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For Your Information: In English public schools 'Fag' doesn't mean gay, or homosexual. A Fag is a junior boy who works for a senior. Duties include cleaning, cooking and running errands. The pay is pocket money.

*****

Even in the brightness of the late summer afternoon, the house bathroom, with its six old iron claw-feet baths, was bleak, uninviting, and cold: the canary lemon walls and quarry-tiled floor only adding to its atmosphere.

The house captain's immutable rota ensured cleanliness, and though I'd already had a shower after games, weekly baths were still compulsory for juniors and intermediates. That's not to say there weren't visual benefits if you were careful, and I was looking at one about to run his bath when Frant appeared in the doorway.

"Three inches only, boys! I'll be checking!"

"Still? Oh! Not still, Frant!" Purbright said, sitting on the edge of his bath by the taps. He was naked, except for a towel wrapped around his waist, and was considered one of the 'juicier' juniors. "The drought was last term," he continued, his voice annoyingly whiny. "Three inches? Oh! Purleeease, Sir!"

"Don't be cheeky, Purbright!" Frant said, his eyes roaming the room, studiously avoiding us. "Three inches is the school rule, as well you know."

David Frant had been made a prefect at the end of the last term. He used to be one of the more decent seniors. I thought I got on with him rather well; thought I was more than just his Fag. In fact, I'd thought I was his friend. I say 'was', because he'd cut me dead on the first day of term, and, except for orders, he hadn't really spoken to me since.

"How about six inches, Frant?" I said, waggling my eyebrows and digging Purbright in the ribs with my elbow, which made us both laugh. Frant flushed.

"I've warned you, Catvern," he said, striding into the bathroom and clipping me around the ear. "Detention, both of you!" he glowered, then stormed out.

Feeling hard done-by and angry, I padded to the doorway and watched him disappear into his study and slam the door: the sound reverberating off the linoleum and painted brickwork of the long corridor. I rolled my eyes at Purbright in commiseration, and counted under my breath. I'd got to nine when Frant's study door opened again.

"Catvern!" The door slammed again. I sighed and looked at Purbright and the row of baths.

"I tell you what, Purby, you can have my three, okay?"

"Oh … thanks, Catvern. If you're sure?"

"Yes, I'm sure I'm sure," I said, watching him put the plug in and turn on the hot water. "I'll take a shower."

"CATVERN!" Frant bellowed. I made sure my towel was secure, then walked to his study and knocked, opening the door and going in before he had a chance to answer.

"Yes?"

"Shut the door." I did as I was bid, and stood at ease; hands behind my back. Frant was sitting at his desk, clicking his nails. He looked nervous.

"Why did you cheek me, Algy?"

"I … umm … I don't think I did." On the 'think I did' my voice chose to crash from tenor to treble and back again. It infuriated me, since I had no control over it. Frant smiled, which infuriated me even more. "Alright, so I did. But having a 'three inches of bathwater' rule is stupid! You said so yourself, last term, and now … now you're enforcing it!"

"Sit down, Algy." He blinked, straightened his trousers, and crossed his legs. I perched on the arm of his one armchair, and frowned at him. He'd always been kind, if rather aloof and distant. It wasn't as though I'd had a lot to do with him except work as his Fag, but he'd always treated me decently, and helped me with my homework. "Last term I wasn't a prefect: now I am, and as you know, rules are rules."

"Yes, but …."

"No 'buts', Algy! Rules are rules!"

"Do I still have to do detention?" I said, with a whine: my voice staying where it belonged. He pursed his lips, his eyes roaming over my partly clad body.

"If I let you off, I have to let Purbright off too, and I can't be seen as weak."

"Can't?" I said, switching to a pleading tone. "Look, Sir. I wouldn't say a word, and I'll make sure Purbright knows. He's okay. 'sides which, there was no one else around, anyway." Frant tutted, and shook his head.

"It's 'besides', not ''sides', and no: I won't let you off detention. You have to learn not to be cheeky." I crossed my hands and put them in my lap. The way he was looking at me was beginning to cause problems.

"But …."

"No 'but' about it. You both laughed at a prefect, and that warrants detention." He turned back to his desk. "Now go and fetch my tea, Al … Catvern." I left feeling ill-used and rather bemused, went to my dorm and put on a tracksuit.

I was waiting for the kettle to boil, larking around in the kitchen with Mike Goody, when we heard a tremendous scream, followed by a huge splash. Wide-eyed, we looked at each other, then legged it, arriving just as a furious and soaking wet Frant pulled an hysterical and naked Purbright out into the corridor by his hair.

