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<![CDATA[Forums - Short Stories]]> https://funtailix.com/portal/ Fri, 17 Apr 2026 11:39:12 +0000 MyBB <![CDATA[Hypothetical Kid]]> https://funtailix.com/portal/showthread.php?tid=2402 Thu, 17 Jul 2025 14:11:30 +0000 WMASG]]> https://funtailix.com/portal/showthread.php?tid=2402
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After watching a dozen midterm review Extra History videos from YouTube, David King asked the study group: “Is everybody confident about your history midterm?”
LJ, Rowdy, Travis, Rebel, and Willie all raised a thumb.
David, addressing the whole group, asked, “All right, folks, for extra points, what did the thumbs-up from the Roman emperor at the Coliseum mean?”
Rebel enthused, “It was in that Gladiator movie. It means mercy.”
“If you’re anything but a teacher, David, it’ll be a waste,” Travis said. “Thanks for working on this with us.”
Willie stood and clapped David’s shoulder, “Thanks man. My dad loves these grades. Home is a whole ’nother world now.”
Rebel stuffed his notebook in his backpack, stood, gave LJ a one-armed hug, and said, “Thanks for having me, bro.”
LJ smiled and said, “Anytime, Reb. It’s almost twelve, and the bus comes early. Go away now!”
Before January, no one would have bet anything the friendship between LJ and Rebel would have ever happened. Rebel had been a jerk to everybody, especially the smaller LJ. In an astonishing turnaround, Rebel had apologized to everyone in his class for being a jackass. While many kids held grudges, LJ had invited Rebel over, and the two boys had become fast friends. Everybody packed up, and a general exodus began. Rebel took a leak in LJ’s bathroom and accidentally left his phone behind. He was almost home when he missed the bulk of the phone in his pocket.
Once the crowd had disappeared, David returned to LJ's room.
LJ was stripped to his boxers and said, “It’s my turn, and it’s late. We’ve got to hurry. One power blowjob coming right up.”

Rebel used the emergency key in the secret stash near the Grants’ mud room to let himself in. He wasn’t sneaking. He wasn’t making much noise either, to avoid disturbing anybody. When he arrived on the landing, it sounded like porn was on LJ’s DVD player. When he looked through the partially open door, David was lying across the bed, getting what looked like an incredible blow job from LJ.
The sight riveted Rebel to the spot. David’s back was arched, and LJ pulled out all the stops. Rebel’s cock ballooned to alarming proportions in his sweats. He couldn’t look away.
In the next thirty seconds, David came, bucking and holding LJ’s head. LJ let David blow in his mouth, then in his face, and nursed David’s cock.
Although Rebel considered himself straight, seeing his two friends in such a loving moment was the most erotic thing he had ever seen. It was… beautiful.
LJ looked up and saw Rebel staring wide-eyed.
Rebel, trying to make this not quite a complete disaster unconsciously did what David had done earlier and slipped into the hall bathroom for him to depart to get to his phone. A few minutes later, from where he was standing, he heard David tell LJ that he loved him and that it was his turn tomorrow night.
David departed, and Rebel heard the kitchen door close downstairs.
Laughing, LJ said, “Rebel, you might as well come on in.”
Sheepishly, Rebel went into the room, sweatpants stretched alarmingly, where LJ was sitting on his couch in his boxers laughing, and said, “Uhhh… I’m sorry. I left my phone. I didn’t mean to interrupt you guys.”
LJ said, “The expression on your face was priceless. I’m sorry we shocked you.”
“I wasn’t shocked,” he mumbled. “I was surprised; it was one of the hottest things I’ve ever seen, including porn.”
LJ moved over on the couch and said, “I’d be afraid to let you outside in that condition. Have a seat.”
Rebel groaned and said, “How can I be straight, and that… looked like so much fun?”
LJ asked, “Maybe you’re bi?”
After considering the question, Rebel admitted, “Probably. Seeing it made me so hard it hurts.” He looked toward LJ soulfully and said, “Please?”
LJ laughed, scooted over, put an arm around Rebel, and said, “Mercy?”
Rebel raised his thumb.
“It’s only fair to tell you that Dave, Rowdy, Travis, and I have all discussed this.”
“What?” Rebel blurted.
LJ calmly said, “The four of us are two couples. You and Willie are new to our group, and we assumed you were both straight. David said this temptation might arise because you and Willie are cute, and boys will be boys.”
Sheepishly, Rebel asked, “What did you guys decide?”
“We were all in agreement,” LJ replied. “The most important thing is we all want to stay friends. Sex can make things… complicated. David has been really understanding about this. We’re all kids having our first relationships, but we’re not married, understand?”
Rebel nodded, hoping that meant something good.
“We all decided it wasn’t unreasonable for us to have fun, but we’re going to be honest with our partner,” LJ stated.
Rebel asked, “Does that mean we can?”
LJ said, “Yes, but not tonight. I want to talk to David first, and I need something from you.”
Blushing, Rebel imagined LJ could ask anything, and he was so horny he would probably go for it. He asked, “What do you need?”
LJ said, “Would you mind telling me why you were so pissed off this fall?”
Rebel nodded and exhaled explosively. “Plenty of bad things happened last summer, and it wasn’t the divorce as much as all the bullshit surrounding it.”
LJ asked, “Want to talk about it?”
“No, but I probably should. I can only talk about this hypothetically speaking, understand? If I talked about family business outside the family, I’d be in big trouble.”
“Okaaay,” LJ replied. “I think I understand.”
Rebel said, “Hypothetically speaking, let’s say there’s this thirteen-year-old kid whose family is involved in a messy divorce. Things have been going downhill for a few years. Both sides of the family are squabbling, it’s a real shitstorm, and hypothetical kid is right in the middle between two sets of angry grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins. With me so far?”
LJ said, “No wonder you were pissed at the world.”
Rebel said, “It was a shit sandwich with horseradish sauce, hypothetically speaking, of course.”
“Oh, of course,” LJ agreed affably.
“Anyway, hypothetical kid is pissed and really tired of grownups acting more immature than he is. He emails his parents he’s camping out to fish for his birthday so he can skip a little of the crazy. He packs his tent, sleeping bag, and fishing pole, and he’s out. Things are peachy for a few days. He’s on state park land, pitches his little tent out of the way, and eats fish over a campfire.”
LJ said, “There was an amber alert in July for a kid named Theodore!”
Rebel rolled his eyes and said, “Please don’t tell anybody my real name! I’d much rather be called Rebel and warn everybody I’m a handful than be called Theodore. Yuck!”
LJ laughed and said, “OK, hypothetical kid. Your secret is safe with me.”
Rebel said, “Thanks. Hypothetical kid is in his tent. Strangers with dogs and flashlights wake him up in the middle of the night, and he freaks the fuck out. He runs as fast as he can and gets snatched by a state trooper.
“They arrested hypothetical kid for being a runaway and resisting arrest, and he ended up in jail. They sent in a fat lady from CPS to interview the kid, and he told them he just went fishing and left an email at home. Then she asks why he went fishing, and he tells them about the family feud and that he just needed a vacation. No, he’s not being abused. No, he’s not suicidal. He just went fishin’ for his birthday, damn it! He was planning on going home soon, anyway.
“The fat lady from CPS decides he needs to be put in a group home for an investigation that would last as long as it takes. Bitch.
“He ends up in a group home and is the oldest kid there. Anyways, this hypothetical kid is in a big room with five other kids and three bunk beds. The other kids are ten up to hypothetical kid’s age, who has just turned fourteen. He’s the biggest and oldest by at least a year. All the kids are happy hypothetical kid isn’t an asshole. Things are tolerable. Everybody’s happy, even the house parents.
“The next day, the fat lady from CPS takes hypothetical kid to a child psychologist’s office, and he wastes an hour and a half telling the shrink the exact same story. Finally, they cut to the chase. It’s an ugly divorce, and someone has made an allegation hypothetical kid’s father was molesting him. He tells them, nope, it’s not true, and the fat CPS lady buys him Wendys on the way back to the group home.
“They go back to the group home, and hypothetical kid has a great time with the other kids. The kids have fun, the group home is peaceful, and Mrs. Wilcox, the house mom, is so happy she makes them her best spaghetti dinner.
“That night, they sit up after lights out and talk. Hypothetical kid gets a real education. Real fucked-up things can happen to kids when things go wrong. He understands. Hypothetical kid was a federal case cuz he went fishing.”
LJ laughed and said, “It doesn’t sound horrible.”
“That’s just it. Hypothetical kid wanted a vacation from the family feud, and he was having fun playing with the kids in the group home. It was better than fishing.”
LJ said, “I’m guessing something went wrong?”
Rebel went quiet and said, “Things got weird, and hypothetical kid ain’t real proud of it. It wasn’t hypothetical kid’s idea at all. There was a twelve-year-old in the bottom bunk across from me. A while after the farts and giggling ended, Marcus slipped out of his bed and got in my bunk beside me. I thought we would talk, but he put his finger over his lips. He went under the sheet and gave me a blowjob.
“Uhh… uhh… hypothetical kid was going to stop him. Honest. He just didn’t want to wake everybody up. Then… it was too late to stop.”
LJ was rolling on the sofa, laughing so hard he was covering his eyes.
“Hypothetical kid was shocked, but his willing accomplice had made a great start. He didn’t really say yes, as much as he was hanging on. Marcus went to town and blew me, like he enjoyed it as much as I did.”
LJ put his hand on Rebel's shoulder, drew him into a hug, and whispered, “Careful, Theo. Hypothetical kid is slipping there.”
Rebel whispered back, “Please don’t call me Theodore.”
Smiling, LJ whispered, “I didn’t. Never in front of anybody else, and I’ll only gig you a little with Theo.”
Rebel whispered, “Rat.”
LJ replied, “You don’t get a nickname until we love you, bro.” Then he hugged Rebel fiercely and kissed him on the cheek.
“You kissed my cheek,” Rebel whined plaintively.
LJ said quietly, “What I think you want me to do is much more intimate.”
“Does David have a nickname for you?” Rebel leaned over and kissed LJ in approximately the same spot and leaned back on the sofa.
LJ leaned back on the couch and said, “Yeah. He calls me Fatty. So, what was it like to be the boss of the cell block?”
Rebel blushed so brightly that he glowed. “It was so embarrassing… and wonderful. I had been nice to them, and they were expecting somebody who would push them around and force them to do stuff. They liked me and wanted to do it anyway, just for fun. I learned to like some things.”
LJ asked, “Hypothetical kid was there until your folks went to court, wasn’t he?”
Rebel nodded. “It was almost three weeks. Then they took me to court. Big mistake!
“The judge asked me why I ran away. I told him I didn’t. The adults were fussing and fighting, and I got sick of it. I wrote my folks an email saying I was going fishing for my birthday.
“The judge said that was the first he had heard of an email. I pulled it up on a laptop, and we caught both sides in several lies. The sex abuse lie, the kidnapping lie, and some legal stuff that really honked off the judge.”
Laughing, LJ interjected, “Oh shit, Rebel.”
“Yeah. Then, Judge Lewis asked which parent I wanted to stay with. I floored everybody when I asked to return to the Wilcox house because they never fight there.”
“Jesus, Rebel,” LJ laughed. “It sounds like you caused a riot.”
Rebel grinned and said, “It helped that Judge Lewis liked me. He takes me fishin’ sometimes. Anyways, I stayed at the Wilcox house until school started while we had family counseling. Mom has custody and Dad’s in Georgia. The shrink said all the fussin’ and fightin’ messed with my head. I love the kids at the Wilcox house and still get to visit on weekends.
“When school started up, I was still pissed off about the whole shit show. That’s why I was being such an asshole to everybody.”
Sighing, Rebel mumbled, “So, I kind of guess you’re right. I’m at least bisexual. I know I can love other boys, and not just for fun. When I saw you at school, I, uhh, liked you that way, and it pissed me off even more.”
LJ said, “I know.”
“How did you know?” Rebel asked, shocked. “I didn’t even know.”
LJ responded, “I see a shrink, too. When I asked her why you were so hostile, she told me you might like me but were struggling with it emotionally. Dealing with you all pissed off wasn’t much fun, but I hoped we could get past it and be friends.”
Rebel’s cell phone rang in the bathroom. He said, “Oh crap, that’s mom!”
“I’ll handle it,” LJ said. He jumped up to retrieve the phone and said, “You’re sound asleep on my couch, and she woke me up.”
Rebel, instantly in on the conspiracy, grinned and nodded his head.
Retrieving the phone, LJ answered blearily, “Hello?”
“LJ? Is Rebel there?”
“Oh, I’m sorry, Ms. Carlson. We went to sleep watching that history review playlist for our midterm. Rebel is sound asleep on my couch.”
Ms. Carlson exclaimed, “Oh, thank goodness. It’s after one, and I was worried. Do I need to come get him?”
“Let him stay put. He can ride with us in the morning.”
“Thank you, LJ. You’re good for him. He’s had his best report cards ever since he started hanging out with you guys. See you tomorrow.”
“Goodnight.”
Rebel stared in slacked-jawed amazement and said, “I can’t believe you did that! Mom would have yelled at me for twenty minutes and made me go home.”
“She might yell at you later, but she said she likes your grades, and she approves of the company you’re keeping. Now, it’s late…”
Rebel interrupted LJ, “Before we go to bed, you know all about hypothetical kid’s adventures. Would you mind telling me about yours?”
LJ said, “OK. What do you want to know?”
Rebel said, “How did you learn that you liked boys?”
“Well… I don’t know, really,” LJ said thoughtfully. “I knew I liked boys, but I didn’t know what to do about it. We used to live in the ’burbs of Memphis. Mom was a dental hygienist, and Dad was an engineer for a big cell provider.
“I made friends with Andy, a kid on my soccer team, in fifth grade. We sort of figured out stuff during sleepovers and half-days. Everything was cool until an eighteen-wheeler ran over my parents and little sister at the beginning of my sixth-grade year. Mom and my sister were killed, and Dad got mangled badly.”
Rebel half-whispered, “I knew there was an accident but didn’t know about your mom and sister. That was horrible.”
“Yeah, it suuuuked, and I was freaking out. Everything went to hell. Dad was in critical condition, and Mom and Celeste were dead. I stayed a week with Andy and his parents. After the funeral, I lived with my Uncle Matthew at our house.
“Uncle Matthew was just starting his 2nd year at Ole Miss and worked out a deal to go back to school later. Matt skipped a year, and we moved into my house for a while. He tried to take care of me.”
“Was he bad at it?” Rebel asked.
LJ shook his head. “No. Matt was great. He was nineteen and doing his best, but I was kinda a psycho basket case. Dad was so messed up, and they said he probably wouldn’t walk again.
“The worst possible thing happened. In a moment of what I can only assume was idiocy, Andy came out to his parents. They weren’t nearly as understanding as he expected and forbade him from ever seeing me again. It was all too much. Half my family was dead, Dad was probably crippled, and my best friend was just gone. I took what I thought was an overdose of Valium, left a note, and thought I’d checked out.”
“Oh, no!” In a show of empathy that astonished LJ, Rebel’s eyes swelled with tears, and he put a hand on LJ’s forearm.
“I didn’t take enough to kill me. I woke up in the hospital. It scared the hell out of my uncles, Matt and Silas, and they didn’t tell my dad until much later. They made me stay in a treatment center for a few weeks, and I’ve been seeing a therapist ever since.
“What I didn’t know was my Uncle Matt is gay. He had a lot of trouble growing up, and Dad and Silas had always supported him. They assured me that they didn’t have a problem with it, and eventually, I went back home with my Uncle Matt.
“It took Dad a year and a half of physical therapy to recover. I helped him a lot, and we moved here last summer to be close to Uncle Silas. Last fall… could have been better, but it turned out for the best, I think.”
Rebel felt guilty and remorseful. Tears were in his eyes as he tried to say something, but he couldn’t make it come out right.
LJ put his hand on Rebel’s and said, “You’re already forgiven.”
“I feel like such a shit,” Rebel managed. “You had all that going on, and I was such a dickhead to you. Then you forgave me and became one of the best friends I’ve ever had. I just don’t understand how you did it or why.”
LJ said, “We’ve both been through more than most kids our age. I learned something powerful that helps a great deal. If you get it, it’ll keep you sane when everything is going to hell around you.”
“What is it?” Rebel asked. What magic had his friend discovered?
LJ said, “Resentment is a trap. The only person it hurts is you. Some people hold onto resentments, and it just makes them pissed off and angry all the time. Forgiveness is one of the most powerful, liberating things you can ever do for yourself. It frees you of the negativity that only holds you back.”
Rebel was quiet and wondered if it was possible for him. Was it really that simple?

The next morning, David climbed the stairs and found LJ and Rebel asleep on the couch. They were so cute leaning against each other that he hated to wake them. He pulled his cell phone camera out, took a quick picture, and then jostled them awake.
Rebel borrowed some clothes from LJ, and they piled into Big Jim’s van to head to school to take that pesky midterm. Sure, they were a little bleary, but they were ready, and spring break beckoned.]]>
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“When I was fifteen, Saint Michael looked me straight in the eye.”
There was a pause as the Colonel General regarded me calmly, almost with disinterest. He was immaculately turned out in the undress uniform of a Guards Colonel. I knew that he was Colonel-in-Chief of one of the Household Regiments and I made a mental note to find out which one. The Swords and Eagle of a Knight Imperial glittered at his neck; otherwise, he wore only a miniature of a youthful Tsar Alexei lower on his tunic. He wore no other decorations or orders, though I knew that he had many.
This man, after all, has been the faithful intimate of Tsar Alexei from the rescue of the Imperial family at Yekaterinburg, through the restoration, the conclusion of the Great War and the prosecution of the Second Great War. This was not the sort of thing you would expect to hear from such as he; I looked up quickly though I strove to keep any expression from my features.
“You don’t believe me, of course, but that’s of no concern to me.”
