Blue Moon

Magnus Pearson, manager of Wickers the in-town country homeware
store, though soon to be divorced, had his days down pat. Had anybody
asked, he might even have gone so far as to say that his wife's
departure six months previous had liberated him. His days were his own
again, to order as he saw fit. Never before had he so felt like his own
man. He slept soundly, more soundly than he could remember ever
sleeping, yet without fail every morning awoke five minutes before the
alarm rang, ready to launch himself into the day with vigour like he
hadn't known since his youth; fling back that duvet and swing those
legs out of bed, feet straight into his slippers; into the bathroom, as
he'd always gone, though whistling or singing just as loudly as he
pleased now - Magnus liked opera, especially light opera; back into the
bedroom to dress with the light on, his knees and toes safe from the
bedstead, her clothes that would lie strewn across the floor, safe from
her recriminations; then make the bed - not find it unmade still upon
his return home from work later that evening.
His return from the gym, he would have said had anybody asked. For
these last six months that's where he had been going, to the gym at the
nearby university, every night after work. Except that is on
Wednesdays, which being his weekday off from work he forced himself to
rest on. But today, this Wednesday, he would go anyway, this Wednesday
being Christmas Eve and his last opportunity to do so until the new
year.
Upon getting up he allowed himself to wash less thoroughly than usual,
and dressed straight into his tracksuit, packed a bag with clothes to
change into after his routine. He ate no breakfast. That gave him
nearly an hour to kill before the gym opened.
He tuned into some breakfast-time t.v. and watched the little clock in
the corner of the screen turn over slowly, counting down the
minutes.

At the Sports Centre's reception-desk, Pauline (the stewards and
stewardesses all wore name-badges) put on a pantomime of surprise at
seeing Magnus. As he laid his money on the counter she looked up and
dropped her pen mid the sentence she was writing, staggered backward
clutching at her chest with both hands, and dropped into her chair that
was on castors and rolled backward some distance. She offered up such
an open smile then, that he felt not a little abashed, although by no
means was that entirely unpleasant to suffer, he was surprised to find.
It was as if he had been caught in the act of something mischievous, or
maybe even daring; flouting a convention or breaking a rule that she
had presumed was beyond him. Of all the stewards and stewardesses,
Pauline (although he had never called her by her name to her face) was
his favourite. She was delicately built yet peppy with it, so that with
her neat nut-brown bob and ever so lightly freckled upturned nose,
there was something almost elfin about her, boyish. She had shared the
odd tacit little joke with him before. If there was anybody he should
have liked to be on friendly, chatty, terms with there at the gym, it
was her. As they made the exchange of membership card and pin for use
of equipment, he found himself telling her that his children were
coming for Christmas - this very afternoon in fact, he said. She made
some exclamation of delight for him, but then quite as ingenuously was
at a loss for anything more to say on the subject. He had been going to
tell her how he had spent all yesterday evening decorating a tree for
them, but did not. He baulked. He continued to smile at her, fixedly -
because she was at him still - nodded, and raised the pin she had just
given him to motion with it, Toodlepip. He backed off a couple of paces
toward the stairs that lead down to the gym, but suddenly sensing there
was someone behind him he might bump into, wheeled around sharply,
apologised before realising that actually there was nobody. Pauline, of
course, saw and heard this. He rolled his eyes and gave himself an
admonishing single rap on the forehead with the pin. It hurt. He took
the stairs then, feeling just a little foolish.
Magnus did not allow himself to dwell on that. however. Following the
staircase around and down, instead he consciously recalled how much he
had been looking forward to using what was bound to be a
very-near-empty gym today. Most of the students having returned home
for Christmas, so he presumed, this last week there had been fewer
attending than usual even in the evenings. At this hour of the day, it
would be heaven! Not having to worry that others would beat him to the
equipment he wanted to use, then wait for them when they had. Not that
Magnus was any kind of sourpuss, who objected to working-in. It was
only ever the die-hards who did work-in, though, those five or six
young men whose schedules happened to coincide with his own and were as
dedicated to their routines as Magnus was to his. The others - the
one-offs, of course, of whom there were many, but the die-easies also,
those who would miss days for the slightest reason, or so he inferred -
never offered the use of equipment between sets. Between the die-hards
there was an understanding, the sort that existed only between men such
as themselves. They were men who by and large did not need to speak. A
resigned rolling of the eyes or an incredulous look askance said it all
when a die-easy was holding them up; or, patience exhausted waiting for
an -easy to finish - his umpteenth set of poorly performed unfocused
bench-presses say - maybe they would artfully suggest some improvement
or other on technique, thereby exposing the -easy, politely humiliating
him off of the equipment. But that would be the fullest extent of any
conversation. Once, having done just that to an -easy, one such
die-hard - in fact he was the biggest, most powerful-looking of all; he
shaved his head regularly and had large elaborate tattoos on his arms
and calves - had winked at Magnus, then actually invited him with a
gesture to work-in with him; would he spot for him? Magnus remembered
that day fondly, proudly. They shared a drive and determination, the
die-hards, that set them apart from other men.