"I said three inches, and you run six!" Frant sputtered picking the boy up by his arms and holding him against the wall. "Three inches is not six damn inches!" he screamed in Purbright's face, "and then …," he panted, "then you have the temerity to push me in the bath … ME! A PREFECT!" He threw Purbright back to the floor, and stalked off towards his study.

"But Catvern said …," Purbright started. I winced, wishing he'd shut up. Frant turned on his heel.

"Catvern? Catvern said what? Is he a prefect? Hmm?" He was standing back over the unfortunate Purbright, red in the face and shaking with anger. "Well, answer me, you stupid little pleb … well?"

"N …no, Frant," Purbright said, huddled over as close to the wall as he could get, his thin goose-pimpled arms crossed, trying to cover his groin. Frant stood there, still angry, but with an unreadable expression. It was an odd moment of quiet, and somehow reminded me of a Renaissance painting. I memorised the scene so I could sketch it later.

Into the tableau through the front door came Mister Wiggins, our Housemaster. He was generally well-liked and considered fair, but because he was my Uncle Clive's best friend, I liked him more than most. Pulling Goody backwards by his shirt-sleeve into our dormitory, I partly closed the door. We watched with bated breath as Mister Wiggins came to a stop, and saw one of his new prefects soaked to the skin, standing over a wet and naked junior. He coughed.

"Problem? Frant? Purbright?" he inquired mildly.

"No, Sir," they said in unison.

"Hmm …. Carry on then." He walked on, winking at me as he passed the dormitory door. I'd just turned to whisper to Goody when I saw his eyes open wide, and a hand descended on my shoulder.

"A word if you'd be so kind, Catvern," Mister Wiggins said.

"Yes, sir," I said, and followed him to his study, aware of the expression of commiseration on Goody's face.

Daniel Wiggins had been Housemaster since the winter term, and it was the first time I'd been called in to his study. I waited as he took off his robe and hung it on a Bentwood coat rack behind the door. Then he walked behind his desk and threw his mortarboard like a discus. It landed with precision on top of the robe. It was magical: like James Bond, and I almost clapped. He sat down, the old desk chair creaking at the insult.

"Catching fish, Algy?" He pointed at a chair in front of his desk.

I closed my mouth, blinked, and sat down.

"So, what's up with David?"

"D … D … David, sir?"

"Yes, David Frant. You're his Fag, aren't you?"

"Yes, I am, Sir. Umm … nothing, Sir. I think it was to do with the three-inch bathwater rule."

"Ah, yes … that." He got up and opened the window, which gave me a chance to look around. He was my uncle's age, and according to my mother they'd been best friends since prep school. It had been a shock when I'd learnt he was going to be my Housemaster, yet in all the time he'd been there, I'd only talked to him at home during the holidays. His office was more like a senior's study with added filing cabinets; though there was a fridge in the corner, and a kettle and mugs.

"Would you like a cup of tea, Algy?" he said, changing the topic. "Or I've got a soft drink, if you'd rather."

"Yes please, Sir, Coke if you have it, please," I said, hoping no one was ear-wigging at the door.

"Help yourself, and switch the kettle on while you're at it, please."

"Yes, Sir," I said, going to the fridge.

"When we're alone you can drop the 'Sir' and call me Daniel, if you'd rather, Algy," he said, sounding rather sad. Then he smiled. "I'm sure your Uncle Clive would be laughing at us, if he were here."

"Yes … Sir," I said. He chuckled. I switched on the kettle, and popped the tab on my can.

"Anyway, I have a couple of questions and a favour to ask." I sat down and looked at him. I was quite a good artist, and could tell I'd been right: he was sad.

"I have …." He paused, then seemed to pull himself together. He'd been slouched in his chair; now he sat up straight. "I've …." He paused again to pull a hankie out of his pocket and blow his nose. "I've fallen out with your uncle, Algy, and I'd like your help to … to get back in touch."

"My help?" I squeaked, the fizzy drink spluttering out of my nose.

*****

I had a shower, got dressed, and was sitting on my bed in the dormitory in a daze, when Goody plonked himself down next to me.

"So?" he said, prodding me in the arm. "What happened?" I looked at him blankly, too wrapped up with thoughts of what Mister Wiggins had said to get into the swing of lower fifth politics.

"Oh, we talked. About home, actually." He blinked at me.

"Ah, sorry I shouldn't pry …." He waited expectantly.

"No, you shouldn't." I grinned at him, then frowned, remembering Frant's tea. "Damn! Frant's gonna …."