His tone dismissed me, but his eyes twinkled, and the smile lines around his mouth and eyes did not suggest contempt. He was a striking man: clean shaven, silvery at the temples but with a full head of vaguely rumpled, graying, light brown hair; his nose was straight and formidably sharp, perfect for looking down. He was looking down at me now, sharp eyed, down that straight edged nose, from a position both serene and impregnable.
“Well. His Majesty has asked me to spend time with you, has asked that I answer all of your questions. If necessary, I may decline to answer some of your questions until His Majesty has reviewed them, but still, I think this narrative is important to him. Should you do anything to cause him displeasure, well.” His pause was promising rather than just threatening; he quirked an eyebrow in question.
“Yes, then Your Excellency, where is the beginning for you? Where is the place to start?”
“When I turned fifteen.” He looked off into space. “It was 1917. And many things were happening to me. And all around me. It was sometimes hard to keep everything sorted out. Surely you remember what its like to be fifteen. You’re closer to fifteen now than am I. Some of these changes happened within me, and I think some of these things happened because Saint Michael looked me straight in the eye.
“Like most of us, I was raised in the True Faith. I attended church regularly, but not necessarily because I felt any deep spiritual motivation. I attended church regularly because my mother or my aunt made sure that I did. There was no discussion of the matter. Certainly, there was no vocation. I had no desire to be a monk or a priest, or to serve the church in any way.
“And then one day, after services, I happened to look up at the beautiful sculpture of Saint Michael in our cathedral. I saw that he was looking straight at me. Straight in the eye: deep into my heart, I think.”
There was a long pause, as the General seemed to withdraw into himself, as one does when one is recollecting deeply. I waited, then prompted him gently, “If you please Your Excellency, how can I describe Saint Michael looking you ‘straight in the eye’? How can I say that so a reader might make sense of it in a hundred years or so?”
“Ah,” he paused almost as if for effect and his lips quirked into a hint of a smile. “Well for one thing, his eyes were blue.
“Now you should know, young scrivener, that I really do not care in the least what you might write or what you might quietly think of me. But so that the narrative will be right for the archive, and because it is His Majesty’s wish which settles it, I will tell you. Go and look at the statue of Saint Michael in the Novosibirsk Cathedral. It is now, as it has always been, pure white marble. It is not hollow. No one looked through eyeholes or any such rubbish as that. Can you imagine anyone going to the trouble of hollowing out a statue so that they could look at the humble son of a railroad man? Not likely that! No, that one time, in 1917, Saint Michael looked down on me from his statue on the wall with clearest eyes of blue.
“It even took a few seconds before it struck me. I’d walked on several steps and then I stopped and looked back, and his eyes had followed me in that cold marble face. I thought I might have imagined the whole thing.
“So now you might think, well he was fifteen with an active imagination.
“Well, that night Saint Michael came to me in a dream for the first time. As I said, I was fifteen. Most of my dreams were anything but holy; those that involved Nikolas, then as now the love of my life, were, well - let’s just say they were rousing. Dreams of love at that age almost always are.
“That night, though, Saint Michael the Archangel came to me in all his grandeur. It was as if he stepped down off the wall. Only he was not cold and marble. He was warm and flesh, his hair was blond and fell to his shoulders and his eyes, as I said, were blue: blue to an unfathomable depth. He is, as you know, the Patron Saint of soldiers and healers, so his shoulders were broad and his arms were powerful. Unlike the statue in the cathedral, no cloth draped his great physique. The blade of his sword gleamed stronger than steel and richer than silver. The sword’s golden hilt was vibrant with gems that glowed from within. In the dream, he had no wings, although he has them in the cathedral. I’ve always remembered this. I’ve always thought about this; I think it proves my dream was real; I don’t think that the Archangel and Taxiarch Michael has any need of wings at all.
“In the dream, he was holding the sword above his head as if preparing to strike at some unseen evil. But then he saw me. He slowly lowered the sword so that the point of the blade touched the ground before him. He took the hilt in his left hand and leaned lightly on the sword. He looked deep into my soul reaching out to me with his right hand. He looked directly at me and smiled ever so lightly. I felt as if I am moving with him, drawn into the loving blue of his eyes. I am safe in the love of his smile. I knew that he loved me and that I should follow him. Then he faded. I think that I always wake when I had this dream. Good Saint Michael knows I’ve not had it since the end of the Great War. Still I know that he will come again if I’m needed. I know beyond doubt that I am loved and I know that Alexei is loved.”
There was a pause while the General waited for me to catch up. Or at least I think that’s why he’s paused; I was using the latest shorthand method so I was right with him.
“The Tsar. What I meant to say, was that His Imperial Majesty, Alexei, is loved.” He glowered at me as though the informality were mine. And now I knew how he addresses the Tsar when they are alone. Even though appearing to glower, the twinkle in his eyes came through.
“So! Well, that should do it then!” His smile was broad and winning, but he was just playing with me, for he did not stand up. Just testing me a little. I knew my cue.
“But surely, Your Excellency, there is more to the story than that. I mean, all that’s happened so far is: you went to church then had a dream. But it’s a long way from Novosibirsk to Yekaterinburg.”
He sighed and collected himself. “Well, 1917 was a terrible time. You weren’t there, nothing like it has happened since, so you’ve no way of really understanding what it was like. You can thank God and the Tsar for your good fortune. But then, the war was not going well, the filthy Bolsheviks had fomented revolution, and the world was coming apart: everything was in short supply, we were never really warm that winter, we never had enough to eat; there were no young men about, they’d all gone for soldiers. My mother and I hadn’t seen my father for almost three years. He was a railroad man. He had been mobilized first thing in the war and was trying to keep our armies in the west supplied. When the revolution came, we stopped receiving his pay allotment. The post was erratic even before the revolution. Once, we received two letters from him on the same day. One wasn’t even a week old; the other was two months old. Now it didn’t seem to work at all. We’d not had any word from him in months. We were very proud of him. He was a Reserve Lieutenant in the Transport Corps. Not exactly the Life Guards Preobrazhenski Regiment, but still he was the first of our family to be commissioned by the Tsar.
“Now you need to know about Nikolas. He was the one who really organized the rescue and recruited our little band of Alexei’s men. Men? I say ‘men.’ Well we did a job for men even if we were mostly in our teens, but for the one grandfather amongst us. Nikolas and I were the youngest.
“He is also the love of my life: we discovered love together, we explored passion together, we have never had a secret from each other. In my eyes, then and now, Nikolas is beyond beautiful. His hair, I suppose, is a rather nondescript brown; his sister infuriates me when she calls it ‘mousy’, she does that, even today, when it’s more like sterling silver; she does it just to get me going. His eyes are gray-blue and sparkle with humor, or with passion when we make love. His eyebrows have a gentle arch and seem to think they’d like to join across his nose, but they just can’t quite make it. His nose is pert and pug. His lips are narrow. Normally, they angle just ever so slightly down, and give him a solemn expression; but it only takes a heartbeat and up they go, and his joy and humor are obvious to all. We were both skinny then, but that was the war. I don’t guess you’d call us skinny now. He’s a Field Marshal you know. Not on active duty any more, but neither of us will ever retire from the service of our Tsar.”
The General swiveled in his chair and rang for an orderly. The response was virtually instant and he ordered tea for us.
“So that brings us back to February, 1917. It was a bitter winter and, as I said, nothing seemed to be working right, which just seemed to make the winter even colder. Saint Michael, by this time, had visited my dreams several times, but hadn’t really told me what I was to do. So I was trudging home from the bakery with our meager bread ration when I heard a feeble mewling and saw a kitten in the snow next to the storefront. The poor thing was abandoned, bedraggled and injured. Hell, the poor thing was dying! I tucked the string bag with the bread up under my coat, pulled a mitten off, and knelt beside the kitten. I presented my hand for inspection by the poor thing before attempting to offer any comfort. It sniffed me gently without suspicion or concern; I was approved, so I gently touched its head. That’s when I knew that Saint Michael had marked me out for something. For when I touched the kitten’s head, it was as if I had immersed my hand in a running stream of water. It was as if there was something flowing between us, something that felt like water, but was invisible: certainly not water. It’s virtually impossible to explain. I do not understand it myself.”
The General applied himself to one of the raspberry tarts that the orderly had brought with our tea. He smiled and gestured amiably with the tart. “Not skinny anymore.
“Before my eyes the kitten was regaining his health. I knew that the kitten was a tom, though I’d not looked. I knew that the kitten had a broken leg, for I could feel it mending; his coat was growing lustrous before my eyes and I could suddenly hear him purring above the clatter of the street. I gently picked him up and we went home.
“It was then that Nikolas came down with pneumonia. As soon as I’d regained my composure after healing the cat, for that is what I’d done, I went to talk to Nikolas about this miracle. But his Mother had put him to bed and wouldn’t let me in to see him lest I too, fall ill. She loved us both.
“Now you’ll think I’m mad, but it seemed the most natural thing in the world to discuss this situation with the cat. Mostly he’d purr and doze. But sometimes he’d look up, attentively, as if what I’d just said was just exactly the right or wrong thing to say, or think, or whatever. Somehow, I knew to introduce him to others as ‘Defiance’, but I always called him Kiki. He’d come when I called him; he liked to ride around on my shoulder. He was very comforting. I told him that I must get in to see Niki and he seemed to approve and agree. We both seemed to agree that pneumonia could kill and that Niki was way too important to risk.
“‘I’m off to see Niki.’ I told Mama what I was about and she told me to keep warm and dry, just as she always did. Kiki rode under my jacket, across my chest with his head peeking out between my lapels; he appeared to find this perfectly normal.
“When we get to Niki’s flat, his sister Kristina (her of the ‘mousy’ hair effrontery) opened the door to my knocking. ‘Oh you’ve a kitten,’ she exclaimed as she opened the door, ‘what’s her name?’ I explained that his name was Kiki if you wanted to be his friend, but otherwise you must call him Defiance.
“Kiki had got us right into the flat. I handed him to Kristya (I really do love her) and gave her a quick kiss. She took him eagerly. He purred mightily and was petted and made much of as they sat together on the divan.
“Kristya, I’d like to look in on Niki if that’s all right.” She looked around Kiki who was nuzzling her and told me to go in. “He’ll be happy to see you if he’s awake. He’s in the second bedroom,” she assures me. I left her and Kiki on the divan and stepped right into the bedroom.
“Very quietly I slipped into the bedroom and gazed worriedly on my beloved. He was pale and his breathing was shallow and raspy with a horrible liquid sound that was very wrong. I was terrified for us: for him as he was very sick, and for me from the fear of losing him. I knelt beside his bed. When I touched Kiki on the street I felt this flow between us, but I had no idea what the flow was, what caused it, or how it worked. But Kiki began to heal before my very eyes. Would the same work for Niki? I paused to pray to God. I visualized Saint Michael. But was not like the dream. All I saw was his face and those eyes of darkly blue.
“I mustered my courage and my love and finally resolved on a tiny touch to see if anything happened. Having decided, I hesitated, and said another prayer.
“I wonder, my young friend, if you can imagine what it is like to be fifteen, in love, and faced with the most terrible unknown. A terrible unknown that effects the one you love, and thus also you. If you’ve not known love, my young friend, you cannot possibly know just how terrible this feeling can be.”
The General regarded me with leveled eyes. It is truly a terrible question to have to face and certainly, nothing in my life has come close to such a moment. One can only shake one’s head and wait for him to continue.
He closed his eyes and started, “I reached slowly for him with two fingers. Just a touch: just a touch whilst I prayed to feel that flow that brought Kiki back from the edge of this world.
“But there was no flow. It was a sharp jolt that caused me to jerk my hand away. It was a different feeling than when I touched Kiki, and yet is was the same, for I had this sense of Niki. With Kiki, I knew that he was a tom, and I knew that his leg had been broken, but now was mending. But with Niki, I had this sense of a rising cloud of angry congestion in his chest that was threatening and growing. I reached for him again and took his hand. Again I felt that horrible congestion, but now I could also feel the flow, only it was much stronger. I sensed the cloud was smaller, or rather dissipating a little, and I knew that I was helping. It was a sort of battle. Niki and I were pushing through the cloud as if we were the morning’s sunshine. We were gaining strength and brightness while his illness was fading. I brought his hand to my lips for I knew that I was doing it, I was somehow breathing life and strength into Niki and helping him to repel the pneumonia that sought to steal his life in Novosibirsk in February.
“I released his hand and tried to understand what had been happening. Niki had some color back in his cheeks. Seconds before he was ghastly pale. His cheeks were always rosy. More so, of course, when we were outside playing ball, or sledding, or planning some kind of mischief. It was a great relief to see a hint of roses back in his cheeks. His breathing was easier now, too. He was not laboring and his breath, while still a little raspy, no longer had that scary liquid gurgle that I’d heard at first. I reclaimed his hand and lay down beside him for I was suddenly very tired. I kissed him. There was a surge of love and hope and joy. I saw Saint Michael and fell deeply into the pool of his eyes. Unconscious of all else.
“You know,” the General regarded me calmly, “I’ve spoken to priests and doctors trying to understand what this is and how it works. The priests, of course, call it a miracle and are content with that. Some of the doctors say the same; other doctors want to start doing experiments with their ‘scientific method,’ whatever in the hell that might be. Fortunately, they can’t catch me.” He smiled winningly and I had a sense of what it might be like to know him as a friend.
“I’ve even asked Alexei. He said that the Starets Rasputin could ease his pain, but could never keep it away.
“I don’t guess we’ll know in this life. Anyway, the next thing I knew was Niki’s voice from afar. ‘He’s waking-up, Babka.’ Almost lazily I became aware. I was in bed, safely enfolded in Niki’s embrace, warm throughout, with a purring warmth at my feet. I opened my eyes to the smiling approval of Niki’s Grandmother. I could feel her love and I knew it was for me as well as for Niki.
“‘Ah Paisii,’ she said, ‘beloved grandson. I know you now for an Old Soul my dear. You’ve done a miracle just now.’ She smoothed my hair and stroked my cheek; she told me that I was ‘from beyond the steppes, from before the ken of man or priest.’ She fixed us both with a formidable eye and asked us if we’d prayed to learn our challenge. ‘You must you know, both of you, for you surely have one and it must be met. Such gifts are not given idly away. Tea, I think,’ and she left to fix it for us.
“Now you need to know that Nik is a hopeless romantic. Oh, not in the falling in love sort of way; he fell in love with me and that was that; but in the sense of faithful knights and boyars, loyal Cossacks, great feats of derring-do in the service of a loving Tsar—a Tsar who loved all and was loved by all in turn. With that in mind, it should come as no surprise to learn that within two days he came dashing to our apartment and announced that he knew what our ‘challenge’ was and I must come with him at once. So we went, he and I and Kiki. When we got to his home, Babka was there, visiting with a man about her age. They were enjoying tea.
“‘Dedushka Konstantin,’ Nik announced. Here is Paisii who’ll be coming with us to rescue the Tsar.
“I was stunned, but Kiki wanted down, and, when released, he walked over to Konstantin and jumped into his lap. ‘Grandfather,’ I said, and bowed slightly to him. All this time my mind was whirling with this ‘rescue the Tsar’ business.
“A great discussion now ensued. Basically, Babka stated we knew what our challenge was and we must proceed. Nik, of course, agreed with her. But Konstantin said it was impossible and pointed out that the Tsar was miles away in Yekaterinburg, was doubtless well-guarded, and that the problem of moving the Tsar, Tsaritsa, Tsarevitch, and four Grand Duchesses would be a nightmare even if it were possible. And finally, glancing around in sad triumph, Konstantin pointed out that he was ill and could not help, and, far more importantly, that the Tsarevitch Alexei was sick almost to the point of being crippled.
“‘No problem,’ Nik said pulling me forward. ‘Pai is sent by Saint Michael. He’ll know what to do.’
“So I went to Konstantin, who was seated in the good chair. I knelt in front of him and looked into Kiki’s eyes where I sensed approval. I looked up to Konstantin who was smiling bemusedly, and said my prayers. I carefully put one hand on each of his knees at exactly the same time, and I could feel the flow pulsing strongly into Konstantin. This time it was different again. I could sense that Kiki was with me, seemingly helping to direct the flow. And the sickness was different too. With Niki, it was as if I were dispersing a viscous cloud. But with Konstantin, it seemed almost like his body was trying to devour itself, so I must focus on stopping that. I was concentrating on that when I felt Nik’s hands on my shoulders. Nik’s presence gave me additional strength and I sensed that the disease was losing strength just as a sandbank can be washed away as the river flows on. Yes, like a river. That’s a better description. You can look out upon the surface of the river and everything seems calm and placid. Beneath the surface though, the current can be strong as the river sweeps away.
“It took me two days to wash away the sickness from Konstantin. Most of that time, to be sure, was spent asleep. I can only maintain the flow for a short period and then I must sleep and regain my strength. Babka understood this. She made Konstantin sleep on the divan, and she had Niki take Kiki and me to bed with him in the second bedroom. Somehow, despite all of the shortages in the city, she, with a grandmothers wiles, contrived to feed me until I was full.
“When Konstantin was well, he looked ten years younger and he was convinced that we could, should, and would, rescue the Tsar, the Tsaritsa, the Tsarevitch, and the four Grand Duchesses. While he’d been recuperating, Niki had been busy. He’d recruited four of our friends and two of his cousins to our mission. These were important additions to our crew. Two of them were talented thieves whose skills had been honed by the adversity of our world. We now had four rifles, three pistols, a half dozen cavalry sabers and shashkas as well as some explosives and lots of ammunition.
“Konstantin urged us on. He’d been in the Horse Guards in St. Petersburg and was an intelligent and well-read man. He told us that it was not unusual for the previous rulers to be executed after a revolution. He feared the dirty Bolsheviks would kill the Royal Family, as they must know that loyal Russians would try to rescue them just as we were preparing to do.