And of course there was no such thing as a woman die-hard. This was not
a sexist generalisation, it was a conclusion drawn by observation and
personal experience. Magnus had joined the gym the very day his wife
had left him. In fact, he had gone for his induction whilst she packed
the last of hers and the children's things into her car. She might have
understood that he wouldn't want to be left standing on the doorstep
waving them off, he thought, but she had laughed when he said goodbye,
that disparaging laugh that had grown, it seemed, ever shriller down
the years, almost to the point of sounding manic by the end; it had
frightened the children. Well, isn't that just like you! she said. Of
course he had not risen to the bait. For the sake of peace, for the
children's sake, he had learned not to. He only thought how typical it
was of her to be sniping even on this their last day together. And
anyway, he knew what she had meant. He knew exactly. In many ways it
summed their marriage up, he thought, or its failure. Isn't that just
like you! meaning his knowing how to make the best of a situation
however bad, his never letting things get him down like she did. His
punctiliousness she called it bitterly. Over the few months before she
left he had begun to wonder in fact if she were not going a little mad,
the way her eyes would roll sometimes. Why, she had begun pulling at
her own hair on occasion. She said it herself; she was going mad! Yet
it was only his diligence - this was the word that he preferred for it
- that had kept them afloat all these years! Would she have been
happier for him not to have faced up to his responsibilities, when she
it was who had so desperately wanted a family in the first place?
Better for him not to have striven so, when security, stability,
comfort, et cetera was what a family needed? Yes! Her it was who'd
always said that; he the one who had provided those things, though! He
the one who had always worked when maybe he would have liked to stay at
home with the children; his wages that paid the mortgage and furnished
the home. He the one who'd had to keep order by the end because she no
longer thought that important! She was a woman! she said, as if that
ought to have exempted her from household duties. Home wasn't the shop!
she said. What did she care how good and tidy a shop he kept, how well
he was respected by his customers, his staff, his managing-directors?
She wanted to respect him! She wanted a man! Wasn't it that that it
always came back to? One who was responsive, for God's sake! She wasn't
a fitment; she wasn't a bloody Aga! And what did she mean by that? He
knew what she meant. He'd given her two children, hadn't he? Yes, but
thinking back on it, wasn't it a wonder how! And she couldn't see why
she should have to put up with it any longer.
No, there certainly wasn't such a thing as a woman die-hard, Magnus
thought. Only die-hards, only real true die-hards, would go to the gym
this early in the day on this day of all days. He looked at the tag on
his pin and read the number three. Two others here besides him then,
two others such as himself. Dedicated. He could not recall a time when
there had been fewer people. Thinking again this would be heaven, he
jumped the bottom three steps of the stairs and broke into a trot upon
landing, smiling at his own lightness of heart. That he could be so
carefree! But rounding the corridor he saw on his approach that, of all
the available lockers, one of these two men had chosen his. Standing
before it, the required and non-returnable twenty-pence piece in hand,
he felt aggrieved as though he had been cheated of something rightfully
his. Though he could laugh about it. He should. It wasn't, after all,
the first time it had happened. Perhaps it even boded well. A like mind
in more than just being a die-hard, he thought; and he chose the locker
next to it. Walking down the corridor, he glanced through the
head-height window down into the multi-gym and free-weights room. The
two of them were there, as, after all, was only to be expected. Once -
indeed, it was during his induction - Pauline had referred to this room
as the Big Boys' room; it was the favoured room of die-hards. These two
were young; students, putting off their returns home for Christmas for
the sake of their routines most probably. They were on the
Smith-machine, spotting for each other, and working-in. Magnus warmed
to them for that.