"I made it for you," Goody said, tapping me lightly on the shoulder. I tapped him back, as it dawned on me what a good friend he really was. We'd lived in the same dormitory for two years, and I decided I shouldn't play games or pretend to take him for granted, anymore.

"Goody … I mean, look … do you mind if I call you by your Christian name … Mike?" The smile he gave me made any worries melt away.

"No, I don't … Algy!"

"Thanks."

We were giggling like a pair of loons when Frant called my name, and it shattered the moment.

I sighed, got up, and tucked in my shirt.

"I'll be back in a while."

"Okay, Algy, just …." He stopped and looked away, and I could see he was trying to hide the fact he was blushing.

"What, Mike?"

"Oh, it's just that … well … please be careful, will you?" I frowned. I wasn't naïve, and I knew what he meant. I sat back down on the bed and looked at him.

"Why, Mike?" I said, resting my hand on his arm. He looked at me, and I saw a look I'd dreamt of, but had never supposed for a minute I'd ever see.

"Have you … umm … have you paid attention to the way he looks at you?" Mike said, leaving his arm where it was.

I sighed and shut my eyes. I was constantly being told by my mother that I would be a great catch for any girl, and I'd always laughed at her. Then, over the last holidays, I'd come to the conclusion that I'd never want to be caught by a girl. Ever. I was gay. I knew it. I was gay, and it didn't bother me. What bothered me was what I was going to do about it: relationships being rather more than friendship.

"Yes, I have Mike," I said, opening my eyes. "And yes, before you ask, I know what it means." I swallowed nervously, then pursed my lips. Mike Goody was on a rung of the ladder I'd never thought I could attain. He'd been a friend for a long while, and though I'd imagined other things, I'd never in my wildest flights of fancy believed they could ever come true. Yet here he was, seemingly giving me all the right signals. It felt like an age, though it was probably closer to seconds that we looked at each other before I plucked up the nerve to ask him again: "Why?"

He audibly gulped, then ran his tongue lightly around his lips and stood up, turning a hundred and eighty degrees as he looked over my cubicle wall, checking the dormitory for other people. Then he sat back beside me on the bed, leant over, and briefly, oh so briefly, kissed me on the lips.

I couldn't believe it. I was in shock; I was in heaven. Blissful, wonderful heaven. We were floating on a cloud together, this Adonis made flesh and I. I found I was blinking rapidly and had to force myself to stop.

"Umm …," I began, then stopped. I wanted to pinch myself, but that would have looked stupid: and still Mike was sitting there, watching me. I fumbled for the right thing to say and saw he was getting more and more anxious.

"Umm …," I repeated, inwardly cursing myself for a befuddled fool, yet still unable to string a sentence together. "I, umm …."

"I'm sorry," he said, looking forlorn and getting to his feet. "I thought that …." I grabbed his wrist and shook my head violently.

"No. No! No, no! It's me that should say sorry," I said. "I'm just so amazed and gob-smacked that I don't know what to say. I mean why? Why me? You're just so … so … and here I am just … well, you know … pretty useless and all that, and I can't," I said, pulling him back down on the bed. "I can't understand it." I stopped and took a deep breath. My heart was thumping at close to a thousand beats a minute and I thought I was going to faint. "You're not pulling my leg, are you, Mike?"

His anxious expression was overtaken by a huge grin.

I closed my eyes and let my sense of touch take over. His lips and mouth were sweeter and more beautifully formed than any I'd ever kissed. With the thought, I started to laugh. I'd never kissed anyone before. Mike broke away, his hands doing things to my lower body they had no right to be doing. We were on a cloud that creaked with old and overstretched bedsprings: on a cloud that wasn't helping as far as allowing us space to adjust engorged body parts.

During the last term I'd read a 'personal story' in the back of a magazine wherein a man 'spooged' in his underwear. I had had no idea what 'spooged' meant, so I'd asked, and the whole dormitory had had a good laugh at my expense. Then they'd all agreed that spooging in your underwear would be pretty uncomfortable. Now I could tell them they were right.

"Stop!" I gurgled, but it was too late.

I was working out quite what to do, and Mike was hooting at my perturbed expression, when the dormitory door slammed open and Frant stormed in, red-faced.

"Benefit of the doubt! I give you the benefit of the doubt time and time again, and you continue to cheek me!" he said, grabbing me by the ear and dragging me off my bed. "When I call you, you come, do you hear, you snotty little pleb? You're my Fag, and I …."

"I quit," I said, squirming out of his grip. Lower fifths were not obliged to Fag, and I was only doing it for the additional pocket money. He grabbed at me again, and I jumped back out of his reach. "I'm lower fifth now, in case you'd forgotten, Frant. And I quit! Rules, as you keep telling me, are rules!"