“I arranged transportation on the railroad. My father had been well thought of and there would be no trouble getting on an empty boxcar when it was time to go.
“And so, on the 15th of June, 1918, we set off in a boxcar for Yekaterinburg. We were now ten teenagers, a grandfather, and a cat.
“They wouldn’t let me do much when we got there. We found a camping spot deep in the beech forest well outside of town. Konstantin organized a thorough reconnaissance of the city and the Ipatiev House, the mansion whose owner had been dispossessed to make a prison for the imperial family. They set about locating horses, tack and all the essentials. And then we started hammering out the plan.
“First we had to know what Alexei’s condition was. This was my contribution. I emphasized that I wasn’t sure what his affliction was and until I knew this, I could not be sure that I could cure him. If I couldn’t cure him, our escape was going to be much more difficult.
“‘If you cannot cure him,’ Konstantin interjected, ‘we might as well go home now and give no one false hope.’
“We were shocked into silence. ‘Listen,’ he continued, ‘Tsar Nicholas is doubtless a fine man and would have made an excellent squire on his country estate. But he’s not been much of Tsar. Has he? He glared at us. Well, has he? He’s done aught but lose wars, give his God-given authority to grasping nobles, letting his people be trod into the mud.’ We were spellbound. ‘And I remind you all that we are here because Saint Michael came to Paisii here and gifted him and charged him and Niki with this mission. Nicholas is no longer the Tsar. He himself set aside his crown with his own hands. The rightful Tsar is Alexei and we must cure him and take him to Admiral Kolchak so that Alexei can unite the loyalists and restore Mother Russia. Only Alexei can do this. Saint Michael did not come to Pai so that we could go to Nicholas and say, gracious me, you’ve made an awful mistake old boy, so now you must get back on your throne!
“‘Here’s our plan.’ He said. Tonight Pai and Niki will sneak into the Ipatiev House and go to Alexei’s room. We know he has a room to himself because of his illness. They will begin his cure. If he can be cured, then it will begin.
“‘They’ll return to us and let us know. If a cure is possible, tomorrow we will enter the house and liberate the royal family. Some of us will take Alexei to Admiral Kolchak. The rest will go deep into the forest with the rest of the family where they will stay hidden until the army can come.’
“So that night, having entered that gloomy old pile, Nik and I hid in the fusty gloom behind heavy drapes as we waited for the household to settle down. We could hear some of the guards in the rear getting drunk and playing cards. Alexei, our Tsar, was in the next room. Soon, Nik and I would be able to slip into his room and talk to him. Soon, as soon as the healing can be completed, Alexei Nikolayevich Romanov would emerge from the Ipatiev House to renew and resurrect Mother Russia just as his ancestor, Mikhail Fyodorovich Romanov, emerged from the Ipatiev Monastery to become the Saviour of Russia three hundred years ago. Yekaterinburg will be the new Kostroma. So, at least, I pray.
“The drunken talk and laughter became drunken muttering. It was time to go to the Tsar. In sock feet, we crossed the hall to the door. It wasn’t even locked. The guard was confident of its ability to keep the household immobilized. Stinking Bolsheviks! With my next thought I thanked Saint Michael for their overconfident incompetence. We entered and moved quietly toward the slight figure all but engulfed by the bed. We stood beside him. Even in the gloom of the room he looked sick.
“He awoke. Startled, he rose on his elbows and started to open his mouth. I made a shushing gesture. But what quieted him was Kiki leaping onto the bed and moving quickly to nuzzle his chin with the top of his head. I’d no idea Kiki was even with us but I can’t say that I was surprised. I took Niki’s hand and we went to our knees beside the bed.
“‘We are your men, Majesty,’ I whisper. ‘We are your men in your service. Here to promise that help is coming.’ Keeping Niki’s hand in mine, I rose slightly and took his hand to kiss. When we touched, I was almost staggered by the intensity of the touch. He was in great pain. Oh Good Saint Michael and Sweet Jesus, Lord, would I be able to do this?
“Alexei was wide awake and staring. Holding tight to Niki as a ship does to an anchor, I tried to drive his pain away; I tried to direct this torrent of healing and find out what, exactly, was wrong. This was far worse than pneumonia or cancer. There was something fundamentally wrong. His blood seemed weak. I concentrated on driving off the pain and fortifying the blood. He did not resist as I held his hand more firmly and rested my forehead on his hand. There! I sensed Kiki, also in contact. Alexei seemed to be bleeding from bruises. There was only so much that could be done with the energy that Nik and Kiki and I had that night. So I concentrated the healing forces on easing his pain. It was the bruises! That was what was causing the pain. That made it easier. That was way easier than a broken bone. Now, enrich the blood. I could do that! It was almost as if I were strengthening the body to defeat a cancer, but very different too.
“I was starting to learn a bit about how to do this. So when I felt myself come close to passing out, I kissed his hand and released him. I sagged back down on my knees with my head on the feather bed. I heard Niki whisper.
“‘I am Nicholas Ivanovich Kotlyarovsky,’ I felt his hand rubbing my shoulder as if to ease any pain I might have. ‘This, Majesty, is Paisii Timofeyevich Chalikov. The Good Lord has sent us to ease your pain. We’ll be back tonight. Please Majesty, say nothing to no one; you must say nothing at all about our visit. Paisii must eat and sleep to regain his strength if he is to help you.’
“He nodded and whispered, ‘the pain is gone. Completely gone. I feel alive.’ He stroked and scratched Kiki between his ears.
“‘Come Pai’, Niki whispered, pulling me up. ‘Morning is nigh. The servants will be about soon.’
“We bowed, left quietly retracing our steps and exiting the house, moved through the quiet streets, into the woods, as the coming morn began to silhouette the horizon. I lose all track of time when I’m healing. Kiki stayed with Alexei.”
The General paused and regarded me calmly. Smiling he asked, “More?”
“Oh please, Your Excellency.” I was on my third note pad.
“While I slept, all the final preparations were made. Late in the afternoon one of our troikas rolled up to the Ipatiev House and Anton, one of our friends, with a red scarf brassarded on his arm, asked where he could deliver the four cases of vodka that had been sent by the commune. The guards quickly unloaded it and Anton clattered off. No one even asked him which commune had sent the vodka.
“That night, Alexei was awake when we crept into his room. He sat up as we approached. Kiki was beside him, purring mightily. We went down on one knee before him.
“‘I feel better today than I can ever remember,’ Alexei whispered. ‘Mama said I looked good today. I almost told her. Then I saw your cat watching me from atop the wardrobe.’
“Thank God and Saint Michael, I averred. With their aid we’ll be leaving today. I took his hand in both of mine and kissed it. The flow was present, but not so intense as last night; but then I could tell that he was not in pain, and his blood seemed stronger too. I concentrated on fortifying his bloodstream. I reached beneath the covers and ran one hand all over his body to make sure I’d missed nothing. Niki had gone out into the hall. I released him when I’d given him all the strength that I could.
“Now we need to pray, I told him, as we waited for rescue.
“Niki was back! ‘They’re here,’ Niki whispered though his excitement seemed loud. ‘Get dressed your Majesty.’ Alexei bounced out of bed and exploded out of his nightshirt; he began to dress in a soldier’s uniform. I crammed some of his stuff into a pillowcase. We could hear the sounds of a muted scuffle from the back room. Seconds later, Konstantin and Fjodor arrived. I gave Alexei his uniform cap and told him to put it on.
“From here on, Majesty, you are the light of Mother Russia. He looked solemn for a second, then grinned and donned the cap at a jaunty angle. He climbed into a uniform great coat, picked-up Kiki, who settled into the coat, peeking out from the lapels, as he was wont to do. We started down the hall to the courtyard. In the kitchen two guards were unconscious but tied securely. A third lay in a pool of blood, released from all ties to this life. There were empty vodka bottles everywhere.
“As we entered the courtyard, we could hear some muffled popping from the depths of the house. Konstantin cursed, ordered us to mount up and stand-by, and disappeared into the gloom of the house. There were two troikas as well as the saddled horses in the courtyard.
“Seconds later, Ilya came into the courtyard with four young girls and a spaniel on a leash. ‘Please hurry! Please hurry! Please hurry!’ He chanted while trying to herd them courteously to one of the troikas. I’d not yet mounted, so I bent the knee and told them they’d soon be safe.
“Konstantin came out of the house, pistol in hand. ‘Mount up Pai,’ he ordered. ‘Niki, take ‘em away! You know the route. We’ll be right behind!’ We walked out the gate and down the road out of town. Niki kept us at a quiet walk until we were into the country then we let the flustered horses canter for a bit until they’d worked off their excitement. There were five of us in our party: Alexei, Niki and I, with Fjodor and cousin Dmitri. Well six, if you count Kiki, as you really ought.
“We remained on the road until the sun was well-up. Then we turned southward onto a country trail. It was a beautiful morning. We finally stopped for a rest about mid-day. We watered the horses, and picketed them to graze. I was sore; it had been a long time since I’d spent this much time on a horse. Feeling that the same would be true of Alexei, I went to him and asked how he felt.
“‘Better, I think, than I’ve ever felt before.’ His smile was radiant. He glowed in the sunshine. ‘May I ask what our plan is, Paisii?’
“It is to restore you, Majesty, to Russia. But you know that. We’re taking you to Admiral Kolchak who has the closest loyal army. There your liberation will be proclaimed and you will begin your reign. Dedushka Konstantin and the others have taken the rest of your family to a secret place in the forest. They’ll be safe there until we can get a sufficient force to escort them safely. It would be almost impossible to travel safely for any distance with all of you. Your Papa is quite recognizable.
“‘That’s another thing, Paisii’ he told me. ‘You keep calling me Majesty. That’s not quite right. Majesty is for the sovereign.’ He was smiling as he lectured me on protocol for a few moments. His blue eyes sparkled and his smile was infectious. I thanked Saint Michael for selecting me for this great service.
“Now, I interrupted Alexei and knelt before him; it was as good a time as any. We call you Majesty because you are the sovereign. Your Father, now the Grand Duke Nicholas, abdicated in your favor. Then when they thought you were too ill, they changed it in favor of your Uncle Mikhail. In any event, Your Majesty, you are now our Tsar by all rights, by all law, by all tradition, and by all that is Holy. I will tell you later how Saint Michael sent us to you.
(“I didn’t know it at the time, but before we actually made it to Admiral Kolchak, the Grand Duke Mikhail was foully murdered by the verminous Bolsheviks.)
“He stared off into space for a long moment. ‘Please rise Paisii.’ He took me in his arms and kissed my lips. He gripped my shoulders and looked at me with a serious expression. ‘I guess it’s a good thing that I know Admiral Kolchak. He used to tell me stories about polar bears and the frozen arctic.’
“Two days later, Dmitri spotted soldiers who had not a hint of red anywhere about their uniforms. They were moving toward Yekaterinburg. We watched them for another two days and decided to approach them. As was fitting, we spent several hours making Alexei beautiful. One of the things I’d crammed into his pillowcase was a medal- mounting bar with four medals on it. We found a hangar for a shashka, the elegantly curved sword of the Cossacks, and when we were done he looked very imperial.”
The General stood and started moving items around on his desk to demonstrate relative positions and then resumed talking as if he were lecturing me in tactics. (The Tsar was now a crystal paperweight.)
“Then we waited at a wide part of the path that the scout we’d been watching was following. Alexei, properly, was before us. Niki and I were in the center behind Alexei with Dmitri and Fjodor on either flank. Alexei had given some thought to this meeting. So he’d insisted that Dmitri, Fjodor, and Nik have their rifles slung across their backs. I didn’t have a rifle, but I’d positioned myself so that Alexei did not know that my revolver was in my right hand where it would be invisible to him and the scout. Alexei had his shashka sloped along his right arm.”
The General demonstrated a sloped shashka with a ruler and looked down the room as if it were a path, as if he were listening for the arrival of a mounted scout.
“Dmitri had picked the spot for our meeting beautifully. The young soldier rode out of a dense thicket and there, suddenly, we were. Face to face. The tension was so thick it held us motionless for several long seconds. Then the horses nickered amiably to one another, reminding us that all were friends.”
With a flourish he raised the ruler as if he were saluting with a real shashka and intoned, “I am Alexei Nikolayevich. And I. Am. Your Tsar.” He gazed across the march of years.
“Naturally, I could not see Alexei’s face; but I could hear the smile in his voice. The young soldier, I could see that he was our age, now that the tension was gone, looked relieved. He’d never even grabbed for the carbine on his saddle.
“The Tsar returned the shashka to the slope, ‘Will you bring your officer here please?’
“The soldier smiled hugely, ‘At once, Your Majesty,’ he saluted. He paused as if to engrave the tableau in his memory, then turned and went back down the path making haste quietly as a good soldier should.
“That was the first acknowledgement of Alexei’s reign. In many ways it was the most important. Both the young soldier and Alexei, in their youth and idealism, represented the future of Russia. His name is Andrey. Like Niki and I, he remains in Alexei’s service to this day.
“Andrey returned with his officer, a bedraggled major who had lost one of his shoulder boards somewhere. The major took one look at Alexei, saluted, and tears began to course down his cheeks.
“And that is how an obscure provincial regiment, the 115th Mounted Infantry, originally raised on the fringe of Empire to guard against the Turk, became the 115th, The Tsar’s Own, Imperial Rifles. To this day, one company of that regiment is always on guard with the Tsar. They are the horsemen who always precede him in all parades.
“You, and every school boy know the rest of the tale. The 115th returned with us to Admiral Kolchak, who was overjoyed to see us. He had told the Tsarevitch many tales of explorations in the Arctic and perhaps when he saw Alexei, he thought of the small boy and not of the Tsar. Soon it was no longer Admiral Kolchak’s army; it was the Tsar’s. And indeed, this became the core of the Tsar’s strength, the sword, if you will, that ended the revolution and evicted the Germans and the Austrians from the territories they thought they’d take for themselves. But let me tell you why this army so quickly became a group of armies and was so thoroughly the Tsar’s.
“After greeting Admiral Kolchak and telling him of our adventures and that the rest of the family was safe. Accompanied by only Nik and myself, the Tsar started moving through the camp from campfire to campfire talking to the soldiers and sailors of the army. He asked after their families; their homes; their dreams; he put them at ease; they came to know him and knew that he cared for them and for Russia. Quite unconsciously they suddenly came to know him as their Tsar. Nik and I were deeply moved by the Tsars sincerity and the three of us did this every night.
“Then, wholly by accident, the Tsar healed a young soldier who took a bullet in the stomach, just a few feet away from us. Heedless of the shooting, he rushed to the boy and took him in his arms trying to comfort the lad. I knelt between the Tsar and where I thought the shots came; I meant to pat him reassuringly on the shoulder, but when I touched him, I felt the flow of healing and knew that the Tsar was now a conduit for Saint Michael. Before our eyes, and before the eyes of many of the soldiers, that young peasant soldier was made whole again.
“Perhaps needless to say, that story was all through the army by nightfall.
“So when Dedushka Konstantin’s messenger came, Alexei summoned the Major Commanding the 115th and sent them to get the Imperial family. Later in the day, he casually mentioned this to the Admiral. The Admiral was immediately flustered and stood openmouthed before the Tsar for a long second. Then he closed his mouth. Alexei stepped up to him and gripped his forearm with both hands. ‘Thank you most excellent Admiral,’ Alexei smiled, now in command.
“There are many others who can better tell you of all of Alexei’s reforms and how we’ve come to be where we are today. But you should know that Kiki stayed with us for twenty years. He and Alexei’s spaniel, Joy, became best of friends. Then one day he was simply gone. We never found him. He’d gone to Saint Michael. No doubt about it in my mind.”
The door flew open and a silver haired general and a beautiful older woman entered the room with casual familiarity. “Come on you old goat,” the man said to His High Excellency, Colonel General Count Paisii Timofeyevich Chalikov, Comptroller General of the Imperial Household, Knight Imperial, “it’s teatime.”
“Ah,” my General smiled, “Niki, Kristya, meet my young interrogator. He’s been asking me to tell him stories from our youth. I guess he’ll get to you, too, afore long.”
An orderly had appeared. “Piotr,” the General smiled. “Please ensure that this young man has his dinner.” His smile swept the room.
He looked solemn for a moment, “Enjoy your dinner, my young friend,” he smiled at me. “I can scarce imagine what a mess we’d have if the damned dirty Bolsheviks had won.” The three of them swept off to take tea with the Tsar.
Some Explanatory Notes

The spelling of “Michael”, as in the Saint, is used as opposed to “Mikhail” in an effort to be transnational.
The rank of Colonel General does not exist in the army of the US or UK. It does in Russia and in the old German Army. It falls between a full, or four star general, and field marshal.
Colonel-in-Chief is an honorary position providing a number or prerequisites, including the wearing of the regimental uniform, but the holder of the title is not the actual commander of the regiment in question.
The Order of Knight Imperial is fictional.
Wearing a miniature is indicative of the particular favor of the ruler. These were hand-painted to order and usually mounted on gold or platinum with diamonds surrounding.
I do not know if there is a statue of St Michael in the Novosibirsk cathedral. If there isn’t, there ought to be.
In life, St Michael held the military rank of Taxiarch, very roughly a brigadier or one-star general.
I’ve used a respectful title for Rasputin, in deference to Alexei, to whom he brought some comfort.
Kostroma is the city in which the first of the Romanovs was elected Tsar.
Admiral Kolchak was a noted Arctic explorer during his early career. There was an island named for him on the maps until the Bolsheviks remembered it.
A shashka is the traditional sword of the Cossack. It has a slight curve to the blade, balanced to cut as well as thrust, notably lacking a hilt.
The Preobrazhenski Guard was an old Imperial regiment dating back to Peter the Great. To the best of my knowledge the 115th mounted infantry is wholly fictional.
Russian names and words are transliterated. The spellings I’ve used all appear in books published in English.