But he would not join them yet; he had to warm up first. Most people
didn't appreciate the importance of warming up and warming down. But
Magnus did. No strained or pulled muscle was going to put him out of
action. So, from the ante-room straight upstairs he went to the
cardio-vascular room, on to his favourite rowing-machine. Three minutes
only; but rowing worked the shoulders, arms and abs as well as the legs
- unlike the step-machines and bikes. Plus he always set the
resistance-gauge at maximum. 750 metres his target. Though today he
very quickly found himself struggling to meet that target. He told
himself that his body had not yet fully woken up, that at this early
hour you could not expect to be as sharp as you were later in the day.
It was not an excuse, it was a perfectly valid reason, yet no sooner
had he acknowledged the improbability of making up those twenty metres
that he had lost in the first minute than his mind began to
wander.
For Christmas, Magnus had bought little Peter his very own barbell,
dumbells, and weights. He hadn't been able to find a barbell less than
five feet long, but he had haggled with the sales-assistant, and for a
lower price taken a number of lighter plates in place of those which
came with the set ordinarily. Peter positively lionised Magnus. Flora,
on the other hand - older by two years - was becoming more and more
difficult with each visit, it seemed. She had recently taunted Magnus
that at school Peter had incurred the derision of his class-mates by
boasting that he, Magnus, could crack walnuts in the crook of his arm.
It was funny, she had said. They didn't even believe you could carry me
from the front-door to the kitchen hanging from your outstretched arm,
Peter said, pitiably. Magnus had ruffled the boy's hair, and told him,
What do they know! He had held his arm out rigid then, and carried
Peter, dangling from it, right through to the garden. There on the
lawn, the pair of them clasping each other's forearms tightly, he spun
him round and round, his feet flying out behind, until they both were
too dizzy to stand, had collapsed in a heap of laughter on top of one
another, Flora watching through the kitchen window. Magnus would have
to have a word with Flora. He wasn't going to have her undermining the
boy's confidence by ridiculing him for lifting weights.
Suddenly very out of breath, Magnus found that he had carried on rowing
past three minutes. He stopped, surprised at himself, and rested until
he had regained his breath sufficiently to head back downstairs to the
ante-room - or, as he could not help but think of the ante-room now,
housing the lighter equipment as it did, the Little Boys' room. At the
bottom of the stairs he could see straight through to the Big Boys'
room, and those two same young men were still bench-pressing, still
using the Smith-machine. Well, what does that matter? he thought. He
would be wanting to use it himself after working his abs, but he had
stretching to do before that, and he planned on stretching well. He did
so slowly, breathing deeply, observing his movements all the while in
the mirror at the far end of the ante-room - until, that is, time came
to perform the last of those exercises, which for modesty's sake, as
always, he turned around for. He did not want his raised backside to be
the first thing seen by anybody entering the gym. Back to the mirror,
the entrance to the Big Boys' room, then, he let his legs slide apart
as far as they would go, bent down to rest first the pads of his raised
fingers on the floor, his forearms, and finally his head. Along his
ribs and deep in each vertebrae, he still felt greater stiffness than
was usual; to maintain his balance, he had to breathe more consciously
than usual; close his eyes to help overcome the discomfort of the
blood-rush. However, he opened his eyes before raising himself, and
through his splayed legs had a view not only of his own backside in the
mirror, but, away to his right, in the entrance to the Big Boys' room,
something else. A presence, that startled him. He shot upright,
twisting nastily. It was the face of one of those two young men,
peering. It withdrew upon the instant, but Magnus heard, or thought he
heard then - how to be sure over that loud pop music they would insist
on piping? - laughter, pealing away into the distance. He must have
been mistaken. He must have imagined the laughter. But he stood there
awhile, still and looking over his shoulder, anyway, as if he thought
he might hear it again if he listened hard enough. Eventually satisfied
that he was mistaken - perhaps laughter was part of the song being
played - he shook himself out and made his way over to the abdominal
crunch-machine. He could not so easily shake away the image of that
face, however. Where could the impression have come from if it wasn't
real? It was a grinning face, impish, with a gap between its two front
teeth, and freckled - although, no, he couldn't be sure of that. He
crossed the floor to the crunch-machine (three quickly performed sets
of fifteen reps) then made his way over to the entrance of the Big
Boys' room.
