for a gin and tonic.
Connolly understood all this, I think. I don’t mean that he would have been able to articulate, or even to consciously formulate, the role that class played in his relationship with Sheba. But that he sensed the anthropological dimension of Sheba’s interest in him and played up to it, I have no doubt. When describing his family and home to Sheba, he seems to have been at pains to leave her naïve notions of prole mores intact. He told her about his family’s holiday caravan in Maldon, Essex, about his mother’s part-time job as a dinner lady and his father’s job as a taxi driver—but he omitted to mention that his mother held a college diploma or that his father was a history buff with a special interest in the American Civil War. These facts, now that they have emerged in the papers, are so astounding to Sheba—so at odds with the cartoon thugs she had been encouraged to envisage—that she chooses either to ignore them or to dismiss them as lies. In a recent newspaper interview, Connolly’s mother mentioned that, when her children were young, she and her husband often played them recordings of Swan Lake and Peter and the Wolf . Sheba threw the paper down when she got to this bit. Mrs. Connolly was lying, she said—trying to make her son’s home life seem more wholesome and happy than it was. “Steven’s father hits him, you know,” she shouted at me. “He beats him. She doesn’t mention that, does she?”
This accusation is based on something that Connolly told Sheba once, at the beginning of their relationship. Sheba has spoken of this conversation often because Connolly’s claim about his father’s violence—true or not—prompted her first gesture of intimacy towards the boy. It was at the end of winter
term. Connolly had come to see her in the studio, and the two of them were looking out of the window at the darkening playground, discussing the possibility that it might snow. Connolly mentioned that snow always put his father in a bad mood. When Mr. Connolly “had the hump,” he added, he often hit him. Sheba was not particularly surprised by this admission. She had watched several made-for-television dramas about domestic violence and considered herself well-acquainted with council-house brutality. She murmured something consoling to Connolly. And then she reached out and rubbed his head. When her fingers came away, strands of his hair rose up with them in an electric spray. Sheba laughed and made a lighthearted comment about the static in the air that day. Connolly closed his eyes and smiled. “Do that again, Miss,” he said.
Prior to this incident, Sheba had occasionally wondered about the extent of Connolly’s sexual experience. Fourth-year males at St. George’s vary pretty widely in their level of sexual sophistication. Some are still at the stage of giggling about “the come tree” in the headmaster’s garden (a cyclamen so called because its scent bears an alleged resemblance to the smell of semen). Some brag about receiving “blow jobs” and “finger-fucking” girls. And then there are others who make convincing reference to their experience of sexual intercourse. Sheba had no way of knowing for sure where Connolly fit on this spectrum, but she had been inclined to place him at the innocent end of the scale. Not technically a virgin, perhaps, but still fundamentally inexperienced. Now, something about his smile—the confident way he commanded her to touch him again—made her revise her original estimation.
Sheba declined to repeat the gesture. It was time for her to go home, she told him. She put on her coat and the funny Peruvian
hat that she was wearing that winter. Then she locked up the studio, and the two of them walked through the playground to the car park together. Even though she told him not to bother, Connolly hung around while she undid the lock on her bicycle. When they got out on the street, they paused awkwardly, unsure of how to
Connolly understood all this, I think. I don’t mean that he would have been able to articulate, or even to consciously formulate, the role that class played in his relationship with Sheba. But that he sensed the anthropological dimension of Sheba’s interest in him and played up to it, I have no doubt. When describing his family and home to Sheba, he seems to have been at pains to leave her naïve notions of prole mores intact. He told her about his family’s holiday caravan in Maldon, Essex, about his mother’s part-time job as a dinner lady and his father’s job as a taxi driver—but he omitted to mention that his mother held a college diploma or that his father was a history buff with a special interest in the American Civil War. These facts, now that they have emerged in the papers, are so astounding to Sheba—so at odds with the cartoon thugs she had been encouraged to envisage—that she chooses either to ignore them or to dismiss them as lies. In a recent newspaper interview, Connolly’s mother mentioned that, when her children were young, she and her husband often played them recordings of Swan Lake and Peter and the Wolf . Sheba threw the paper down when she got to this bit. Mrs. Connolly was lying, she said—trying to make her son’s home life seem more wholesome and happy than it was. “Steven’s father hits him, you know,” she shouted at me. “He beats him. She doesn’t mention that, does she?”
This accusation is based on something that Connolly told Sheba once, at the beginning of their relationship. Sheba has spoken of this conversation often because Connolly’s claim about his father’s violence—true or not—prompted her first gesture of intimacy towards the boy. It was at the end of winter
term. Connolly had come to see her in the studio, and the two of them were looking out of the window at the darkening playground, discussing the possibility that it might snow. Connolly mentioned that snow always put his father in a bad mood. When Mr. Connolly “had the hump,” he added, he often hit him. Sheba was not particularly surprised by this admission. She had watched several made-for-television dramas about domestic violence and considered herself well-acquainted with council-house brutality. She murmured something consoling to Connolly. And then she reached out and rubbed his head. When her fingers came away, strands of his hair rose up with them in an electric spray. Sheba laughed and made a lighthearted comment about the static in the air that day. Connolly closed his eyes and smiled. “Do that again, Miss,” he said.
Prior to this incident, Sheba had occasionally wondered about the extent of Connolly’s sexual experience. Fourth-year males at St. George’s vary pretty widely in their level of sexual sophistication. Some are still at the stage of giggling about “the come tree” in the headmaster’s garden (a cyclamen so called because its scent bears an alleged resemblance to the smell of semen). Some brag about receiving “blow jobs” and “finger-fucking” girls. And then there are others who make convincing reference to their experience of sexual intercourse. Sheba had no way of knowing for sure where Connolly fit on this spectrum, but she had been inclined to place him at the innocent end of the scale. Not technically a virgin, perhaps, but still fundamentally inexperienced. Now, something about his smile—the confident way he commanded her to touch him again—made her revise her original estimation.
Sheba declined to repeat the gesture. It was time for her to go home, she told him. She put on her coat and the funny Peruvian
hat that she was wearing that winter. Then she locked up the studio, and the two of them walked through the playground to the car park together. Even though she told him not to bother, Connolly hung around while she undid the lock on her bicycle. When they got out on the street, they paused awkwardly, unsure of how to
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