* * *]]>

The spelling of “Michael”, as in the Saint, is used as opposed to “Mikhail” in an effort to be transnational.
The rank of Colonel General does not exist in the army of the US or UK. It does in Russia and in the old German Army. It falls between a full, or four star general, and field marshal.
Colonel-in-Chief is an honorary position providing a number or prerequisites, including the wearing of the regimental uniform, but the holder of the title is not the actual commander of the regiment in question.
The Order of Knight Imperial is fictional.
Wearing a miniature is indicative of the particular favor of the ruler. These were hand-painted to order and usually mounted on gold or platinum with diamonds surrounding.
I do not know if there is a statue of St Michael in the Novosibirsk cathedral. If there isn’t, there ought to be.
In life, St Michael held the military rank of Taxiarch, very roughly a brigadier or one-star general.
I’ve used a respectful title for Rasputin, in deference to Alexei, to whom he brought some comfort.
Kostroma is the city in which the first of the Romanovs was elected Tsar.
Admiral Kolchak was a noted Arctic explorer during his early career. There was an island named for him on the maps until the Bolsheviks remembered it.
A shashka is the traditional sword of the Cossack. It has a slight curve to the blade, balanced to cut as well as thrust, notably lacking a hilt.
The Preobrazhenski Guard was an old Imperial regiment dating back to Peter the Great. To the best of my knowledge the 115th mounted infantry is wholly fictional.
Russian names and words are transliterated. The spellings I’ve used all appear in books published in English.

* * *]]> <![CDATA[ARMISTICE]]> https://funtailix.com/portal/showthread.php?tid=2369 Wed, 16 Jul 2025 09:14:00 +0000 WMASG]]> https://funtailix.com/portal/showthread.php?tid=2369 On the lone dirt street that led in and out of the town, a row of merchants still plied their trade. There was a general store, a butcher, two publicans, a pharmacist and a baker all catering to the basic needs of the small population that called Thompsonville home. There were other establishments as well, like the tea house, which looked out over the smooth waters of the lake, the newspaper, which kept the locals informed with both news and gossip, and others also, some of which the good, god-fearing folks of this place dared not acknowledge.
There was also a school, and a church, and a village green, near to the shores of the lake. Life was simple, and life was good… for most people at least…and yet even though the townsfolk wanted for very little, they had not been left untouched by the events occurring across the globe.
That was because there were husbands and sons and brothers who were still fighting for the cause, trying to ensure the freedom of the citizens of the British Empire and prevent the Kaiser from overrunning all of Europe.
This task had taken its toll, and there were many from these fair shores who would never return, having paid the ultimate sacrifice for King and country, forever to remain entombed in foreign soil, and leaving their families back home forever grieving their loss.
For the younger generation of boys, especially those teenagers nearing that certain age where they were able to go off to fight, they lived in a strange world, a twilight world of mixed emotions. For most, they were filled excitement and were actually looking forward to the challenge, desperately wanting to take their chance and don the uniform, to do their bit. Indeed, there were those who were so keen for adventure that they changed their ages and stepped up to serve anyhow; yet even for these adventurous souls there were still thoughts in the back of their minds which sowed doubts. Would they ever return? Would their sweethearts wait for them? Would the war even last long enough for them to get to see some action?
And then there were those who dreaded the thought of it all. They had heard all the stories about the horrors of war, relayed to them through the local newspaper. The stories about the deaths, the maimings, the sickness, the living hell that the soldiers were made to endure … or at least those lucky enough to have survived to be able to tell the tale of how they endured it all… they had heard it all. Just as they had heard of places such as Gallipolli and Flanders and The Somme, and what happened there. They knew that war was a killer, and that only pain and heartbreak could come from it, yet even though they may not have liked the thought of it, they knew they would have to go if called upon, for that was what simply had to be done.
And it was especially so for two such sons of Thompsonville.
*     *     *
‘But Jack, you know that it’s expected of us all… I don’t really have a choice. You know that,’ one boy said to the other.
‘But that’s just it, Davy… you do have a choice!’ his companion replied. ‘We could always go up river somewhere, right away from it all.’
‘You know I couldn’t do that,’ Davy replied. ‘There is a job that needs to be done… I will have to go… I need to go.’
‘Yes, I know, Davy,’ the other boy sighed. ‘But that doesn’t mean I have to like it,’
They were lazing by a creek which fed into the Thompson River, well upstream from the township and far from prying eyes. It was a place that was special to them both, a place where they could retreat from the world around them, where they could simply be themselves, without fear of discovery or persecution.
Above them the lazy branches of a lush willow cast a cooling shade, sheltering them from the summer sun with its lazy branches drooping down to the water’s edge, creating a hidden den. Beyond the veil of green that protected their secret there was a languid waterhole, deep and clear, where the two young neighbours had swum and played for half of their young lives, and into which they could often be found divingand frolicking, naked and free, while filling the air with the sound of youthful laughter.
It was a place that Davy Thompson, the older of the two, had discovered as a boy, and so it followed that his faithful younger sidekick, Jack Henderson, from the neighbouring dairy farm, would also be introduced to its beauty.
Its location was their secret, and as they grew from the cheeky pre-pubescent boys that they had been when they had first met, into the strapping and handsome lads they were now, it had been the first of many secrets they would share in this world.
But now that world was changing, as Davy’s eighteenth birthday approached. It was a promise he had made to his parents… that he wouldn’t enlist until after that day … and it was a promise he was going to keep. After that date the tall and handsome, dark haired farm boy would pledge himself to King and country, at least for the duration of thisGreat War which was being fought. After that date he would pull on a uniform and be sent to far off places, first to be trained to fight, and then to be thrust into battle, not knowing if he would live or die, not knowing if he would ever see the boy he loved again.
‘But aren’t you scared?’ Jack asked his partner, as he gazed up into the handsome face.
They were in their shady nook, both naked after having enjoyed a morning swim to wash away the sweat and dirt of their earlier farm work. Davy leaned back against the trunk of a tree, while cradling the head of Jack in his lap, looking down upon the muscular figure, hard from his years of growing up and working on the farm, and gently running his hand through the other boy’s light brown hair.
‘I’m scared like I have never been before, my love. But it is something that must still be done.’
‘They say the war shall be over soon anyhow, so perhaps you won’t have to fight after all? Perhaps it will be over even before your birthday… and then it won’t even matter.’
‘Or perhaps it will go on for another four years…’ Davy sighed.
‘Please don’t say that… I couldn’t bear to not see you for …’ Jack began to say.
‘Sshhhh…’ Davy said, trying to reassure the other. ‘I’ll wager that it’ll be over before the year is out. You just wait and see.’
‘And then you’ll come home to me?’
‘I promise, my love,’ Davy replied, before leaning down and placing his lips upon those of Jack, just as he had been doing, whenever they were alone, for almost four years now.
It had all started innocently enough. At that time the two boys had been friends for more than five years, having lived on neighbouring farms. A friendship had been quick to form, and as the two boys grew older, that bond only grew stronger.
One day, however, while they were skinny dipping at their favourite place, on the creek that ran between the two farms, something happened to change things. Something that hadn’t happened before.
As Davy emerged from the water, his friend noticed that Davy was hard. His lithe body, tanned and firm from their daily work, had shone in the morning sun as they swam and played.They had been wrestling in the water and Jack had thought he had felt something firm brush against him, but hadn’t been sure. Now he knew what that was, and that thought began to excite him in a way that he hadn’t been excited before. He too was hard. He could feel it without even having the need to look down at himself, or to touch himself, which was what he most often did at night when alone in his bed and images of his friend would constantly dance in his head.
Emboldened by the thought that he wasn’t the only one, he followed his friend from the water and into the shade of their tree. The thirteen and fourteen year old boys looked each other up and down, then smiled.
Nothing was said. Nothing needed to be said.
As they came closer together, it was as if each seemed to know just what the other was thinking.
*     *     *
The town of Thompsonville was built upon the availability of the precious natural resources that were in abundance around it.
There was the timber that came from the upper reaches of the Thompson River, which was floated downstream to the mill that had been established by old Cecil Thompson, Davy’s great-uncle, on the northern edge of the lake.
There were thehandful of small dairy farms on the lush rolling hills to the north of the town, which supplied milk not only to Thompsonville, but also to the nearby township of Macquarie Harbour, which was itself rapidly expanding, even in these troubled times.
And there was also a small fleet of fishing boats, which used the beautiful and sheltered waters of the natural harbor as their base.
It was the family of Davy Thompson who had first settled the area. His great-grandfather, to be precise, settling upon the lake when there was nothing but scrubland and natives, and so it wasn’t surprising that the area became so named.
Soon afterwards more family members arrived, once news of Cecil’s good fortune began to spread, and so it wasn’t long before land was cleared, buildings went up, and a settlement began to emerge.
As the years passed the small town continued to grow. Others came and went, but the Thompsons remained. Or at least most of them did.
That was when the timber mill and the dairy farms came into existence, which required workers to manage them. Pretty soon the hovels that had been built by the original Thompson settlers were replaced by neat and tidy cottages and shops, and the beginnings of a real town on the shores of Thompson Lake began to take shape.
Of course it wasn’t always smooth sailing for the struggling township, with fire and flood making themselves known from time to time, just to ensure that the locals stayed wary of mother nature, but by and large things were good, and the town was continuing to grow.
By 1918 the town was a quaint little settlement, but one that was thriving, at least when compared to those early years. The needs of the townsfolk were well catered for, despite the war going on in Europe, and apart from the fact that there was a shortage of younger men, as most of these were off fighting, there was little evidence of that eventhaving any major effect onthe lives of the residents. Everybody was doing the best they could, and life went on.
*     *     *
It was in March of that year when Davy Thompson came of age, celebrating his eighteenth birthday, and thus becoming old enough to be able to fight – and die if need be – for his country. While others of his age may have changed their dates of birth to be able to go earlier, Davy had resisted any pressures applied to do so, and he had good reason to.
Firstly there was the fact that he was in love, although nobody but his lover knew of this for sure (even if some may have had their suspicions); then there was also the fact that he was an only child, and with aging parents he knew that they would struggle with the farm on their own, so his desire was to stay and help for as long as he possibly could. He had even asked Jack to look in on them and help them out if the need arose, to which Jack willingly agreed, but secretly hoped he wouldn’t have to, as he was sure that sooner or later he would let slip something of his true feelings for their son.
As the weeks to Davy’s birthday were counted down the pressure being applied to him to enlist and be a man began to mount, even though there had never been any doubt in his own mind that he would be going. Conscription had been on the mind of the entire country in recent years, with two separate referendums on the topic being held, and with the Australian people twice voting against its introduction.
This didn’t stop some people from pushing that barrow, however, and one such person to constantly remind the local lads that they should be doing their duty was the postmaster, old man Simpkins. He personally saw to it, as he would deliver the mail to outlying areas in the old fashioned way, using his pinto pony and buggy, despite the fact that those newfangled motor cars were now a common sight around Thomsponville. He saw to it that leaflets promoting enlistment were handed to every eligible young man in the district, especially those he knew to be approaching the age of eighteen.He saw it as his duty to tell all of the young men of Thompsonville that they should be heading off to war, and neither Davy nor Jack could escape his haranguing of them, even though he knew that it would be almost a full year before Jack came of age.
‘They can have you when you’re eighteen, and not a day sooner,’Davy’s father gravely swore, while Davy’s mother could only nod in agreement.
For Davy that meant he had just a few weeks grace, a few more weeks that he could spend in the company of Jack, and he had full intentions of making the most of that opportunity.
When his father complained of the amount of time he had spent with his friend he gently reminded him that they may never see each other again.
‘And what of your parents? Might you also never seen them again?’ his father had asked.
‘But father, I see you and mother first thing every morning. I work beside you every day, while mother prepares lunch for us each day. And I see you every night. Is it so terrible a request, before I must leave and head off to face whatever it is that my fate is, to spend some time with the one other person in this worldabout whom I care almost equally?’
His father looked down his long nose at his son, studying him carefully. For a long time neither Thompson man spoke
‘No, I guess not, lad, if that’s how you feel,’ the elder man eventually said, while wistfully recalling his own youth. It seemed the Thompson blood was strong in this boy, he thought.
*     *     *
When the date of Davy’s birthday finally arrived, March twelfth, there was little to celebrate, and these three Thompsons all knew it.
As they did every morning they rose and went about their daily business, pausing only briefly to wish their son a happy day and present him with his gift, a new safety razor with an ivory handle, to mark his becoming a man, before all three carried on with their morning chores.
It wasn’t until they had gathered for breakfast, some while later, that Davy took down the dreaded leaflet from the mantelpiece above the stove, where it had been sat not long after it had arrived.
Davy read it again, even though he knew every word upon it by heart.
‘Are you sure you want to do this, Davy?’ his mother asked him.
He looked up at his parents, who both expressions of worry. Slowly he nodded.
‘I have to,’ he said to them. ‘We must all do our bit.’
‘And what of your friend, Jack? Will he do his bit?’ his father asked.
‘He has almost a year before he needs to decide that. I know he hates war, but if he has to go he will. In the meantime he’ll still be doing his bit here… I’ve asked him to help you, if you need it, and he has agreed.’
‘That’s very sweet of him, Davy. With any luck the war will be over by the time he needs to consider going,’ his mother added.
‘That’s what I’ve been telling him,’ Davy remarked, before looking down at the leaflet once more.
As the emotion welled up inside him he thought he was in control of himself, that he was able to disguise the genuine fear that he was now beginning to feel, but his parents both saw the trembling hands with which he held the leaflet. They said nothing, though, for they knew his mind was made.
‘Mr Simpkins said I am to report to the barracks in Macquarie Harbor, just as soon as I am able following my birthday,’ he said to his concerned parents.
‘Well, boy, we knew this day would come,’ his father said. ‘We may not like it, but we know you’ll do us all proud, son.’
‘Yes, papa,’ Davy replied. ‘I will.’
‘It is quite a trip from here. We will leave in the morning,’ his father stated. ‘I suppose you must visit your friend to let him know.’
‘Yes, I should,’ Davy responded, as he tried to think of just how he would be able to break the news to Jack, the boy who was more than just his friend… he was also his brother… his lover… his everything, and he knew it was going to break both their hearts to be apart.
After breakfast, Davy set out across the paddocks on horseback in the direction of the Henderson farm. He didn’t think that Jack would be down by the creek, so he rode for their home instead, wading through the creek at the shallow crossing well downstream from their swimming hole and then cantering along the well-worn track toward where the small timber cottage was situated on a lush green hill, and surrounded by Jacaranda trees, with their beautiful purple flowers, and silky oaks.
In his own mind he had rehearsed over and over what it was he was going to say, but when he found Jack waiting for him at the gate into the yard around the house, there were no words that came to mind.
The two boys looked at each other glumly. There was nothing that could be said. They both knew that this was it.
‘You’ve made up your mind, then?’ Jack eventually managed to ask, as Davy climbed down from the back of his mare, nodding, though not wanting to say anything lest he lose his self-control.
Jack had known what was coming. They had discussed it often, and even though theyhad disagreed, he had still expected this news. He had even discussed it with his own parents and theyall agreed that Davy must make up his own mind. All that considered, it didn’t make the likely news any easier to swallow.
‘W-w-where are your parents?’ Davy cautiously asked.
‘Gone into the town,’ answered Jack. ‘They will be there for much of the day. What are your plans?’
‘I am to report to the barracks in Macquarie Harbour, just as soon after my birthday as practicable,’ Davy gloomily replied. ‘We shall be leaving in the morning.’
‘Just like that?’
‘It seems so. I’ll come back to see you again before I have to leave, I promise.’
‘You had better… or I shall never talk to you again,’ Jack declared, pouting slightly.
‘I promise,’ Davy said gravely, before taking Jack in his arms and burying his face against the younger boy’s neck.
The two boys spent much of that day together, not knowing if it might be the last time they are able to do so. Neither said anything about the immediate future, they were living in the here and now, and as they slowly undressed each other that afternoon, in the small nook off the back verandah that Jack called his room, drinking in the sight of each other’s nakedness, their only thoughts were on loving the other in a way they hadn’t done so before; perhaps for the first and last time.
*     *     *
As they lay together afterwards, Davy said, ‘At least you’ll still be here, all safe and sound,’
‘That may be true, but that will only be until the end of the year… until my own …’
‘Sshhh… It’ll all be over by then. I’m sure.’
‘How can you say that?’ Jack despaired. ‘You don’t know that… the war could go on for years yet. And if I don’t go, then I shall be shunned by everyone. I’ve heard of men even being beaten up for not going.’
‘We have to have some faith, my love. We have to trust that sooner or later it will all end… and when it does, we shall be together again… I promise you. I make this vow to you that I will return and we shall meet at that favourite place of ours, where our love will once again be able to flourish.’
Jack wished he could have the confidence that Davy had, but he knew there was no use in pointing out the obvious… that there was no way that Davy could make such promises as those he had made today. He knew that Davy would be clinging to the hope offered by those promises just as much as he would himself, so in return he promised himself that he wouldn’t say anything.
A short time later, as Davy rode away, heading for his home after sharing one last kiss across the back gate, Jack could only watch, his heart breaking, tears making their way down his face, as he wondered if this would be the final time he would ever see his love.
For Davy too, the tears were flowing, but he dared not look back. The sight of Jack that he wanted to carry with him into the months ahead was not that of a tearful boy, but that of a beautiful young man, firm and strong and loving. What he wanted to rememberwas the sight and scent of his youthful body, the feel of his lover as Jack enteredhim for that first time, and the expression on his face as he reached that climactic moment. It was a wonderful experience … however anyone could say something that beautiful was a sin he had no idea… and he felt certain that it would be the memory of this afternoonthat would be what would sustain him over the dangerous months to come.
When he reached his own home, after taking some time at the creek crossing to recover himself and wash the tears from his face, Davy was ready to face his own future, whatever that may be. His mother watched him from the verandah of their home, leaning against a post with her arms crossed in front of her and looking concerned, as he unsaddled his horse and then let her out into the small paddock where she was kept.
