriotic backbone.’ He arched his back and puffed his chest out mocking the idea. ‘But I dodged it for a skive out. Dodged Dodgson!’ He laughed, enjoying his own joke.
‘Oh,’ said Rivers again, swimming in the beauty of Liddon’s deep brown eyes and wavy chestnut hair.
‘I know he’s PM, but the war was so bloody long ago, and we are fed up with all of that.’
Rivers was mesmerised by such bold dissent.
‘So, he’s got me here cleaning windows and the paintwork. I mean, look at this’ Liddon lifted the grey rag from the bucket by the desk.
Liddon turned back to the glass, the sun shone through his white shirt and his torso glowed as he mopped at the glass.
Rivers turned to the books he was meant to catalogue. He wasn’t on demerits but was happy to oblige Dodgson on the year-end task. Rivers was pleased to be in Dodgson’s set, and this favour was good pay for it. Liddon would mock the idea of such preferred status and Rivers felt a momentary shame. He looked at the books on the shelf, opened the ledger Dodgson had entrusted to him, but his heart was racing in Liddon’s presence. This was Liddon, after all, the golden boy of Liddell House. At least among the boys.
‘Damn,’ Liddon turned back from the window, ‘now look. The murky water had streamed from the rag down the long sinews of his forearm into his upturned sleeve. It spread wider, turning to near transparent.
‘That’s torn it.’
Rivers looked up from the ledger, trying to be casual. He said nothing but was transfixed as the dark ring of Liddon’s nipple appeared through the wet shirt.
‘You don’t mind, do you? ‘ Liddon asked as he twisted his shirt buttons free. ‘It is perishingly hot here today,’ He deftly undid the shirt and tugged free of his trousers and off. His body was honey coloured and taut with muscles sculpted by his captaincy of cricket. A dark dusting of new hair reached across his chest and narrowed to a fine dark line to his navel and then beyond into his trousers.
‘So much better,’ Liddon smiled. ‘You should get your togs off too.’
Rivers’ eyes shot back to the ledger, his face flushed and his neck burning with shame and delight. He stared at the words and columns but saw none of them.
What he saw so clearly in his mind was the scene in the showers after Saturday cricket when he watched secretly from the doorway. Liddon was standing slightly apart from his teammates as water streamed down his naked body. He was laughing with the others; some random banter from the crease. The others joked and jostled, passing the soap until one tossed it over to Liddon. Rivers could not stop himself from staring at Liddon’s cock and balls. He had a man’s cock with its girth and heft already while the other boys had modest nubs in dark wet nests of hair. Liddon’s cock swung as he turned and soaped his legs, his pale arse opening as his hands soaped down to his ankles. Rivers’ face burned with excitement, and he forced himself away fearing that his own hard cock would give him away through the pleating of his own whites.
Liddon turned back to the window and washed the frame, his golden body stretching in the light. Rivers looked up to see the streaks of coaldust filled water coursing over the fine contours of Liddon’s shoulders.
He counted the text books, studiously touching the spines of each with the end of his pencil, moving slowly toward Liddon’s back.
‘You belongggg to meeee.’
Jo Stafford’s song was everywhere. On the wireless and in the coffee house just off Smith Square where the boys were permitted now that they were sixth formers. . And was Liddon’s clear light tenor for him? Rivers could hope but could not be sure.
‘You’re a queer fellow,’ Liddon said, that radiant smile and those deep eyes turned to Rivers. The soft roundness of his pectorals, the dark circles of his nipples.
‘What?’ Rivers said, flushing hard.
‘It’s a rum thing,’ Liddon said, ‘I mean, I am here for demerits but you’re here for – what? Choice?’
Rivers smiled weakly. ‘He just asked me to help.’
‘Swot,’ Lidden was laughing. ‘You swot. Swotty swot!’ It was the banter of the showers but for him this time. And that inviting smile. That beautiful body. That confidence.
‘I like it up here,’ Rivers said, ‘I like the view.’ His heart skipped a beat. He pointed, stammering. ‘I mean the view from here. To the Abbey.’
Liddon turned to the newly clean glass. grinning. ‘Yes. I think that you do like the view.’
Rivers fumbled with the pencil and dropped it. He stooped to pick it up from under the desk. He stood to find Liddon standing close in front of him. So close he could see deep into his shining eyes, the glistening sheen on his shoulders and his chest rising and falling with each breath. Rivers’ nose quivered. Liddon smelled of sweet musk and cheap bleach. He wanted to breathe him in.
‘It’s a good view,’ Liddon looked intently, ‘isn’t it?’
Rivers’ eyes followed a bead of sweat that slid across Liddon’s neck: a heavy drop that slipped onto his chest.
‘Isn’t it?’ Liddon’s voice repeated, soft and inviting. His lips were moist and open. Those rich warm eyes and the heat of him. And warm breath from those soft lips. Rivers felt himself leaning in, their eyes locked and Liddon’s heat already holding him.
‘What’s going on here?’ A sharp voice. Dodgson was in the open door.