"What's he been saying to you?" Frant said, glowering at Mike, who was still sitting on the bed looking positively angelic.

"Nothing," I said, in as calm a voice as I could muster. "He said nothing to me about anything that concerns you."

"Detention then, both of you," Frant said, his face contorted in anger.

"I don't think so, Frant, do you?" Mister Wiggins said from the doorway. "I heard the door slam, and came to investigate. Giving detention to your ex-Fag and his friend seems rather un-gentlemanly. Don't you think, Frant?"

Frant was visibly shaking, though I was the only one to see him clench his fists. He seemed to calm down, and before going back to his study he apologised to Mister Wiggins, Mike, and me. Watching him walk away, I was convinced it wasn't going to be forgotten.

*****

The following weekend was a school holiday, and I invited Mike Goody to come home with me. My mother picked us up from the station.

"Anything planned for the weekend, boys?" she said, as we queued to get out of the car park.

"Not really, mum," I said, "though we might catch a movie tomorrow. Umm … is Uncle Clive at home?" She paid the attendant, and waited while he gave her a receipt and the barrier went up.

"Why, sweetie?" I could tell by the tone of her voice she knew something was up. We turned onto the dual carriageway and she put her foot down.

"Oh … no reason, I just wanted to ask him something," I said, watching Mike out of the corner of my eye while he checked his seatbelt. I loved my mother's driving. She wasn't typical, or so my father said, and had got her advanced licence. Slowing just enough so she didn't get picked up by the speed camera, we made eighty-five before she had to slow for our turnoff. Both she and I 'whooped' with exhilaration, while Mike sat silent and white-faced. I was prodding him in the ribs and giggling when we pulled into the drive.

My mother switched off the car and turned around. "Yes, he's home, and he's miserable. So if you have any news that'll cheer him up I'd be more than grateful. And if you two have anything you'd like to say …?" I realised what she must have been thinking, and the blood rushed to my cheeks. I shook my head, opening the door.

"Come on, Mike, shake a leg, otherwise mum'll take you to work with her," I said, laughing as he grabbed his bag and got out of the car at lightning speed. "Thanks, Mum," I said. She smiled at us, waved, and, with a squeal of rubber, left for work. ***

We dumped our bags in the hall and I noticed Mike still looked a little white around the gills. I patted him on the back in commiseration.

"Your mother's quite mad. You do know that, Algy, right?" Mike said, scratching his head as I took him through to the kitchen. "I mean, not 'mad' mad … but blimey!"

"Yeah," I said. Grinning, I sat him down at the counter and started rooting in the fridge. "She's totally barking when it comes to cars. But we love her for it anyway."

"Love who for what?"

"Cee!" I said as my Uncle wandered in. He looked a lot like I would probably do in ten years' time, or so everyone told us. Neither he nor I were impressed, and thought we looked nothing like each other. "Mike's just discovered mum's driving, Cee. Oh, sorry, introductions! How remiss of me. Mike, this is Cee, my uncle Clive. Uncle Clive, this is Mike Goody, my best friend."

Mike stood up and they shook hands. "Nice to meet you, Mike," Cee said, "it's not often Squirt brings friends home." I groaned at the soubriquet.

It's nice to meet you too, Sir," Mike replied with perfect manners, and mouthed 'Squirt' at me.

"It's Clive, please. Call me 'Sir' and I'll have to kill you." I rolled my eyes at them both, went back to the fridge and got out the makings for sandwiches.

We had lunch, and all through it I could tell that although he was putting on a brave face for my friend, Cee was hurting: and I knew why. The trouble was going to be talking to him about it. But then I'd promised. I was miles away, working out what to say and how to say it, when I realised it had gone very quiet. Both Mike and Cee were looking at me as if I'd grown horns.

"What?" I said, frowning.

"Nothing," Mike said. "I was just wondering who you were, and what you'd done with Algy, my loud-mouthed school friend."

"I'll leave you two boys to it, then," Cee said, getting up. "At least I get out of doing the washing up now you're back, Squirt."

"Only here for the weekend, Cee," I said, wagging my finger him. "Then it'll be back to the grindstone with you." He raised his eyebrows and waved, padding off to his basement flat.

"He's nice," Mike said, looking at me over the dirty plates on the countertop. There was a moment of silence as we looked at one another, the ticking of the electric clock on the cooker the only distraction.

