Clive had made a little clubhouse in the attic from various chairs and lamps.
We would sometimes play at marriage.
We lay on the floor.
I looked over at him. He was a handsome boy, in the English way.
Blue eyes and creamy skin.
I rolled over and kissed his pink lips.
He flew into a rage. He said that it was depraved and I should never do anything like that again.
He rushed out and slammed the door behind him.
I next saw him years later. He’d grown much taller and even more handsome.
I didn’t think he would want anything to do with me, but he beckoned me over.
He told me he was to start Eton in the fall. He was nervous about it.
told him that Eton was a very good school and I was sure he’d be fine there.
In a strange dead voice he told me that most of the time he couldn’t really feel anything, that he only pretended to feel things.
He could imitate people laughing, crying, being happy, but inside he felt numb.
He said I was his only friend, the only human being with whom he’d ever felt a connection.
You see, he was raised by the servants. A lonely boy, but so wealthy that it was difficult to feel sorry for him.
His father inherited the title, as he would in his time.
He said he wanted to show me something very special to him, but he was afraid I wouldn’t understand.