Still the boys were at the Smith-machine, the seated one, in psyching
himself up, staring straight ahead so intently at his own reflection,
that you might have thought he were trying to crack the mirror with
that gaze - and what a set it would be! Magnus could not see how much
exactly, but judging by the number of plates the young man had on the
bar, and the size of them, it was an incredible amount he planned to
lift. Two or three reps at most, surely. But it was the other who
really stole Magnus' attention. Standing behind the machine, he was
dancing. Throwing out his arms in regular time, they might have been
attached to his shoulders by elastic, and there he'd go spinning on the
spot every couple of bars. Magnus expected him to stop when he saw that
he was being watched, but, not at all. He turned to look at Magnus over
his shoulder, and, raising his shoulder slightly, lowered his chin into
it almost coyly. Magnus glanced away quickly, and made his way down the
steps toward the multi-gym. The other boy was ready for his lift now.
Flat on the bench, he took a good wide grip on the bar, braced himself
against it. His partner stopped dancing, and bent down over him, Magnus
thought initially, naturally, in order to spot for him. But he took him
by surprise again. He put his mouth to the other boy's ear and
whispered something. Only then, as the other delayed his lift to turn
and take a good long look at Magnus, did it dawn on him that there was
no need for a spotter when using the Smith-machine. That was the point
of it: safety. The bar couldn't be dropped. The boy's face contorted.
He unhooked the bar, still looking at Magnus, and began to take the
strain.
It would have been bad form to stand and gawp any longer than he had
already, but from the multi-gym (the first of his usual three sets of
twelve vertical leg-raises) Magnus continued to watch in the mirror. He
counted the reps the boy performed, and did not realise until he'd
finished that in doing so had lost count of his own. He then dropped
down off the multi-gym, and found himself gawping despite himself. The
boys were swapping places. The one who had been dancing plucked the
other's baseball cap off his head and straightened it on his own before
seating himself. Now the other stood behind the machine, and he began
to shadow-box. Guard raised, he smartly ducked a blow, threw a
combination of his own that ended with a searing left upper-cut,
feinted this way and that, then threw another combination. There was
really no need for it. And the pair of them were wearing singlets,
Magnus noticed. How could he not have before? They were flesh-coloured!
Magnus performed his second set of leg-raises and tried again to ignore
them, in earnest this time, though how could he? The dancing,
now-hatless boy, was off-loading plates from the rack in readiness of
increasing the weight for his own next set, the other blowing harder
than anybody Magnus had ever seen preparing for a lift. It was absurdly
histrionic. Upon finishing, he whoop!ed so loud that Magnus leapt out
of his skin. The boy then tossed his cap high into the air behind him,
it landing some four or five yards distant, close to the
squat-rack.
Now Magnus felt anger. Plain and simple. He did not question its
nature. There was not time before it seized him. It rose up from his
stomach and lodged in his chest like a large hot knot of air. He fought
it, though. His spirit was generous. He should be smiling when he
approached them; be witty in letting them know: he had seniority here.
Instead of the boys, however, it was the squat-rack that he found
himself approaching, and this was not a piece of equipment Magnus had
ever used before. Why use the free-weights inside the squat-rack to
bench-press with when the multi-gym and Smith-machine were so much
safer? Some die-hards did, it was true, but only the most experienced,
only the very strongest, the biggest boys of all. Standing close to the
squat-rack he could at least pick the baseball cap up, and hand it back
to the boys. He did. Only neither seemed interested. Bent over and
resting on the Smith-machine bar again, facing the mirror, the boy who
had tossed it was gyrating his hips now, provocatively - as if, in
fact, right at Magnus. Magnus did have half a mind to ask just what the
hell he thought he was doing, but when he looked at his reflection, the
boy had his eyes closed; lost to the music, in a trance. It was the
direction of the other now-seated-again boy's gaze that drew Magnus'
own. For out of the mirror he was staring straight at Magnus, observing
him observing, and not smiling; he widened his eyes at him. It might
have been a threat.