He wasn’t sure where his father was, but he fully expected to receive some sort of a tongue lashing for having been away for the best part of the day and neglecting his duties. When his father emerged from the shed moments later he was rather surprised that nothing was said, other than his asking after Jack.
‘Do they know of our love?’ he fearfully wondered.
‘How did he take the news?’ Davy’s father enquired.
‘We all knew it was coming,’ Davy replied. ‘I am sure that Jack will survive without me,’ he added, with just a hint of a smile on his face and in his voice.
‘Ahhh, yes, but will you survive without him?’ his father asked, while slapping his son on the back, before heading toward the house, and leaving Davy staring at his back.
*     *     *
Several weeks after Davy had gone, leaving Jack heartbroken after he hadn’t even returned to say goodbye, Jack received a letter. He knew the hand of the writer, perhaps better than that of anyone else in the world, and when his mother handed it to him that night, after he had come in from doing his chores, his heart skipped a beat, while at the same time he felt the blood drain from his face.
‘If you like, take it to your room to read,’ his mother had said, and for the first time he knew that someone else had some idea of his feelings for Davy. He looked at her inquisitively, as if trying to read her thoughts. ‘It’s all right, dear. I understand,’ she added, while briefly holding her son’s hands in hers, before then shooing him away with her hands.
Suddenly free of the fear he had secretly harboured for years, Jack kissed her on the cheek, then took off for his room, eagerly ripping the envelope open and finding not only a letter, but also a sepia toned photograph of a handsome young soldier in uniform, complete with his slouch hat and Enfield rifle.
Those two items would be what would sustain Jack for many months to come.
Dearest Jack,
I hope this finds you well, and that you have forgiven me my abrupt departure, without having said a proper goodbye? You will talk to me again, won’t you?
Things moved so fast after seeing the enlistment people in Macquarie Harbour and I’m afraid that I was unable to even return home. I hope that mother and father had let you know of that?
Unfortunately I cannot say where I am right now, apparently regulations forbid it, but rest assured I am still in our own country, for the time being at least. It is hot and dry where we are, and our regiment is training very hard. They are a companionable bunch, all from around Macquarie Harbour and towns such as ours, and so that makes it a little easier when I start to miss all my family and friends from home, as I know that they are feeling much the same.
When I feel particularly down in the mouth I only have to think about that place on the creek and all the fun that we had there whilst growing up. Such thoughts of home, of what we did and what we shall do again, shall be what I will carry with me throughout this journey, and into whatever battles I may face, and that is what will sustain me in the months, or even years, ahead.
The officers say we can expect to be going to Europe, but just where in Europe, or when, we do not know. It is all something of a guessing game, and some of the lads have started a book. My money, what little of it I have, is wagered on France, but we will just have to wait and see.
I must go now. Please be sure to give my fondest regards to your parents and our friends. I am counting the days until I can see the smiling faces of all those I love so much, the shores of our lake and our small town once again.
Sincerely yours,
David Thompson
Jack read it, and read it again.
To him, the letter seemed somewhat formal and even a little impersonal, not what you would expect to see written between two people in love, and at first he was a little disappointed. But then, as he thought it over, he realised that it was foolish of him to have expected anything different. Davy had said that he couldn’t say where they currently were, which to Jack at least, meant that the mail was likely being watched by the army, and if that was the case, then how could Davy say anything about loving him, or about what they were both wanting, or about what their future might hold.
When he re-read through it he focused on the paragraph which mentioned the fun they had had, and the fun they would have again. Then he read the final sentence once more… I am counting the days until I can see the smiling faces of all those I love so much.
That gave him hope, and for now at least, that was enough.
*     *     *
In the months that followed, thoughts of Davy were constantly on Jack’s mind. There had only been one more letter after that first one, within which Davy told Jack that they were about to be shipped out, but he still knew nothing of to where.
After that, there was nothing more.
With each passing week Jack was becoming more and more anxious, and being starved of any news or information regarding Davy, Jack took to visiting his lover’s parents, pestering them for any news they may have had, but they too had scarcely heard from their son.
He had promised Davy that he would look in on them anyhow, and help out wherever may be needed, and was only too pleased to honour that promise, especially if there was the hope of hearing some news… any news, of his love. He toiled in the paddocks beside Davy’s father, often ate meals with them, and got to know them in a way that he had never expected.
From the time Davy had left them all, which had been many months ago now, summer had given way to autumn, which had in turn given way to winter; a particularly wild winter which saw the coastal areas being lashed by storms. By the time spring had arrived, for which they were all extremely grateful, so too had news of losses on the battle front, and in particular those suffered by the regiments that had originated from Macquarie Harbour and surrounds.
The Thompson and Henderson families were by now both growing anxious for news of Davy. There had been a tacit acceptance that the friendship between the boys was in fact more than that, even if nothing had ever been said, nor could it be, so all four parents were equally concerned, not only for the fate of Davy, but also for the wellbeing of Jack.
Feverishly they would search through each issue of the newspapers from both Thompsonville and Macquarie Harbour, checking the lists of killed and wounded. If anyone from the town returned from the war they would ask them for news, but none was ever forthcoming.
They also saw the effect that the war had had on these men, who returned as mere shells of themselves. Some were missing limbs. Some were suffering the effects of that evil mustard gas that had been used by the Kaiser’s men, leaving them coughing and gasping for air as their burning lungs struggled to provide their bodies with the oxygen they needed.And that was just the lucky ones who had survived.
September too, came and went, with still no word on Davy’s fate.
As did October.
Then it was around this time that word began to filter through that the allies had been victorious is several battles, with names such as Amiens and The Hindenberg Line becoming known, and that the Hun were on the run. This gave rise to a growing confidence amongst the people of Thompsonville that the end of the war was within sight, and their husbands, sons, brothers and lovers,would soon return.
Perhaps then they would also be able to find out more about the fate of Davy Thompson?
*     *     *
When November rolled around there was an excitement in the air amongst the people of the townwhich hadn’t been felt in years, as rumours of victories and an impending ceasefire began trickling through. By the middle of that month those rumours and that excitement became quite real, as confirmation came through that at eleven a.m.on November 11th, 1918 an armistice had been declared.
The war was finally over. The sons of this land would soon be returning home, and there would be no more sent off to fight, or so the notices in the newspaper stated.
Jack and his parents, along with Davy’s parents also, breathed a massive sigh of relief, as with his own eighteenth birthday now only a matter of weeks away, they too had been preparing for him to be sent off to do battle.
At least Davy had been right. The war had indeed ended before the end of the year. Jack could only hope and pray now that Davy had been able to see the end of it and was, right at this moment, on his way home to them, a proud and victorious soldier.
After the announcement of the armistice Jack began counting the days, yet as the days turned into weeks, and the weeks turned into months, the excitement he had been feeling at the prospect of seeing his love once again began to dim.
Jack’s birthday came around and still there was no sign of Davy. Without news of his beloved, it was just another day for Jack, no matter how hard his parents tried to cheer him.
Later, a few more of the Thompsonville men came limping home from the front, mere shadows of their former selves, and Davy’s loved ones once again began to fear the worst. It had been more than six months now since there had been any contact from Davy, when that last letter had arrived just prior to his shipping out and the enquiries they had repeatedly made through the enlistment office in Macquarie Harbor were continually met with no results.
And each day Jack would also watch for the postmaster and his horse and buggy, hopeful that one day there would be news, or better still, they would have a passenger, a returning soldier who would be dropped off at their home, wherever they happened to have come from,as did happen on some occasions. All too often, however, there was nothing that would offer hopeto Jack or his family asyet another week would go by without the answers they sought to the mystery of Davy’s whereabouts.
For Jack it was as if his heart and soul had been ripped from his very being, as he pined for the one he loved, all the while sinking deeper and deeper into a pit of despair from which he could see no way out.
Christmas came, and then it went, with still no word. Davy’s presents remainedunopened, waiting for his return. Then 1918 became 1919 and another summer was well upon them. Perhaps a change ofseason would bring them all the answers they sought?
From time to time word would also come to the farm that more soldiers had returned. Often Jack would ride into town upon hearing such news, hopeful that Davy would be amongst them. But having been constantly disappointed, time after time returning home with a feeling of emptiness inside him, he had long since given up hope of such trips to town bringing him joy.
There were many times when he would retreat into his own little world, to that special place beside a languid stream, shaded by willows, where the two of them had been so happy. Here was where Jack could re-live every moment that they had spent together, venturing back along the dusty paths of his own memories, always taking with him that sepia photograph of the young soldier, yet seeing in his own mind a vivid image, in living colour, of the boy he loved.
*     *     *
And so it was that on a hot day in late February, as the sun beat down on the bushland, and upon drying summer pastures that were turning gold, Jack found himself retreating into his own little world once more.
On this day he didn’t see old man Simpkins and his buggy trotting along the road, nor did he hear the chatter between the two people sitting upon it. The postmaster was always excited when one of the local boys returned from the front, and for the chance to pepper them with questions about their adventures, and so he would often insist on providing them with a lift home.
For Davy it felt good to be back on familiar ground and to smell the familiar scents of the town, and the lake, and the bush he had grown up in. It had been almost a year since he had left … a long time to be away from home, and especially from the ones you love. He couldn’t wait to see his home come into view, or to climb the hill, to where his parents and his lover would be waiting.
As best he could he answered the old man’s questions, even if he had grown tired of them not long after they had passed the edge of town, and while he tried not to appear to be rude, or ungrateful, he couldn’t help but wish that there had been another way home. Walking had been out of the question, as while his shattered leg had healed the discomfort of the limp he had been left with made walking any great distance a real problem for him.
As they trotted along, listening to the whirring sounds of the wheels of the buggy, the clip-clop of the horse’s hooves on the sun baked track, the birds in the tress around them, Davy sat back and closed his eyes. The sounds and the scents of the bush all took him back to the places and times of his younger days, when life was so much simpler and he had been yet to witness the brutalities and horror of the western front. For a long while he just let the present wash over him as he thought of what lay ahead… the winding road, emerging into open grasslands, the timber gateway and the track which led upthe rise to the cottage that was his family’s home.
It was close now. So close. And the nightmare of the past year would soon be little more than a bad memory.
When they eventually emerged from the bushland, with the hot afternoon sun streaming down on his face, Davy finally opened his eyes. Simpkins had long ago fallen quiet, after finally noticing that his passenger was sitting back and appeared to be sleeping, but now that Davy had woken he tried to resume his conversation.
‘Almost there now, lad,’ the older man said.
‘Yeah,’ Davy replied, as he tried stretching his gammy leg.
‘Gives you a bit of trouble, does it?’ Simpkins asked, while nodding toward the leg. ‘What happened?’
‘Cannon,’ Davy curtly replied, while wincing at the painful memories that it brought up… remembering the sight of the mangled bodies of the men who had been his mates … the stench of the trenches… the sounds of explosions, ofgunfire, of men screaming, pleading for help… or for death to come to them quickly.
Once more Davy wanted to close his eyes, but the sight before him prevented it, as they had just crested a low hill and were now looking out across the valley that was once his home, and would be again. Davy sat up and leaned forward, drinking in the sight that was before him.
Simpkins reined in his pony and brought the buggy to a stop.
‘Quite a sight, eh lad? I never grow tired of seeing it,’ the old man said.
‘It sure is a sight for sore eyes, let me tell you,’ Davy replied.
On the far side of the valley he could see his home, a small cottage half way up the slope, which caught the morning sun at the start of each day.On the hill closest to them he could see the home where Jack had grown up and still lived. And between them ran the willow lined creek where they had explored and played and fallen in love.
Davy gazed longingly at his home, wondering how his parents were and if they would be there now, then he looked up at the Henderson home and wondered what Jack was doing at this moment.
‘Your mate sure got lucky,’ Simpkins offered. ‘They war finished just in time for him.’
‘He doesn’t know just how lucky he was,’ Davy replied. ‘No one should ever have to live through that…’
The postmaster looked at Davy for a long time. He could see the hurt that was in the young man’s face. He thought he could see something else as well, as Davy stared up at his friend’s home, but couldn’t quite make out what that was.
‘Perhaps that is best left alone,’ he thought to himself, before flicking the reins at his pony and continuing on their journey.
There was a small bridge where the road passed over the creek, and not far beyond that there was a gateway at the side of the road, beyond whichwas a driveway which led up the rise to the Thompson home.
‘I’ll take you up to your house,’ Simpkins said to his passenger, knowing full well that the lad would struggle with his leg as it was.
‘That’s very kind of you. Thank you,’ Davy replied.
‘T’is the least I could do, lad,’ he said, as he pulled his pony to a halt once more, then climbed down to open the gate.
Davy was gazing longingly at the house upon the hill when Simpkins climbed back in for the trip up to the house.
‘Are they expecting you?’ he asked, as he flicked the reins at his pony once more.
‘No.’
‘A surprise then?’
‘You could put it that way.’
‘They’ll be glad to have you back.’
‘Even like this?’ Davy asked, his voice close to breaking as he tried to pull his leg upwards.
‘They’ll take you any way they can have you, Davy. You’ve done your family and your country proud, son.’
Davy wasn’t so sure of that. He would never be the man, now, that he had always promised to become. Would they still love half a man?
It wasn’t long before they reached the top of the rise, which was a short distance from the gate into the house yard.
‘Can you stop here please, Mr Simpkins?’ Davy asked. ‘I can make it that far. I’d kind of like to do it under my own steam, if I may.’
‘Of course, Davy,’ he replied, as he reined his pony in once more.
Rather clumsily, Davy climbed down from the buggy, refusing offers of help from Simpkins, and eventually he was standing tall and proud in his uniform, even if he was leaning on one crutch which supported his weight.
On the ground beside him was a duffle bag, containing his few belonging.
‘Are you sure you’re going to be able to manage?’ the postmaster fretted.
‘Quite sure, thank you,’ Davy replied, before thrusting his hand out toward the older man. ‘Thank you for your kindness.’
‘It has been my pleasure, lad,’ Simpkins replied, as he shook the soldiers hand. ‘It’s good to have you back.’
‘It’s good to be back.’
*     *     *
Davy stood and watched as the buggy headed off down the hill, chuckling to himself as he listened to Simpkins singing, before then picking up his bag and beginning an unsteady walk toward the house.
The sound must have caught the attention of those inside the house, as he soon heard the familiar sound of the squeaking hinge on the front screen door. Some things hadn’t changed.
Looking up he saw two figures step out onto the verandah, with curious expressions on their faces.Almost at once he saw his mother’s hands went up to her mouth, then in the next motion she jumped down from the verandah and started running toward him, with his father hot on her heels.
‘Oh, my god! It’s Davy! It’s Davy!’ he heard her squeal, then moments later he was swept up in the embrace of both his parents, as they rushed to him. Tears were soon flowing freely from all three of them and for a long while they just held each other and cried, before eventually his parents stepped back and took stock of their son.
He looked dashing in his uniform, but they were dismayed at the sight of the crutch that was still under his arm and the bow that seemed to now be in his right leg, and when he shuffled back a step after almost overbalancing his mother cried at the sight.
‘What happened, son?’ his father asked.
‘Cannon fire. The Huns scored a direct hit on our gun placement.’
‘And the others with you?’
‘All dead, papa!’
His father nodded glumly, grateful that by some miracle he had survived.
‘Come inside,’ his mother said. ‘You must be starving.’
‘I am, mother. But there is something else that I must first do,’ Davy responded.
‘But you have to eat!’
‘There’ll be plenty of time for that, dear. He knows what he needs to do,’ his father said. The two Thompson men nodded to each other.
‘Thank you, father.’
‘Try down by the creek. I thought I saw him down along there this morning. Will you be able to manage?’
‘I think so,’ Davy replied.
‘And when you return, you must tell us everything,’ his mother commanded.
‘I will, mother. I promise. But first things first,’ he said, before setting off down the track toward the creek.
As his ageing parents watched him hobble off in that direction, while leaning heavily on the crutch, they thanked God that their son had been returned to them.
*     *     *
Davy noted that the track which ran between the Thompson and Henderson homes seemed to be in much better condition than when he last traversed its length. Obviously Jack had been using it, keeping his promise to help out Davy’s parents, which brought a smile to his face.
When he reached the creek crossing he turned off the main track and followed another path which ran parallel to the creek. He found the going to be easier than he had expected and soon settled into a steady, if somewhat ungainly, pace.
Beside him the crystal clear waters of the creek bubbled over the rocks, while above him he could hear a breeze whistling through the willows and silky oaks. And beyond that the distinctive, malevolent call of a crow could be heard on the wind.
For a few minutes he stops and rests beneath the shade of a willow, catching his breath and letting the pain in his leg subside. But he knows that he needs to keep going, he needs to keep moving, and so he doesn’t linger.
Before long he spots the familiar clump of trees that marked their special place, and as he makes his way closer he hopes and prays that Jack will be there.
As quietly as he could, Davy approached the trees, brushing aside the thick fringe of willow branches and stepping into the sheltered nook. It was then he spotted a lone figure sitting by the water’s edge, skimming stones across the still pond.
For a moment he just watches, drinking in the sight of the boy he loves so, until he sees him toss another stone. It hits the water and jumps, before hitting it again, and again, and again, before eventually sinking into the abyss.
‘Why, Davy?’ he hears Jack ask. ‘Why did you have to go? And why can’t you come back to us? I loved you… you knew that didn’t you?’
‘But don’t you still love me?’ Davy asks, unable to remain silent any longer.
For a moment nothing happens. Jack remains perfectly still, but then Davy hears a single sob.
‘God! Now I’m even hearing his voice in my head! What is happening to me?’ he cried.
‘Jack?’ Davy softly says. ‘It’s not in your head.’
Suddenly Jack’s head snaps around and he jumps to his feet.