Liddon stepped back slowly, leaving Rivers staring in horror at the master.
‘Nothing, sir,’ Liddon said smoothly with a trace of a smirk to Rivers. ‘Nothing at all. Just admiring the view, sir’
‘Liddon,’ Dodgson was furious, ‘don’t play me like a fool. You’re surly. You’re arrogant and you’re a hooligan. A first rate hooligan!’
Liddon looked squarely at Dodgson for a long few seconds. Rivers stared between them waiting for the first of these to give way, barely believing that Liddon could be so bold.
Liddon slowly reached down and slowly picked up his shirt and the bucket of water.
‘Sir’ he hissed as he stepped into the corridor and was gone.
Dodgson looked at Rivers. ‘You need to watch that one,’ he said.
‘Yes sir.’
‘He is no good for you, that one.’ Dodgson added before composing himself. ‘How is the cataloguing going?’
‘Slowly, sir.’ Rivers admitted shamefully.
‘I thought you would have made quick work of it, Rivers,’ Dodgson paused. A change of tone. ‘I’m getting a cuppa from the common room. Shall I bring you one?’
‘Sir? Yes sir,’ Rivers was happy to have better relations resuming with Dodgson.
They had enjoyed chats over tea in Mr Dodgson’s study when the master would regale his set with stories of his travels. Once or twice, Mr Dodgson had poured a little brandy into their teacups with a knowing smile. He liked Dodgson’s stories of wild cultures where the boys would be sent off into the jungle with no supplies and have to fend for themselves and how their bonding rituals involved intimacies that built life long alliances when they returned to the village to settle and create families. On some evenings, he would share his collection of African artifacts gathered in travels years before. There were a number from his private collection, for scholarly viewing only so as not to corrupt the weaker minded. Rivers enjoyed handling the highly polished carved statues, admiring their stocky firmness and stout genitals. ‘Fetishes for fecundity,’ Dodgson explained with authority, ‘boys would rub the phallus in a rite seeking fertility.’ The carved man with a shining penis entranced Rivers who slyly stroked when he thought no one was looking.
Dodgson returned to the form-room with a tray with a teapot and two cups and saucers and a jug of milk.
‘I’ve popped a bit of saccharin in the pot,’ he said, ‘like you like it.’
Dodgson stirred the tea, watching Rivers. Rivers shifted uncomfortably in the gaze of the older man.
‘Fine weather, sir’ he said eventually.
‘Very fine, Rivers.’ Dodgson said before pausing. ‘Did Lidden try . . .’
‘No, sir!’ Rivers said quickly, ‘It was nothing like that sir. He’s an okay chap really.’
His words sounded hollow as the left his lips.
‘Don’t say ‘okay’ Rivers,’ Dodgson corrected, ‘we must resist becoming Americans.’
‘No sir. I mean yes sir,’ Rivers said.
They stood in silence for a moment. Rivers felt he was being studied.
‘Rivers,’ Dodgson said at last, ‘you know if you were . . . ‘
‘What, sir?’
‘Well, if you had feelings about . . . I mean, if you were so . . . ‘
Dodgson looked for his meaning to land. Surely Rivers was not so naïve.
‘I am not sure I understand, sir.’
‘You remember the Zulu cultures that we were speaking of in Lent Term?’
‘Yes sir,’
‘There is an honourable tradition of izinkoktshane, especially among the Azande people.’
‘I am not sure I know about that.’
‘Especially among the Azande men folk,’ Dodgson said slowly with emphasis.
‘Tell me more, please sir.’
Dodson smiled and invited him to sit.
‘In such cultures, older men would take on younger men as kind of apprentices.’
‘I see, sir.’
‘And the older man would pay the boy’s family money. They called it bride money.’
‘But the boy was not a bride, was he?’
‘No. Not formally, but they would live together for a while.’
‘The younger learning from the older, sir?’
‘Correct, Rivers. But the companionship ran deeper. The boy learned. And he would give. Give of himself.’
‘Oh,’ Rivers said.
‘This kind of conduct features in many cultures across the continents.’
‘I see sir.’
Dodson leant forward looking intently at Rivers, ‘so it is not unusual to have that urge.’
‘To give of oneself, sir?’
‘You have it, Rivers.’ Dodgson rested his hand on Rivers’ arm.
‘I see sir.’
‘Good.’ Dodgson smiled. ‘Good to know, John.’ He squeezed his arm.
‘Sir. Thank you, sir.’ Rivers pulled his arm free. ‘Sir, may I return to the cataloguing later? I have some prep I need to do and then the lower fourth’s prep time.’
‘Of course, Rivers, of course. Duty calls. Perhaps we can take this up again another time.’
Rivers left the room. The pencil had been placed in the page of the ledger. Dodgson picked up the book and opened it where the pencil lay. He felt a surge of anger rise again.
‘Liddon,’ he seethed, staring at the empty page.
This story was written as part of a Naked Men Talking Writing Workshop, in response to the prompt "Obsession". Copyright remains with the author - this story cannot be republished or distributed without the consent of the author.
Gareth Johnson