Magnus did not know where to look. He turned the baseball cap over in
his hands, then tossed it back behind the squat-rack. He didn't know
what to think. All he knew was it was time for his incline
bench-presses; the multi-gym did not have an incline facility, and
these boys were going to be some time yet, obviously. Almost before he
knew it then, he found himself dragging over a nearby free bench to the
squat-rack and fumbling with its pin, trying to secure a suitable
incline. That done, he stepped back to take stock, and only then
realised just what he was letting himself in for. How much to load on
the barbell? He knew well enough that, for safety's sake, he ought to
begin with very little. Yet equally well, he knew that he would be
unable. Those two boys had so many kilos loaded on the Smith-machine,
he would look ridiculous pressing 5 k. plates; it didn't matter that he
was using free-weights, or that his bench was on an incline. So he
picked 10 k. plates. Then he changed his mind and went for 15s. He was
already in position, back flat against the bench, when it dawned on him
that the squat-stand's two chrome safety-bars were above the level of
the barbell at rest. Bench-pressing, it would crush him if he dropped
the bar. So, he simply would not allow himself to dwell on that. But
upon gripping the bar, in the act of pressing wouldn't he clatter the
safety-bars' undersides? They were neither low enough to protect him
nor high enough to perform the exercise beneath. There was no two ways
about it; he would look a fool for not having done so in the first
place, but he had to adjust them. Once back on his feet, however, he
could not help but be distracted. The dancing-boy was flinging his head
around wildly as well as his hips now, waving his arms overhead
furiously, and Magnus placed the second chrome safety-bar a notch
higher than the other. He nearly swore. Withdrawing it, it snagged. He
had to tease it out by rattling it - violently, in the end - and
neither did it want to fit into the right hole. He could have shaken
the rack, and kicked it. He very nearly did before eventually
succeeding.
He sat back down facing the wall - this one, thankfully, was not
mirrored - only before he did he had time enough to see that by now the
boys had finished bench-pressing, finished with the Smith-machine, and
wasn't that just typical! They were shaking hands, as if congratulating
one another, not, of course, as they should have been. That would have
been too straight forward, too normal. They were cracking their fists
together at the knuckles, clasping each other's thumbs, each other's
wrists; each crossing their arms, they clasped each other's forearms,
as if meaning now to dance with each other! Magnus did not wait to see
if they did. He had to focus. He wasn't focused, though. He gripped the
barbell, breathed in deeply and pressed. The barbell wavered above him.
He managed, just, to lock his arms. Yet still it wavered. He wondered,
if he brought it down to his chest, would he be able to re-lock his
arms? This was absurd, he thought. This surely was not happening. For
only at this point did he realise that at their new lower height, the
safety-bars were redundant; if he dropped the barbell, he would be
crushed anyway. It was like a dream going from bad to worse to worse
still. This is a squat-rack! he thought; there was no way of
bench-pressing safely! But inhaling more sharply, deeply, with every
second that passed, there was pride in the air; it began to swell him.
He recalled how in his teens, alone in his bedroom, he had only ever
used free-weights, and he had never had an accident then! Pride saved
him. He brought the barbell down, bounced it hard off the top of his
chest, and did indeed lock his arms. He did that a second time, then a
third. Then he rested. And despite himself, he was pleased. Yes, it was
a foolish thing to have done. And, yes, he understood that it was only
pride in the first place that had nearly been his undoing. But then it
had saved him. Pride was his good genius after all, his deliverer.
Where would he be if not for pride? So he did another set; and, feeling
that one to have gone even better than the first, another. It hurt like
hell, but what the hell!
And then upon finishing there was deflation, the chastening awareness
of his own disappointment. For looking over his shoulder, one of the
boys was too absorbed in his own seated dumb-bell-curls to have
noticed. The other was absent altogether. Yet no sooner had he felt
this shame than the absentee reappeared, came literally flying down the
steps from the ante-room, glissading as he landed, then performing one,
two, three entrechat before a pirouette, arms raised. There was another
leg-whipping movement Magnus recognised from his visits to the ballet
when it came to town, but did not know the name of, followed by a slow
arabesque. The boy finished facing Magnus directly, wearing an
expression that was ridiculously tragic, mocking. At that Magnus turned
to face the wall again, and prepared to do a fourth set. He could
justify it. Settling into position, he told himself that ordinarily he
would have performed three sets of six, anyway - if he were feeling
especially strong perhaps as many as eight; performing fewer reps, then
he really ought to up the number of sets. Though by the second rep, he
was struggling. He only just got the bar above head-height, and that by
bouncing it off the top of his chest far harder than he would have
liked. Locking his arms, it felt as though his front-deltoids would
burst. Before he could place the bar back on the rests, however, the
other boy, the non-dancing boy, had stepped around the squat-rack. He
stood directly in front of Magnus, coolly staring at him, not smiling,
not frowning, in fact conveying no emotion whatever - not until, that
is, Magnus felt sweat break out on his forehead and beads begin to
trickle down, tickling; then the boy's expression did change. He
appeared to grow intensely curious, and began to lean in on Magnus, as
if Magnus were something insentient, a thing of extraordinary abstract
interest. His young face, with barely a whisker on it, filled Magnus'
field of vision. Still supporting the barbell overhead, Magnus' arms
trembled; he could not put the thing down. Yet he heard it crash on to
the rests, and when he opened his eyes the boy was standing some
distance away, dusting down his cap on his thigh just as if nothing had
happened. The boy tossed the cap casually on to his head, and strolled
off around the other side of the squat-rack. Magnus was indignant, yet
stupefied. He turned around and stared at the pair of them, harder than
he had yet. The now-capped one had straddled the same bench that the
other now occupied, and from behind was assisting him with his
alternate dumb-bell curls. That was something Magnus had never seen
anybody do before. And those singlets were obscene!