Before him is a vision… a young soldier, silhouetted against the sunlight behind him, standing tall and proud. The wind momentarily parts the branches of the trees, allowing a shaft of sunlight to light up the figure standing there.
Jack rubbed at his eyes. Is he seeing things, or is it really him? Is it really Davy? Slowly he walks closer, still not quite believing what he is seeing.
‘Davy… is that really you?’ he whispers.
‘It is, Jack. It’s me. I’m home.’
Tears are streaming down the faces of the two lovers as Jack steps in closer. He reaches up and gently brushes them from Davy’s face, before examining his finger.
‘It really is you,’ Jack whispered, just as Davy cups his face in his own hands, then draws Jack closer to him.
In that moment the months that divided them are swept aside. This is the moment they had been waiting for, their love had endured, and everything else, the questions and answers, the plans for the future, all that can wait for later.
Right now they are together again, at last.
‘It really is me, Jack,’ Davy whispers, just before their lips finally meet.
~ End ~]]> On the lone dirt street that led in and out of the town, a row of merchants still plied their trade. There was a general store, a butcher, two publicans, a pharmacist and a baker all catering to the basic needs of the small population that called Thompsonville home. There were other establishments as well, like the tea house, which looked out over the smooth waters of the lake, the newspaper, which kept the locals informed with both news and gossip, and others also, some of which the good, god-fearing folks of this place dared not acknowledge.
There was also a school, and a church, and a village green, near to the shores of the lake. Life was simple, and life was good… for most people at least…and yet even though the townsfolk wanted for very little, they had not been left untouched by the events occurring across the globe.
That was because there were husbands and sons and brothers who were still fighting for the cause, trying to ensure the freedom of the citizens of the British Empire and prevent the Kaiser from overrunning all of Europe.
This task had taken its toll, and there were many from these fair shores who would never return, having paid the ultimate sacrifice for King and country, forever to remain entombed in foreign soil, and leaving their families back home forever grieving their loss.
For the younger generation of boys, especially those teenagers nearing that certain age where they were able to go off to fight, they lived in a strange world, a twilight world of mixed emotions. For most, they were filled excitement and were actually looking forward to the challenge, desperately wanting to take their chance and don the uniform, to do their bit. Indeed, there were those who were so keen for adventure that they changed their ages and stepped up to serve anyhow; yet even for these adventurous souls there were still thoughts in the back of their minds which sowed doubts. Would they ever return? Would their sweethearts wait for them? Would the war even last long enough for them to get to see some action?
And then there were those who dreaded the thought of it all. They had heard all the stories about the horrors of war, relayed to them through the local newspaper. The stories about the deaths, the maimings, the sickness, the living hell that the soldiers were made to endure … or at least those lucky enough to have survived to be able to tell the tale of how they endured it all… they had heard it all. Just as they had heard of places such as Gallipolli and Flanders and The Somme, and what happened there. They knew that war was a killer, and that only pain and heartbreak could come from it, yet even though they may not have liked the thought of it, they knew they would have to go if called upon, for that was what simply had to be done.
And it was especially so for two such sons of Thompsonville.
*     *     *
‘But Jack, you know that it’s expected of us all… I don’t really have a choice. You know that,’ one boy said to the other.
‘But that’s just it, Davy… you do have a choice!’ his companion replied. ‘We could always go up river somewhere, right away from it all.’
‘You know I couldn’t do that,’ Davy replied. ‘There is a job that needs to be done… I will have to go… I need to go.’
‘Yes, I know, Davy,’ the other boy sighed. ‘But that doesn’t mean I have to like it,’
They were lazing by a creek which fed into the Thompson River, well upstream from the township and far from prying eyes. It was a place that was special to them both, a place where they could retreat from the world around them, where they could simply be themselves, without fear of discovery or persecution.
Above them the lazy branches of a lush willow cast a cooling shade, sheltering them from the summer sun with its lazy branches drooping down to the water’s edge, creating a hidden den. Beyond the veil of green that protected their secret there was a languid waterhole, deep and clear, where the two young neighbours had swum and played for half of their young lives, and into which they could often be found divingand frolicking, naked and free, while filling the air with the sound of youthful laughter.
It was a place that Davy Thompson, the older of the two, had discovered as a boy, and so it followed that his faithful younger sidekick, Jack Henderson, from the neighbouring dairy farm, would also be introduced to its beauty.
Its location was their secret, and as they grew from the cheeky pre-pubescent boys that they had been when they had first met, into the strapping and handsome lads they were now, it had been the first of many secrets they would share in this world.
But now that world was changing, as Davy’s eighteenth birthday approached. It was a promise he had made to his parents… that he wouldn’t enlist until after that day … and it was a promise he was going to keep. After that date the tall and handsome, dark haired farm boy would pledge himself to King and country, at least for the duration of thisGreat War which was being fought. After that date he would pull on a uniform and be sent to far off places, first to be trained to fight, and then to be thrust into battle, not knowing if he would live or die, not knowing if he would ever see the boy he loved again.
‘But aren’t you scared?’ Jack asked his partner, as he gazed up into the handsome face.
They were in their shady nook, both naked after having enjoyed a morning swim to wash away the sweat and dirt of their earlier farm work. Davy leaned back against the trunk of a tree, while cradling the head of Jack in his lap, looking down upon the muscular figure, hard from his years of growing up and working on the farm, and gently running his hand through the other boy’s light brown hair.
‘I’m scared like I have never been before, my love. But it is something that must still be done.’
‘They say the war shall be over soon anyhow, so perhaps you won’t have to fight after all? Perhaps it will be over even before your birthday… and then it won’t even matter.’
‘Or perhaps it will go on for another four years…’ Davy sighed.
‘Please don’t say that… I couldn’t bear to not see you for …’ Jack began to say.
‘Sshhhh…’ Davy said, trying to reassure the other. ‘I’ll wager that it’ll be over before the year is out. You just wait and see.’
‘And then you’ll come home to me?’
‘I promise, my love,’ Davy replied, before leaning down and placing his lips upon those of Jack, just as he had been doing, whenever they were alone, for almost four years now.
It had all started innocently enough. At that time the two boys had been friends for more than five years, having lived on neighbouring farms. A friendship had been quick to form, and as the two boys grew older, that bond only grew stronger.
One day, however, while they were skinny dipping at their favourite place, on the creek that ran between the two farms, something happened to change things. Something that hadn’t happened before.
As Davy emerged from the water, his friend noticed that Davy was hard. His lithe body, tanned and firm from their daily work, had shone in the morning sun as they swam and played.They had been wrestling in the water and Jack had thought he had felt something firm brush against him, but hadn’t been sure. Now he knew what that was, and that thought began to excite him in a way that he hadn’t been excited before. He too was hard. He could feel it without even having the need to look down at himself, or to touch himself, which was what he most often did at night when alone in his bed and images of his friend would constantly dance in his head.
Emboldened by the thought that he wasn’t the only one, he followed his friend from the water and into the shade of their tree. The thirteen and fourteen year old boys looked each other up and down, then smiled.
Nothing was said. Nothing needed to be said.
As they came closer together, it was as if each seemed to know just what the other was thinking.
*     *     *
The town of Thompsonville was built upon the availability of the precious natural resources that were in abundance around it.
There was the timber that came from the upper reaches of the Thompson River, which was floated downstream to the mill that had been established by old Cecil Thompson, Davy’s great-uncle, on the northern edge of the lake.
There were thehandful of small dairy farms on the lush rolling hills to the north of the town, which supplied milk not only to Thompsonville, but also to the nearby township of Macquarie Harbour, which was itself rapidly expanding, even in these troubled times.
And there was also a small fleet of fishing boats, which used the beautiful and sheltered waters of the natural harbor as their base.
It was the family of Davy Thompson who had first settled the area. His great-grandfather, to be precise, settling upon the lake when there was nothing but scrubland and natives, and so it wasn’t surprising that the area became so named.
Soon afterwards more family members arrived, once news of Cecil’s good fortune began to spread, and so it wasn’t long before land was cleared, buildings went up, and a settlement began to emerge.
As the years passed the small town continued to grow. Others came and went, but the Thompsons remained. Or at least most of them did.
That was when the timber mill and the dairy farms came into existence, which required workers to manage them. Pretty soon the hovels that had been built by the original Thompson settlers were replaced by neat and tidy cottages and shops, and the beginnings of a real town on the shores of Thompson Lake began to take shape.
Of course it wasn’t always smooth sailing for the struggling township, with fire and flood making themselves known from time to time, just to ensure that the locals stayed wary of mother nature, but by and large things were good, and the town was continuing to grow.
By 1918 the town was a quaint little settlement, but one that was thriving, at least when compared to those early years. The needs of the townsfolk were well catered for, despite the war going on in Europe, and apart from the fact that there was a shortage of younger men, as most of these were off fighting, there was little evidence of that eventhaving any major effect onthe lives of the residents. Everybody was doing the best they could, and life went on.
*     *     *
It was in March of that year when Davy Thompson came of age, celebrating his eighteenth birthday, and thus becoming old enough to be able to fight – and die if need be – for his country. While others of his age may have changed their dates of birth to be able to go earlier, Davy had resisted any pressures applied to do so, and he had good reason to.
Firstly there was the fact that he was in love, although nobody but his lover knew of this for sure (even if some may have had their suspicions); then there was also the fact that he was an only child, and with aging parents he knew that they would struggle with the farm on their own, so his desire was to stay and help for as long as he possibly could. He had even asked Jack to look in on them and help them out if the need arose, to which Jack willingly agreed, but secretly hoped he wouldn’t have to, as he was sure that sooner or later he would let slip something of his true feelings for their son.
As the weeks to Davy’s birthday were counted down the pressure being applied to him to enlist and be a man began to mount, even though there had never been any doubt in his own mind that he would be going. Conscription had been on the mind of the entire country in recent years, with two separate referendums on the topic being held, and with the Australian people twice voting against its introduction.
This didn’t stop some people from pushing that barrow, however, and one such person to constantly remind the local lads that they should be doing their duty was the postmaster, old man Simpkins. He personally saw to it, as he would deliver the mail to outlying areas in the old fashioned way, using his pinto pony and buggy, despite the fact that those newfangled motor cars were now a common sight around Thomsponville. He saw to it that leaflets promoting enlistment were handed to every eligible young man in the district, especially those he knew to be approaching the age of eighteen.He saw it as his duty to tell all of the young men of Thompsonville that they should be heading off to war, and neither Davy nor Jack could escape his haranguing of them, even though he knew that it would be almost a full year before Jack came of age.
‘They can have you when you’re eighteen, and not a day sooner,’Davy’s father gravely swore, while Davy’s mother could only nod in agreement.
For Davy that meant he had just a few weeks grace, a few more weeks that he could spend in the company of Jack, and he had full intentions of making the most of that opportunity.
When his father complained of the amount of time he had spent with his friend he gently reminded him that they may never see each other again.
‘And what of your parents? Might you also never seen them again?’ his father had asked.
‘But father, I see you and mother first thing every morning. I work beside you every day, while mother prepares lunch for us each day. And I see you every night. Is it so terrible a request, before I must leave and head off to face whatever it is that my fate is, to spend some time with the one other person in this worldabout whom I care almost equally?’
His father looked down his long nose at his son, studying him carefully. For a long time neither Thompson man spoke
‘No, I guess not, lad, if that’s how you feel,’ the elder man eventually said, while wistfully recalling his own youth. It seemed the Thompson blood was strong in this boy, he thought.
*     *     *
When the date of Davy’s birthday finally arrived, March twelfth, there was little to celebrate, and these three Thompsons all knew it.
As they did every morning they rose and went about their daily business, pausing only briefly to wish their son a happy day and present him with his gift, a new safety razor with an ivory handle, to mark his becoming a man, before all three carried on with their morning chores.
It wasn’t until they had gathered for breakfast, some while later, that Davy took down the dreaded leaflet from the mantelpiece above the stove, where it had been sat not long after it had arrived.
Davy read it again, even though he knew every word upon it by heart.
‘Are you sure you want to do this, Davy?’ his mother asked him.
He looked up at his parents, who both expressions of worry. Slowly he nodded.
‘I have to,’ he said to them. ‘We must all do our bit.’
‘And what of your friend, Jack? Will he do his bit?’ his father asked.
‘He has almost a year before he needs to decide that. I know he hates war, but if he has to go he will. In the meantime he’ll still be doing his bit here… I’ve asked him to help you, if you need it, and he has agreed.’
‘That’s very sweet of him, Davy. With any luck the war will be over by the time he needs to consider going,’ his mother added.
‘That’s what I’ve been telling him,’ Davy remarked, before looking down at the leaflet once more.
As the emotion welled up inside him he thought he was in control of himself, that he was able to disguise the genuine fear that he was now beginning to feel, but his parents both saw the trembling hands with which he held the leaflet. They said nothing, though, for they knew his mind was made.
‘Mr Simpkins said I am to report to the barracks in Macquarie Harbor, just as soon as I am able following my birthday,’ he said to his concerned parents.
‘Well, boy, we knew this day would come,’ his father said. ‘We may not like it, but we know you’ll do us all proud, son.’
‘Yes, papa,’ Davy replied. ‘I will.’
‘It is quite a trip from here. We will leave in the morning,’ his father stated. ‘I suppose you must visit your friend to let him know.’
‘Yes, I should,’ Davy responded, as he tried to think of just how he would be able to break the news to Jack, the boy who was more than just his friend… he was also his brother… his lover… his everything, and he knew it was going to break both their hearts to be apart.
After breakfast, Davy set out across the paddocks on horseback in the direction of the Henderson farm. He didn’t think that Jack would be down by the creek, so he rode for their home instead, wading through the creek at the shallow crossing well downstream from their swimming hole and then cantering along the well-worn track toward where the small timber cottage was situated on a lush green hill, and surrounded by Jacaranda trees, with their beautiful purple flowers, and silky oaks.
In his own mind he had rehearsed over and over what it was he was going to say, but when he found Jack waiting for him at the gate into the yard around the house, there were no words that came to mind.
The two boys looked at each other glumly. There was nothing that could be said. They both knew that this was it.
‘You’ve made up your mind, then?’ Jack eventually managed to ask, as Davy climbed down from the back of his mare, nodding, though not wanting to say anything lest he lose his self-control.
Jack had known what was coming. They had discussed it often, and even though theyhad disagreed, he had still expected this news. He had even discussed it with his own parents and theyall agreed that Davy must make up his own mind. All that considered, it didn’t make the likely news any easier to swallow.
‘W-w-where are your parents?’ Davy cautiously asked.
‘Gone into the town,’ answered Jack. ‘They will be there for much of the day. What are your plans?’
‘I am to report to the barracks in Macquarie Harbour, just as soon after my birthday as practicable,’ Davy gloomily replied. ‘We shall be leaving in the morning.’
‘Just like that?’
‘It seems so. I’ll come back to see you again before I have to leave, I promise.’
‘You had better… or I shall never talk to you again,’ Jack declared, pouting slightly.
‘I promise,’ Davy said gravely, before taking Jack in his arms and burying his face against the younger boy’s neck.
The two boys spent much of that day together, not knowing if it might be the last time they are able to do so. Neither said anything about the immediate future, they were living in the here and now, and as they slowly undressed each other that afternoon, in the small nook off the back verandah that Jack called his room, drinking in the sight of each other’s nakedness, their only thoughts were on loving the other in a way they hadn’t done so before; perhaps for the first and last time.
*     *     *
As they lay together afterwards, Davy said, ‘At least you’ll still be here, all safe and sound,’
‘That may be true, but that will only be until the end of the year… until my own …’
‘Sshhh… It’ll all be over by then. I’m sure.’
‘How can you say that?’ Jack despaired. ‘You don’t know that… the war could go on for years yet. And if I don’t go, then I shall be shunned by everyone. I’ve heard of men even being beaten up for not going.’
‘We have to have some faith, my love. We have to trust that sooner or later it will all end… and when it does, we shall be together again… I promise you. I make this vow to you that I will return and we shall meet at that favourite place of ours, where our love will once again be able to flourish.’
Jack wished he could have the confidence that Davy had, but he knew there was no use in pointing out the obvious… that there was no way that Davy could make such promises as those he had made today. He knew that Davy would be clinging to the hope offered by those promises just as much as he would himself, so in return he promised himself that he wouldn’t say anything.
A short time later, as Davy rode away, heading for his home after sharing one last kiss across the back gate, Jack could only watch, his heart breaking, tears making their way down his face, as he wondered if this would be the final time he would ever see his love.
For Davy too, the tears were flowing, but he dared not look back. The sight of Jack that he wanted to carry with him into the months ahead was not that of a tearful boy, but that of a beautiful young man, firm and strong and loving. What he wanted to rememberwas the sight and scent of his youthful body, the feel of his lover as Jack enteredhim for that first time, and the expression on his face as he reached that climactic moment. It was a wonderful experience … however anyone could say something that beautiful was a sin he had no idea… and he felt certain that it would be the memory of this afternoonthat would be what would sustain him over the dangerous months to come.
When he reached his own home, after taking some time at the creek crossing to recover himself and wash the tears from his face, Davy was ready to face his own future, whatever that may be. His mother watched him from the verandah of their home, leaning against a post with her arms crossed in front of her and looking concerned, as he unsaddled his horse and then let her out into the small paddock where she was kept.
He wasn’t sure where his father was, but he fully expected to receive some sort of a tongue lashing for having been away for the best part of the day and neglecting his duties. When his father emerged from the shed moments later he was rather surprised that nothing was said, other than his asking after Jack.
‘Do they know of our love?’ he fearfully wondered.
‘How did he take the news?’ Davy’s father enquired.
‘We all knew it was coming,’ Davy replied. ‘I am sure that Jack will survive without me,’ he added, with just a hint of a smile on his face and in his voice.
‘Ahhh, yes, but will you survive without him?’ his father asked, while slapping his son on the back, before heading toward the house, and leaving Davy staring at his back.