"Yah … he is," I said, "but you're …." I heard myself swallow what I'd been about to say, and felt a shiver run up my spine. What was I thinking? I'd invited Mike home to get to know him away from school, not to seduce him: as if I'd even know how. "Umm … I have to go and talk to Cee for a minute, Mike," I said, trying not to look at his mouth. "So do you mind if I leave you with the dreaded tube?" I watched him bite his bottom lip and shake his head.

"No, I'll be fine, and thanks for lunch … Squirt." I winced.

"Umm …." He smiled.

"Squirt here: Algy back there?" he said. Slowly, smiling, I nodded. "Or was it the other way around?" Vehemently I shook my head, and we both laughed.

"I'll be back in a little while, okay?" I said walking around the counter and briefly touching his shoulder.

"Yep," Mike said, sliding off the stool. "But sod the 'tube'. I'll be exploring your garden." We grinned at each other, then I went to see my Uncle.

My mother's younger brother, was openly Gay, though you'd not know it if he didn't tell you. He'd explained in to me by saying 'It's nobodies business but mine, though if I'm asked I'll never deny it.'

He called himself a multimedia artist, which meant he did pretty much as he liked and got away with it. His last exhibition had been a large video installation that had had a lot of interest from the major galleries and collectors, though as far as I was aware he hadn't sold it yet. Apart from everything else I was looking forward to seeing what he was working on. Normally he'd have talked about it over lunch, but walking downstairs to his flat I realised that he hadn't mentioned art at all. I knocked and pushed the door open.

Cee's flat was the whole basement of the house. He had a bathroom, bedroom and kitchen, while the rest was an open plan studio, with an edit suite, and a couple of couches in the corner by a large floor to ceiling window that looked out over the garden. The space was large enough to shoot videos for bands, as he had on numerous occasions while I was growing up.

When I walked in he was sitting cross legged in the middle of the floor, surrounded by photographs. There was a large pile of boxes against the wall, and nothing else. I sat down facing him and he looked at me, his expression a mask, hiding the hurt I knew he was feeling.

"Well, Squirt?" he said, picking up a photograph, and smiling before he put it back in a different place. He glanced at me again. "You've grown you know, but then you don't need to be told that by me."

"Nearly an inch," I said, "since last term."

"Yeah? An inch … hmm … I'd have said more." He picked up another photo, looked at it, then put it next to the last one. I looked down and came close to laughing.

I'd been worried about how to broach the subject, yet strewn all over the floor was the perfect opportunity.

"Why do you have hundreds of photos of Daniel, Cee?" I said. "You're not becoming a perve, are you?"

"According to some I've always been a perve, Squirt," he said, twisting around to pick up a photo from behind and adding it to the recent pile.

"Cee?"

"Uh huh?"

"It's really okay, 'cause Daniel loves you." My uncle froze, and while I waited for him to thaw I became aware of the peace and quiet as never before. One of the windows was open a little, and the sound of birdsong and distant traffic made up the background over which scatted the thud - thud - thud rhythm of my heart. My uncle Cee and Daniel would be alright. I knew it, though I had no idea how I knew it. Still, it was a feeling that was rock solid in its certainty. In the same vein I let my mind wander to an image of Mike Goody upstairs, or out in the garden, or wherever he was. I smiled as I pictured him, then thought about Frant. Frant: who I'd Fagged for for two years, who I'd thought was my friend. Why had he suddenly changed towards me? Was it because of me, or because he'd …?

"How can you say that, Algy?" Cee said, interrupting my train of thought. "How can you play with me like this? Your mother must have …."

"He's my Housemaster, Cee," I butted in. "He called me into his study and told me so himself."

*****

I'd like to say that Mike Goody and I became a couple, and lived happily ever after: but I can't. We were both horny and attracted to boys, which wasn't surprising, as boys-only boarding schools tend to send you that way at a rate of knots. That weekend and term we had a lot of fun. Then the next term the school introduced girls, and Mike found his true calling. Personally I never understood it, but Mike, who I still see from time to time, and who has a wife and four children, did: obviously. Though he says he doesn't regret a minute of 'it'.

Frant was torn apart by his sexuality, and obsessed. That weekend he tried to take his life. Consequently he didn't return to school, and we never spoke again. Like the others in my house I only knew the gossip, and it wasn't until years later that Daniel told me what had happened. Frant had taken a handful of his mother's pills and left a note claiming that his unrequited love of me was the cause.

Cee and Daniel are still together, and growing old disgracefully. Cee became very successful, and while I was at University Daniel gave up teaching, to become his agent.

My mother still drives like a lunatic, which I love. Of course, she knew all about Mike and me.

And me? Well, that's another story.

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