Magnus stood, and walked a little shakily back up the steps to the
ante-room. It pained him to pass the multi-gym when he had been going
to use that next (flat bench-presses, then the pec-deck in the
ante-room) but he'd seen enough; and anyway - still justifying - hadn't
he strained all he should performing the inclines? He had. Still sore,
he sensibly even worked the pec-deck with lighter weights than he
ordinarily would have. He heard the laughter from the Big Boys' room,
and knew he should return to continue his routine, but remained seated,
staring at his own reflection. Eventually, having finished theirs, the
boys passed through the ante-room, heading out. The one without the cap
was crouched down low in a dumb show of capering servility, the other
striding with a slow and measured regal bearing, affecting an air of
indifference - as if it were beneath him even to acknowledge the
attention. As they drew closer, the boy in the role of simpleton and
subject caught Magnus' gaze in the mirror, and his own eyes brightened.
He appeared to be inviting Magnus to hop off the pec-deck and stand the
other side of the gym's exit to himself; the other boy could pass
between them, and they make obeisance together. Before Magnus could
respond, however - in whatever way he would have responded - the other
cuffed the slavish one around the head for being so foolish. Of course
Magnus would not want to make obeisance. He farcically booted him twice
up the arse, grabbed hold of his shoulders roughly and, the third time,
booted him clean out of the gym. He dusted himself down, then flicked
his head in such a way as to suggest that he really did not care for
Magnus' regard anyhow. Who in their right mind would? He drew a deep
breath, and in one stride was gone.
Magnus sat there all alone, still staring at his own reflection
blankly. The music stopped. That in itself was no great surprise. It
did sometimes, briefly. Some reccurring hiccup in the system. What
caused it, he did not know, and didn't care. But he told himself that
when it kicked in again, then he would get up off the pec-deck and make
his way back into the Big Boys' room; on this occasion, however, it
seemed that it would not kick in. The system had closed down
completely. There was the whirring-sound of the ventilators that Magnus
had not noticed before. Only when that would not alter its pitch or its
rhythm, then he got up. He did everything he was supposed to, even the
three sets of flat bench-presses that he had skipped to go straight to
the pec-deck; he worked his shoulders after that, and his lats after
that - using both the multi-gym and free-weights for both; a second
round of leg-raises then; and after that back again to the ante-room
for the abdominal crunch-machine. But still the music would not kick
in. He didn't even like it. It was popular music, trite and banal,
puerile, as he had tried to explain to Flora and Peter enough times.
Its absence, however, he had to admit, was affecting. Actually, it
drove his routine. Between sets of lat pull-downs, he found himself
wondering would another, a better man perhaps, go up to reception and
report its having cut out?; call Pauline by her name and make a joke of
it? He did not. He just wondered, would that better man? And neither
did he warm down. He began to (the first of his second round of
stretches after the crunch-machine) but when it came right down to it
he lacked the energy. Just the thought of a three-minute row after
stretching made him shudder inwardly, and ache. Perhaps, he thought, he
was sickening for something.
It felt odd leaving the gym so empty, so quiet. But then, halfway down
the corridor, whilst taking his bag and jacket out of the locker - that
wasn't his locker - something that struck him as more odd; there were
voices he noticed, singing, echoing, so that at first he could not be
sure from where the sound originated - possibly the badminton courts,
or from further along the corridor, the squash courts. But more
probably the changing rooms; and as he approached, he grew more sure of
that. It was coming from the showers. Eerily. It was a sound almost
other-worldly. And of course he knew who the singers were.