*     *     *
Several weeks after Davy had gone, leaving Jack heartbroken after he hadn’t even returned to say goodbye, Jack received a letter. He knew the hand of the writer, perhaps better than that of anyone else in the world, and when his mother handed it to him that night, after he had come in from doing his chores, his heart skipped a beat, while at the same time he felt the blood drain from his face.
‘If you like, take it to your room to read,’ his mother had said, and for the first time he knew that someone else had some idea of his feelings for Davy. He looked at her inquisitively, as if trying to read her thoughts. ‘It’s all right, dear. I understand,’ she added, while briefly holding her son’s hands in hers, before then shooing him away with her hands.
Suddenly free of the fear he had secretly harboured for years, Jack kissed her on the cheek, then took off for his room, eagerly ripping the envelope open and finding not only a letter, but also a sepia toned photograph of a handsome young soldier in uniform, complete with his slouch hat and Enfield rifle.
Those two items would be what would sustain Jack for many months to come.
Dearest Jack,
I hope this finds you well, and that you have forgiven me my abrupt departure, without having said a proper goodbye? You will talk to me again, won’t you?
Things moved so fast after seeing the enlistment people in Macquarie Harbour and I’m afraid that I was unable to even return home. I hope that mother and father had let you know of that?
Unfortunately I cannot say where I am right now, apparently regulations forbid it, but rest assured I am still in our own country, for the time being at least. It is hot and dry where we are, and our regiment is training very hard. They are a companionable bunch, all from around Macquarie Harbour and towns such as ours, and so that makes it a little easier when I start to miss all my family and friends from home, as I know that they are feeling much the same.
When I feel particularly down in the mouth I only have to think about that place on the creek and all the fun that we had there whilst growing up. Such thoughts of home, of what we did and what we shall do again, shall be what I will carry with me throughout this journey, and into whatever battles I may face, and that is what will sustain me in the months, or even years, ahead.
The officers say we can expect to be going to Europe, but just where in Europe, or when, we do not know. It is all something of a guessing game, and some of the lads have started a book. My money, what little of it I have, is wagered on France, but we will just have to wait and see.
I must go now. Please be sure to give my fondest regards to your parents and our friends. I am counting the days until I can see the smiling faces of all those I love so much, the shores of our lake and our small town once again.
Sincerely yours,
David Thompson
Jack read it, and read it again.
To him, the letter seemed somewhat formal and even a little impersonal, not what you would expect to see written between two people in love, and at first he was a little disappointed. But then, as he thought it over, he realised that it was foolish of him to have expected anything different. Davy had said that he couldn’t say where they currently were, which to Jack at least, meant that the mail was likely being watched by the army, and if that was the case, then how could Davy say anything about loving him, or about what they were both wanting, or about what their future might hold.
When he re-read through it he focused on the paragraph which mentioned the fun they had had, and the fun they would have again. Then he read the final sentence once more… I am counting the days until I can see the smiling faces of all those I love so much.
That gave him hope, and for now at least, that was enough.
*     *     *
In the months that followed, thoughts of Davy were constantly on Jack’s mind. There had only been one more letter after that first one, within which Davy told Jack that they were about to be shipped out, but he still knew nothing of to where.
After that, there was nothing more.
With each passing week Jack was becoming more and more anxious, and being starved of any news or information regarding Davy, Jack took to visiting his lover’s parents, pestering them for any news they may have had, but they too had scarcely heard from their son.
He had promised Davy that he would look in on them anyhow, and help out wherever may be needed, and was only too pleased to honour that promise, especially if there was the hope of hearing some news… any news, of his love. He toiled in the paddocks beside Davy’s father, often ate meals with them, and got to know them in a way that he had never expected.
From the time Davy had left them all, which had been many months ago now, summer had given way to autumn, which had in turn given way to winter; a particularly wild winter which saw the coastal areas being lashed by storms. By the time spring had arrived, for which they were all extremely grateful, so too had news of losses on the battle front, and in particular those suffered by the regiments that had originated from Macquarie Harbour and surrounds.
The Thompson and Henderson families were by now both growing anxious for news of Davy. There had been a tacit acceptance that the friendship between the boys was in fact more than that, even if nothing had ever been said, nor could it be, so all four parents were equally concerned, not only for the fate of Davy, but also for the wellbeing of Jack.
Feverishly they would search through each issue of the newspapers from both Thompsonville and Macquarie Harbour, checking the lists of killed and wounded. If anyone from the town returned from the war they would ask them for news, but none was ever forthcoming.
They also saw the effect that the war had had on these men, who returned as mere shells of themselves. Some were missing limbs. Some were suffering the effects of that evil mustard gas that had been used by the Kaiser’s men, leaving them coughing and gasping for air as their burning lungs struggled to provide their bodies with the oxygen they needed.And that was just the lucky ones who had survived.
September too, came and went, with still no word on Davy’s fate.
As did October.
Then it was around this time that word began to filter through that the allies had been victorious is several battles, with names such as Amiens and The Hindenberg Line becoming known, and that the Hun were on the run. This gave rise to a growing confidence amongst the people of Thompsonville that the end of the war was within sight, and their husbands, sons, brothers and lovers,would soon return.
Perhaps then they would also be able to find out more about the fate of Davy Thompson?
*     *     *
When November rolled around there was an excitement in the air amongst the people of the townwhich hadn’t been felt in years, as rumours of victories and an impending ceasefire began trickling through. By the middle of that month those rumours and that excitement became quite real, as confirmation came through that at eleven a.m.on November 11th, 1918 an armistice had been declared.
The war was finally over. The sons of this land would soon be returning home, and there would be no more sent off to fight, or so the notices in the newspaper stated.
Jack and his parents, along with Davy’s parents also, breathed a massive sigh of relief, as with his own eighteenth birthday now only a matter of weeks away, they too had been preparing for him to be sent off to do battle.
At least Davy had been right. The war had indeed ended before the end of the year. Jack could only hope and pray now that Davy had been able to see the end of it and was, right at this moment, on his way home to them, a proud and victorious soldier.
After the announcement of the armistice Jack began counting the days, yet as the days turned into weeks, and the weeks turned into months, the excitement he had been feeling at the prospect of seeing his love once again began to dim.
Jack’s birthday came around and still there was no sign of Davy. Without news of his beloved, it was just another day for Jack, no matter how hard his parents tried to cheer him.
Later, a few more of the Thompsonville men came limping home from the front, mere shadows of their former selves, and Davy’s loved ones once again began to fear the worst. It had been more than six months now since there had been any contact from Davy, when that last letter had arrived just prior to his shipping out and the enquiries they had repeatedly made through the enlistment office in Macquarie Harbor were continually met with no results.
And each day Jack would also watch for the postmaster and his horse and buggy, hopeful that one day there would be news, or better still, they would have a passenger, a returning soldier who would be dropped off at their home, wherever they happened to have come from,as did happen on some occasions. All too often, however, there was nothing that would offer hopeto Jack or his family asyet another week would go by without the answers they sought to the mystery of Davy’s whereabouts.
For Jack it was as if his heart and soul had been ripped from his very being, as he pined for the one he loved, all the while sinking deeper and deeper into a pit of despair from which he could see no way out.
Christmas came, and then it went, with still no word. Davy’s presents remainedunopened, waiting for his return. Then 1918 became 1919 and another summer was well upon them. Perhaps a change ofseason would bring them all the answers they sought?
From time to time word would also come to the farm that more soldiers had returned. Often Jack would ride into town upon hearing such news, hopeful that Davy would be amongst them. But having been constantly disappointed, time after time returning home with a feeling of emptiness inside him, he had long since given up hope of such trips to town bringing him joy.
There were many times when he would retreat into his own little world, to that special place beside a languid stream, shaded by willows, where the two of them had been so happy. Here was where Jack could re-live every moment that they had spent together, venturing back along the dusty paths of his own memories, always taking with him that sepia photograph of the young soldier, yet seeing in his own mind a vivid image, in living colour, of the boy he loved.
*     *     *
And so it was that on a hot day in late February, as the sun beat down on the bushland, and upon drying summer pastures that were turning gold, Jack found himself retreating into his own little world once more.
On this day he didn’t see old man Simpkins and his buggy trotting along the road, nor did he hear the chatter between the two people sitting upon it. The postmaster was always excited when one of the local boys returned from the front, and for the chance to pepper them with questions about their adventures, and so he would often insist on providing them with a lift home.
For Davy it felt good to be back on familiar ground and to smell the familiar scents of the town, and the lake, and the bush he had grown up in. It had been almost a year since he had left … a long time to be away from home, and especially from the ones you love. He couldn’t wait to see his home come into view, or to climb the hill, to where his parents and his lover would be waiting.
As best he could he answered the old man’s questions, even if he had grown tired of them not long after they had passed the edge of town, and while he tried not to appear to be rude, or ungrateful, he couldn’t help but wish that there had been another way home. Walking had been out of the question, as while his shattered leg had healed the discomfort of the limp he had been left with made walking any great distance a real problem for him.
As they trotted along, listening to the whirring sounds of the wheels of the buggy, the clip-clop of the horse’s hooves on the sun baked track, the birds in the tress around them, Davy sat back and closed his eyes. The sounds and the scents of the bush all took him back to the places and times of his younger days, when life was so much simpler and he had been yet to witness the brutalities and horror of the western front. For a long while he just let the present wash over him as he thought of what lay ahead… the winding road, emerging into open grasslands, the timber gateway and the track which led upthe rise to the cottage that was his family’s home.
It was close now. So close. And the nightmare of the past year would soon be little more than a bad memory.
When they eventually emerged from the bushland, with the hot afternoon sun streaming down on his face, Davy finally opened his eyes. Simpkins had long ago fallen quiet, after finally noticing that his passenger was sitting back and appeared to be sleeping, but now that Davy had woken he tried to resume his conversation.
‘Almost there now, lad,’ the older man said.
‘Yeah,’ Davy replied, as he tried stretching his gammy leg.
‘Gives you a bit of trouble, does it?’ Simpkins asked, while nodding toward the leg. ‘What happened?’
‘Cannon,’ Davy curtly replied, while wincing at the painful memories that it brought up… remembering the sight of the mangled bodies of the men who had been his mates … the stench of the trenches… the sounds of explosions, ofgunfire, of men screaming, pleading for help… or for death to come to them quickly.
Once more Davy wanted to close his eyes, but the sight before him prevented it, as they had just crested a low hill and were now looking out across the valley that was once his home, and would be again. Davy sat up and leaned forward, drinking in the sight that was before him.
Simpkins reined in his pony and brought the buggy to a stop.
‘Quite a sight, eh lad? I never grow tired of seeing it,’ the old man said.
‘It sure is a sight for sore eyes, let me tell you,’ Davy replied.
On the far side of the valley he could see his home, a small cottage half way up the slope, which caught the morning sun at the start of each day.On the hill closest to them he could see the home where Jack had grown up and still lived. And between them ran the willow lined creek where they had explored and played and fallen in love.
Davy gazed longingly at his home, wondering how his parents were and if they would be there now, then he looked up at the Henderson home and wondered what Jack was doing at this moment.
‘Your mate sure got lucky,’ Simpkins offered. ‘They war finished just in time for him.’
‘He doesn’t know just how lucky he was,’ Davy replied. ‘No one should ever have to live through that…’
The postmaster looked at Davy for a long time. He could see the hurt that was in the young man’s face. He thought he could see something else as well, as Davy stared up at his friend’s home, but couldn’t quite make out what that was.
‘Perhaps that is best left alone,’ he thought to himself, before flicking the reins at his pony and continuing on their journey.
There was a small bridge where the road passed over the creek, and not far beyond that there was a gateway at the side of the road, beyond whichwas a driveway which led up the rise to the Thompson home.
‘I’ll take you up to your house,’ Simpkins said to his passenger, knowing full well that the lad would struggle with his leg as it was.
‘That’s very kind of you. Thank you,’ Davy replied.
‘T’is the least I could do, lad,’ he said, as he pulled his pony to a halt once more, then climbed down to open the gate.
Davy was gazing longingly at the house upon the hill when Simpkins climbed back in for the trip up to the house.
‘Are they expecting you?’ he asked, as he flicked the reins at his pony once more.
‘No.’
‘A surprise then?’
‘You could put it that way.’
‘They’ll be glad to have you back.’
‘Even like this?’ Davy asked, his voice close to breaking as he tried to pull his leg upwards.
‘They’ll take you any way they can have you, Davy. You’ve done your family and your country proud, son.’
Davy wasn’t so sure of that. He would never be the man, now, that he had always promised to become. Would they still love half a man?
It wasn’t long before they reached the top of the rise, which was a short distance from the gate into the house yard.
‘Can you stop here please, Mr Simpkins?’ Davy asked. ‘I can make it that far. I’d kind of like to do it under my own steam, if I may.’
‘Of course, Davy,’ he replied, as he reined his pony in once more.
Rather clumsily, Davy climbed down from the buggy, refusing offers of help from Simpkins, and eventually he was standing tall and proud in his uniform, even if he was leaning on one crutch which supported his weight.
On the ground beside him was a duffle bag, containing his few belonging.
‘Are you sure you’re going to be able to manage?’ the postmaster fretted.
‘Quite sure, thank you,’ Davy replied, before thrusting his hand out toward the older man. ‘Thank you for your kindness.’
‘It has been my pleasure, lad,’ Simpkins replied, as he shook the soldiers hand. ‘It’s good to have you back.’
‘It’s good to be back.’
*     *     *
Davy stood and watched as the buggy headed off down the hill, chuckling to himself as he listened to Simpkins singing, before then picking up his bag and beginning an unsteady walk toward the house.
The sound must have caught the attention of those inside the house, as he soon heard the familiar sound of the squeaking hinge on the front screen door. Some things hadn’t changed.
Looking up he saw two figures step out onto the verandah, with curious expressions on their faces.Almost at once he saw his mother’s hands went up to her mouth, then in the next motion she jumped down from the verandah and started running toward him, with his father hot on her heels.
‘Oh, my god! It’s Davy! It’s Davy!’ he heard her squeal, then moments later he was swept up in the embrace of both his parents, as they rushed to him. Tears were soon flowing freely from all three of them and for a long while they just held each other and cried, before eventually his parents stepped back and took stock of their son.
He looked dashing in his uniform, but they were dismayed at the sight of the crutch that was still under his arm and the bow that seemed to now be in his right leg, and when he shuffled back a step after almost overbalancing his mother cried at the sight.
‘What happened, son?’ his father asked.
‘Cannon fire. The Huns scored a direct hit on our gun placement.’
‘And the others with you?’
‘All dead, papa!’
His father nodded glumly, grateful that by some miracle he had survived.
‘Come inside,’ his mother said. ‘You must be starving.’
‘I am, mother. But there is something else that I must first do,’ Davy responded.
‘But you have to eat!’
‘There’ll be plenty of time for that, dear. He knows what he needs to do,’ his father said. The two Thompson men nodded to each other.
‘Thank you, father.’
‘Try down by the creek. I thought I saw him down along there this morning. Will you be able to manage?’
‘I think so,’ Davy replied.
‘And when you return, you must tell us everything,’ his mother commanded.
‘I will, mother. I promise. But first things first,’ he said, before setting off down the track toward the creek.
As his ageing parents watched him hobble off in that direction, while leaning heavily on the crutch, they thanked God that their son had been returned to them.
*     *     *
Davy noted that the track which ran between the Thompson and Henderson homes seemed to be in much better condition than when he last traversed its length. Obviously Jack had been using it, keeping his promise to help out Davy’s parents, which brought a smile to his face.
When he reached the creek crossing he turned off the main track and followed another path which ran parallel to the creek. He found the going to be easier than he had expected and soon settled into a steady, if somewhat ungainly, pace.
Beside him the crystal clear waters of the creek bubbled over the rocks, while above him he could hear a breeze whistling through the willows and silky oaks. And beyond that the distinctive, malevolent call of a crow could be heard on the wind.
For a few minutes he stops and rests beneath the shade of a willow, catching his breath and letting the pain in his leg subside. But he knows that he needs to keep going, he needs to keep moving, and so he doesn’t linger.
Before long he spots the familiar clump of trees that marked their special place, and as he makes his way closer he hopes and prays that Jack will be there.
As quietly as he could, Davy approached the trees, brushing aside the thick fringe of willow branches and stepping into the sheltered nook. It was then he spotted a lone figure sitting by the water’s edge, skimming stones across the still pond.
For a moment he just watches, drinking in the sight of the boy he loves so, until he sees him toss another stone. It hits the water and jumps, before hitting it again, and again, and again, before eventually sinking into the abyss.
‘Why, Davy?’ he hears Jack ask. ‘Why did you have to go? And why can’t you come back to us? I loved you… you knew that didn’t you?’
‘But don’t you still love me?’ Davy asks, unable to remain silent any longer.
For a moment nothing happens. Jack remains perfectly still, but then Davy hears a single sob.
‘God! Now I’m even hearing his voice in my head! What is happening to me?’ he cried.
‘Jack?’ Davy softly says. ‘It’s not in your head.’
Suddenly Jack’s head snaps around and he jumps to his feet.
Before him is a vision… a young soldier, silhouetted against the sunlight behind him, standing tall and proud. The wind momentarily parts the branches of the trees, allowing a shaft of sunlight to light up the figure standing there.
Jack rubbed at his eyes. Is he seeing things, or is it really him? Is it really Davy? Slowly he walks closer, still not quite believing what he is seeing.
‘Davy… is that really you?’ he whispers.
‘It is, Jack. It’s me. I’m home.’
Tears are streaming down the faces of the two lovers as Jack steps in closer. He reaches up and gently brushes them from Davy’s face, before examining his finger.
‘It really is you,’ Jack whispered, just as Davy cups his face in his own hands, then draws Jack closer to him.
In that moment the months that divided them are swept aside. This is the moment they had been waiting for, their love had endured, and everything else, the questions and answers, the plans for the future, all that can wait for later.