He closed the changing-room door behind him, and stood awhile with his
back against it, listening. One of the boys had now begun to howl, and
although Magnus would not have thought before this moment that a howl
could be described as tuneful, tuneful it was; it complemented the
other boy's singing perfectly. Coming in fortissimo at the end of each
slow bar, yet fading away throughout the next, it was a howl that
coloured the melody beautifully, mournfully. Magnus knew the tune - it
rang a distant bell - but quite where from he could not think. He did
not recall its name. He sat on the bench with his back to the
shower-room wall and was glad when from within the boys struck up
another round. Steam came rolling in dense swathes out of the showers,
and he began slowly to undress as he felt it enveloping him. His skin
began to prickle. The boys began another round, and sliding into the
flip-flops he wore to guard against verrucas, with shampoo and
shower-gel in hand, Magnus made his way in to join them; he paused,
however, on the threshold, and did not. He was not sure he had the
right. Perhaps he had known all along they would be; they were soaping
each other down. The howling boy's eyes were closed, his head was back,
the tendons in his neck taut. As he raised his arms for the other to
lather under, his back broadened over his narrow hips and waist. Magnus
saw the muscles under his skin squirm. He saw the expression on his
face change as again he loosed that sorrowful howl. It drew on Magnus;
a slow unwinding of something tight inside of him that, after all, he
was glad to have unknotted and loosened. The boy rested his cheek on
the other's shoulder as he soaped the small of his back for him. The
gesture was returned. Their shoulders then, the napes of their necks,
their loins. Magnus stood rooted to the spot. He could not tell one boy
from the other. They were alike - he already knew - but now it seemed
they melded. Whose arms were whose, whose legs; their torsos fused;
their faces, too. The air around him was so hot that Magnus could
barely draw breath. The wall-tiles spun; he thought he would faint. He
felt his way along the changing-room wall outside of the showers back
to the bench. Again, he told himself those boys were bad news. By his
feet, however, lay one of their singlets, and he picked that up, and
held it to his face. Only then did the name of their song come to him.
It was a tune from so long ago, it seemed, it could have been another
life. Standing on a terrace overlooking the play of the moon on the
C?te d'Azur his wife had hummed it. They were on their honeymoon. She
was a shy, timid thing in those days, still so easy to flatter and
ready to blush. He had slipped his arm inside hers and told her that
they neither of them would ever have to sing that song again; the
defining moment of his life, he had thought. And then the boys stopped
their singing.
No sooner had Magnus realised this, however, than they were in the
changing-room with him, singing again, that same song but with words
now, and to a faster tempo, raucously, and each of them changing key on
a whim. Such a cacophany Magnus had never heard before in all his life.
It set his heart pounding; and they were cavorting! Around and around
the changing-room they went, slapping their wet feet on the tiles. One
of them was tromboning crazy flourishes, the other clashing cymbals.
Alternately they started turning somersaults and back-flipping like
clockwork toys that had been synchronised. They both flipped into
handstands and began chasing each other around, leg-wrestling when they
got close enough, and gnashing their teeth. One of them flipped back on
to his feet and reaching behind, over his shoulders, grabbed the
other's ankles; the one down below grabbed his. They began rolling
then, around and around the changing-room like the rim of a wheel
without a hub or spokes. They gathered speed, and Magnus feared they
would crash into him. As in the showers, he could not tell where one
began and the other ended. They passed him in a blur, yet, fixed grins
on their faces, he clearly saw the gaps between each of their two front
teeth, their mottled irises. And back they came again. He was sweating
so, he may as well have showered; he could not dry himself quick
enough. He tried to pull his trousers up; the material clung. He yanked
at them. Their button then, to his astonishment, dismay, burst free
from the fabric. He watched. It soared up and away in a high arc across
the changing-room, glinting unreally as it spun. It seemed to Magnus as
though it never would stop spinning. Even when it landed, finally, in
the middle of the changing-room floor still it would not stop. He could
hear it on the tile, still spinning. It was deafening. When it did stop
and there was silence still he could hear it.
The boys were motionless, too, frozen as though in a tableau, side by
side, both so intent on that button that it might have been a piece of
Magnus' person flown free, they would pounce on. They each looked at
the other, then at Magnus, then back at the button. One of them then
prompted the other, shoving him gently forward. He walked over to where
the button lay, picked it up, and held it out to Magnus, smiling,
timidly at first, unsure he ought to be, but as Magnus reached out and
took the button from him the smile broadened. Magnus could not help
then, but feel that after all it was a rare and lovely smile. Beads of
water trickled down the boy's cheeks and caught in the creases either
side of his mouth. Another bead he blew off the tip of his nose; he
smiled all the more broadly when he had, all the more ingenuously.
Magnus had forgotten he was holding a singlet; he'd been using it to
dry himself with. The boy gently prised the thing out of Magnus' hands.
But that was OK. No offence taken. The boy returned with it to his
partner on the other side of the changing-room, and both began to towel
themselves dry.
Magnus watched. He thought that he really ought to say something to
show his appreciation. "You boys!" he began. "You know, you boys might
want to consider warming up and down a little more thoroughly than you
do." He heard his voice more timorous than he would have liked, but was
committed now; they had both looked up at him with quizzical
expressions on their faces. "You wouldn't want to injure yourselves,"
he said.
They glanced at each other, and it seemed to Magnus that the boys came
to some sort of understanding about him. He was unsure what that
understanding was exactly, but they both gave him a nod. He pulled his
trousers all the way up, and put the button away in his pocket to sew
back on later. Thank heavens he'd brought a belt! Fully dressed, he
gathered together his things, and was ready to leave. In the doorway,
however, a thought occurred to him that stopped him. The boys politely
paused in their towelling once again, to give him their full attention,
and this is what he said: "My name is Magnus Pearson. I'm manager of
Wickers, the in-town country homeware store. If there's anything you
ever need from Wickers, please, please don't hesitate to ask. Ask for
me personally."
As one, again they nodded. He had feared they would not understand.
Bowing, Magnus backed out of the door, pulled it to, and took the
winding stair back up to reception where Pauline should have been, but
wasn't. In a quandary, he waited awhile, peered down the corridor along
the balcony that overlooked the squash-courts, then over his shoulder
into the Sports Centre Office. There was no sign of anybody. He thought
perhaps he should call out. His membership card was clipped to the
pin-rack on the other side of the counter, with no way to it other than
through a door marked Staff Only. But he did not call out. He laid his
pin on the counter, took one last look around the foyer, wistfully
almost - as you might a place you have been fond of, but to which you
do not expect ever to return - turned his collar up, buttoned up, and
left.

Back home, the house was silent.
Magnus poured himself a glass of water from the filter-jug that he kept
filled in the fridge, and, whilst drinking, saw by the silent
kitchen-clock that he had bought himself for his last birthday, three
months ago, that it wasn't yet eleven. Two hours before the earliest
his wife - his ex-wife; he would have to get used to calling her that
before too long - had said she could drop the children off. He would
open the door and there they would be, laughing. In their arms will be
the presents they'll bring from their other home, Magnus thought, their
mother's home, hers, her parents' and her brother's and her sister's
presents for them - and more than likely there would be more than that!
It was embarrassing the numbers they received. They would both be
talking at the same time, trying to tell him their different things.
Waving his wife off, he would usher them through to the living-room
where the Christmas tree with its flashing lights of different colours
waited, exactly where they had always put it. But then, he wondered,
what if they didn't come armed with tens of presents? Up until now, he
had taken it for granted that they would; he hadn't considered they
mightn't. But he clearly heard his wife's voice now - wasn't it just
the kind of thing she'd say? This year, you'll be having two
Christmases . . . Around the tree, in that case, there would be only
those presents that he himself had bought them, Peter's barbell,
dumbells and weights, exercise chart included, Flora's whatever it
was.
He pulled out a chair from the table, and sat down heavily. They would
be so disappointed, naturally. What if they had anticipated a dearth of
presents at his house and didn't want to come?; they were only coming
because they thought they ought to? Of course they would rather be
spending Christmas with their mother's family, their cousins of the
same age. Watching the clock - as it did not tick - Magnus found that
he was listening hard then, because over the silence, that same old
tune was obtruding itself. He stopped abruptly, annoyed with himself.
For it was as if by humming it, he might be admitting to a sympathy
with its sentiments - and it was kitsch! It repulsed him. But then the
thought struck, so what? What if he did identify with it? Didn't his
knowing that he did only go to prove that he needn't?
He stood suddenly, and checked his wallet; of course in town there
would be toy shops open still.