Right now they are together again, at last.
‘It really is me, Jack,’ Davy whispers, just before their lips finally meet.
~ End ~]]> <![CDATA[Clouds of Glory]]> https://funtailix.com/portal/showthread.php?tid=2363 Tue, 15 Jul 2025 19:19:44 +0000 WMASG]]> https://funtailix.com/portal/showthread.php?tid=2363 Edward FitzGerald’s Rubáiyát was first published in 1859 and over the next thirty years went through five editions, each different from the last. I have quoted verses in the form which pleases me most, regardless of which edition they appeared in. I have also ventured to modernise their archaic thou, thee, didst, etc.
A word about Calvinistic Methodists. It would be quite unfair to tar them all with the same brush. Like most sects they have their fundamentalists, such as those portrayed here, but they have their moderates too. The same of course holds true, in reverse, of the Anglicans.
In what follows, everything spoken or written in Welsh has been translated, except for exclamations and endearments whose exact meaning does not matter. Various drafts have been read by Hilary, by Grasshopper and by Neea, and I am hugely grateful for all their criticisms.
We are born, it seems, with our souls empty, naked and asleep. Their awakening and clothing and filling entails a long journey, which can be especially arduous in adolescence as sexuality emerges. It is perhaps most arduous of all for boys who are gay. They have to work harder to discover who they are, and to come to terms with the answer. The effort of concealing a significant part of themselves often makes them loners, in desperate need of a friendship more intense than straight boys require: not necessarily a sexual relationship, but a communion of souls which at that age is all too rarely found. The story told here is of such a boy, and of a crucial stage in his soul’s journey.
2 Rhagfyr 2002
Although the events chronicled here took place half my lifetime ago, the time has come, quite unexpectedly, when I need to set them down in black and white. To recover the detail, I have had to delve deep into memories that I have not visited for years, and in doing so I have understood much that I did not understand before. The reason for bringing it all to the surface now will become clear when I have finished.
When I was thirteen, we had moved from south-eastern England up to Llanberis in North Wales, where Dad had landed a job as an engineer at the Dinorwig power station. Nestling at the foot of Snowdon, it was a good place to live. I necessarily learnt Welsh at school and had reached the stage of being able to hold my own, but I was not confident in it and much preferred my mother tongue. Mum and Dad picked up no more than a smattering, and we spoke only English at home.
Then in 2002, after two years of Llanberis, Dad was promoted to a better job at the Ffestiniog pumped storage power station. It was unreasonably far for him to commute — well over an hour’s drive away by slow and circuitous roads — so we moved again, to the former slate-quarrying centre of Blaenau Ffestiniog. There was not much for youngsters to do in the town. It was commonly condemned as grey and wet (which it was) and depressing (which, being surrounded by mountains, it was not). But it was depressed, and had been ever since the quarrying industry had collapsed. Houses were dirt cheap, and we found a splendid one, at the end of a terrace and flanked on one side by a square which pretended to be a public garden, with a few bedraggled shrubs and flowers and a bench or two.
Our house, alone in the street, had a loft conversion, with big windows projecting from the roof both front and back. It was allocated to me, and I was in heaven, for it offered superb views. In front it looked out over the roof of the house opposite and down the valley beyond, and diagonally to the mountains on either side. At the back it looked up at the precipitous crags of Carreg Ddu which beetled above the High Street. My hobby was birds — of the feathered kind, I hasten to add — and there promised to be a good variety visible from my eyrie, from the humble sparrows and blackbirds and occasional tits of the square to the hawks and falcons and buzzards of the crags.
Mum found a part-time secretarial job at the plastics factory, and we moved at Easter, ready for the summer term. School was handy, little more than a hundred yards away. For an ordinary kind of boy who was neither macho nor a complete wimp, neither an extrovert nor a hermit, I found my feet readily enough. Some of the kids there were pretty rough, and some were none too tolerant of the English. I soon learned to steer clear of both sorts, and got on reasonably well with the rest.
Yet there was a snag. I was gay. One part of me had to be hidden behind a screen, where it skulked in stifled isolation. My unfulfilled cravings of the flesh were one thing. My loneliness of soul was quite another. I could not turn to Mum and Dad for support. Don’t get me wrong — they were great parents, fun, easy-going, and generous with the understanding and trust and love which I badly needed. They gave it cheerfully to those parts of me which they could see and approve. But their simple philosophy was anchored to some deep-seated prejudices, and I knew that it would mutate, should they glimpse behind my screen, into incomprehension and disgust. That being unthinkable, I longed all the more for a companion with whom I could share my real self, for a soul-mate to understand and trust and love me on a different plane.
I had already come across a number of boys I found attractive. I had lusted after their bodies and yearned for their souls. All in vain. No fish rose to the few very cautious baits which I dangled. I dared try nothing more. The climate at school, both at Llanberis and Blaenau, was not encouraging. For straight kids there was no problem — you could be as promiscuous as you liked. The message for gays was equally clear — one false move and most of the kids, not to mention the staff, would be down on you like a ton of bricks. All I could do was look, and lust, and yearn, and hope.
From the very first day at my new school, one boy in particular caught my eye. We were the same age, fifteen and a half. But while I was below average in height, English-fair and young-looking, he was taller, with dark hair, strong regular features, an austere but gentle manner and, I noticed the first time I saw him stripped in the changing room, a body to die for. The sight of him, the thought of him, stirred my young hormones as they had never been stirred before.
His name was Isaac Evans. He was very Welsh, hailing from South Wales as his accent told even me, but perfectly tolerant of incomers and entirely ready to talk in English, his being vastly better than my Welsh. He lived directly opposite us in Ty Capel, ‘Chapel House,’ and next door to it was the chapel where his father was the minister. I had already brooded on its bleak architecture, and the plaque on the gable frowned its curt statement at me whenever I looked out of my front window:
TABERNACL M. C. ADEILADWYD 1867
Tabernacle, Calvinistic Methodist, built 1867.
One evening very soon after we arrived, Isaac was in his bedroom, which faced mine across the street, when he saw me leaning out, binoculars to eyes, trying to identify some distant birds of prey that were wheeling against the backdrop of Moel yr Hydd. He called over, asking what I was watching. When I told him, he said that he knew a bit about birds, and because he could not see them from where he was, I invited him to come up. He brought his own binoculars, and took a look.
“Ah, yes. Peregrines. They nest in the cliff above Wrysgan quarry. You can tell from their flight that they’re not merlins.”
That led on to a discussion about the difference between the various falcons, and it soon emerged that he knew more than a bit. I showed him my books, which interested him because he did not have many, and the Royal Society for the Protection of Birds website, which fascinated him because he had no computer. So began our friendship, and so my hidden hopes were fed.
Thereafter, many an evening and weekend day we went out together, watching choughs in the old quarry pit up at Rhosydd, buzzards on the moors above Maenofferen, tree-creepers in the ancient forests of the valley side, waders on the Dwyryd estuary. Once, having taken the Sherpa bus to Nant Gwynant, we saw red kites, which were beginning to move up from the Berwyn and to re-colonise Snowdonia.
Isaac was a serious boy, much more serious than me, with a strange wry humour but little chit-chat and no sense of mischief at all. He welcomed me, it seemed, for my company, for my computer which gave him access to ornithological websites, and because I took him seriously and could meet him on his own specialist territory. I liked to think he welcomed me for other reasons too, but I feared, even at the time, that I was being over-optimistic. He seemed to have no other friends. The kids at school did not pick on him but, while treating him respectfully, kept him at arm’s length because of his religious views. These I found puzzling and difficult. He never tried to force them unsolicited down my throat, that I will say for him. He only talked about them if asked, or if the subject cropped up of its own accord.
The first time it did, very shortly after we met, we were walking home from watching wagtails in Cwm Bowydd when Isaac asked why I was interested in birds.
“Oh, all sorts of reasons. Their variety. Their habitats. Migration. How they communicate. They live in our world, but yet in their own, if you see what I mean. Just a wonderful part of nature. Why do you like them?”
He gave me a considering look, as if weighing up my limited ability to understand.
“Much the same as you, and more. Because, as a wonderful part of nature, they’re part of God’s creation. You know about Genesis?”
Condescending, I thought, and I was a trifle miffed. I may have read precious little of the bible, but I was just about up to the creation story. I nodded, but he still spelled it out for me.
“On the fifth day God made the fish and the birds that fly above the earth in the open firmament of heaven. All creation is good, and we should praise it. And, as far as it can, all creation should praise the creator.” There was more than a hint in his words of what I guessed was pulpit-talk. “Know Psalm 148?”
Er, no. I couldn’t run to that, and had to shake my head.
“Part of it goes: ‘Praise the Lord on earth’” — he was clearly translating in his head as he went along — “‘you dragons and all deeps, fire and hail, snow and mist, stormy wind fulfilling his word, mountains and hills, fruitful trees and cedars, wild beasts and all animals, reptiles and winged birds, young men and girls, old men and boys, praise the name of the Lord.’ Everything that God created is good, and everything that praises the Lord is good — just listen to that chaffinch, Tom. And all God’s goodness deserves studying. But a single person can’t study the whole of creation. So I’ve chosen birds.”
Oh Lord, if that wasn’t the wrong phrase. Agreed, studying birds was a large enough hobby, or duty if you had to call it that. On top of studying boys, in my case. But that chaffinch, I reckoned, wasn’t praising the Lord. It was chatting up a lady chaffinch, with rather different motives. Mind you, if God really had created birds and boys, not to mention all the rest, he had also created sex, and that was good. He must surely have considered less enjoyable alternatives, and rejected them. So I would happily praise the Lord through sex, given the opportunity. But I did not know Isaac nearly well enough to say so, and strongly suspected he would not see it in quite my flippant way.
Meanwhile, I found his assurance hard to swallow.
“You go along with everything the bible says, then?”
“Yes, of course. It seems you don’t, Tom. But it’s God word, so it must be true.”
“Literally?”
“Literally.”
I had heard of people like him, especially in the American south, but I had never expected to meet one. I recalled that he was not doing biology or geology or anything at GCSE that might prove contentious. Deliberately, maybe. I was already embarrassed and out of my depth, but I had enough spark in me to stand my ground and protest.
“No, I don’t go along with it. But you say it’s God’s word. You can only believe that. You can’t know it.”
“Oh no, Tom. I do know it.”
It was the first time I had met that certainty which goes beyond logic.
“But what about Darwin, and evolution, and fossils, and the Big Bang fifteen billion years ago or whatever? How do you explain them away?”
“Tom, can you prove Darwinism, and that the universe started with the Big Bang, and all those things? Prove them?”
“Well, um, no, I suppose not.” I would be a Nobel prize-winner if I could, but I was reluctant to admit it.
“So they’re only theories, not fact. You can only believe in them. You can’t know them.”
He was throwing my words back at me, and I felt as if I was banging my head against a brick wall.
“But the bible proves itself,” he went on. “One day I’ll show you how, if you really want to know, but there isn’t time now.”
Just as well, perhaps. We were already in our street, and there outside Ty Capel was an ancient Cortina with his Tad and Mam climbing out. Isaac introduced us. His Tad was a wiry man, bible-black, dour, lantern-jawed, with thin lips barely covering the large teeth behind. His Mam seemed wispy and ineffectual, definitely second fiddle to her husband. We had already heard about them from Rhiannon our next-door neighbour, who from the moment we arrived had been joyfully putting us in the local picture and keeping us there. She called Isaac’s father the Parch, short for Y Parchedig, the Reverend. So, therefore, did we. She had no good word for him.
“That old vulture! He was at the back of the queue for the milk of human kindness. Not a patch on the vicar, or old Glyn Williams up at Moriah. And his poor asen! What she has to put up with!”
The Parch fitted my stereotyped image of the killjoy fundamentalist. He had other MC chapels on his beat, and on Sunday afternoons and evenings he would be off in the battered Cortina to keep them in line. So there was usually only a morning service opposite, and from my window I had already watched the small band of elderly worshippers filing in and, much later, out, looking as dour and killjoy as their minister. Congregations were rapidly falling off in those days, and chapels were being demolished left and right, or converted into garages or supermarkets. It did not look as if Tabernacl would last much longer.
I had just experienced Isaac exuding a temporary aura of righteousness. The Parch, I found, exuded a much stronger one, full-time. On this first meeting he was as gracious as an iceberg might be, and looked at me with that pitying smile which the man who is convinced he is heading for heaven reserves for someone who he is convinced is not. Accuse me of giving a dog a bad name, but I never found cause to change my opinion.
To jump ahead, although Isaac was quite a frequent visitor to my room and my computer, only once did he eat with us. No more, because I think he disapproved of our family frivolity. Laxity, he would probably have called it. A meal not preceded by grace, and accompanied by open laughter, affronted him. Once, in return, I was invited to tea at Ty Capel. It was a poor house. I do not mean that disparagingly. The Parch’s stipend, I gathered, was microscopic, the house was shabby and the furniture threadbare. No blame for that, only sympathy. The sole luxury, if it deserved the name, was an aged TV set on which the Parch watched rugby. Out of character, an outsider might think, but to the Welsh rugby is almost a religion: the one religion which unites them all. What the household was missing was humanity and fun. It gave off a miasma of pious rectitude which I found stifling.
But in this realm, I had to admit, I was in totally foreign territory. I was not religious or churchy in any sense at all. We were an ordinary family, lower middle-class if you insist on labels, which just did not talk about such things. They all seemed irrelevant to Mum and Dad. I was an ordinary boy, and they had never seemed remotely relevant to me either. Except for occasional family weddings or funerals, I had never set foot in a church, or a chapel. Until Isaac, I had never met anyone who professed strong views either way. I had come across some church- and chapel-goers, of course, but they did not wear their beliefs on their sleeve. Isaac’s defiant certainty was evidently a hallmark of the Calvinistic Methodists. What was so special about them? What made them different?
That evening, with Mum and Dad, I raised the subject, not very hopeful of an answer because they closed their minds to things they disapproved of or did not understand.
“I’ve been wondering about all these chapels. Why are there so many of them in Blaenau? What’s the difference between them?”
“Search me,” said Dad. “Not my cup of tea. They’re for people who don’t like the ordinary church. But what the difference is between Methodists and Baptists and things I’ve never fathomed. Remember Tegid at Llanberis? That mechanic with pierced ears who was a damned queer? A year or so back I was out with him in the van, sorting out a transformer, when we saw another chapel biting the dust. So I asked him what happens when a chapel closes down. Does the congregation just shift lock stock and barrel to the next one down the road? ‘Oh, good heavens, no,’ he said. ‘Can’t do that. Different God.’ But he didn’t explain any further.”
“Hmmm. Then you don’t know anything about Calvinistic Methodists in particular?”
“Fraid not, except they seem to be the most common sort round here, and they’re strict, I’ve heard. If you want an insider account, you’ll have to ask Isaac or the Parch, though you’ll probably get a sermon you didn’t bargain for. If you want an outsider’s view, well, I dunno.”
“Tell you what,” said Mum. “There’s the old professor. Wil Davies, next beyond Rhiannon. Were you there when she was telling us about him? He’s over eighty, lives by himself, a tiny little man. Rhiannon does for him, and she says he knows everything worth knowing. I gave him a hand with his shopping back from the Co-op today, and we talked about the history of Blaenau. Or rather he did, and I listened. He’s a lovely old boy. Ask him, Tom. He’ll be able to tell you. You’d like him, and I’m sure he’d like you to talk to. I think he’s lonely.”
*
I had not seen him so far. But next Saturday afternoon I was going up into town when he came down the other way, carrying a couple of Co-op bags which, in combination with his walking stick, made an awkward burden. There was no mistaking him. He was indeed tiny. His face was very Welsh: straight steel-grey hair flecked with silver, bushy black eyebrows, and a wrinkled leathery complexion. His brown eyes were small but alert and twinkling, his nose was beaky, and his wide mouth was mobile with humour and wit. Unusually for a boy who was not particularly outgoing, I had no hesitation in starting a conversation. His eyes were on the ground as he navigated the rough paving stones, and he did not see me until I stopped beside him.
“Let me carry your bags for you, sir.”
I was not sure why I said ‘sir.’ I never said it to anyone else, not even at school. In his case, it simply seemed right.
As he looked up at my face, his eyes widened and he swayed visibly. I was concerned, and reached out a hand to support him.
“Clouds of glory!” he exclaimed under his breath.
I did not understand, but was visited for a fleeting moment by a faint and elusive memory.
“Let me help you home, sir. I know where you live. Next door but one to us.”
He gave up his bags without protest and, carrying them both in one hand, I put the other round his arm and walked him slowly for the last hundred yards to his house. On the doorstep he scrutinised me again, for longer this time, his mouth slightly open.
“Thank you, ngwas. Thank you very much.”
He fumbled in his pocket for his key, and tried without success to put it in the keyhole.
“Let me, sir.” I got the door open and stood aside to let him in. “I think you ought to sit down.”
“Yes. I do believe you’re right.”
He turned in to the front room, and I dumped the bags in the hall and followed him. It was a study with a large desk in the window and, most extraordinary to me, every wall was lined with laden bookshelves: a hundred times as many books, I guessed, as we had in our whole house. The mantelpiece carried a number of framed photographs of people, one of whom, to my passing glance, rang a faint bell. He sat down heavily in the leather chair at the desk.
“Sir, may I suggest a cup of tea?”
He gazed at me again, and nodded. “Please, yes. And one for yourself too. You will find milk in the shopping bag.”
“Would you like me to put the rest of your shopping away?”
“That would be very kind.”
Picking up the bags on the way, I found the kitchen. The layout was the same as in our house. I filled the kettle and plugged it in. Mugs were on a shelf, sugar and a carton of tea-bags were on the working top, spoons were in the obvious drawer. No problem. While the kettle boiled, I stowed away his purchases in the fridge and cupboards. Again, all pretty obvious: there was no great variety there. As I made the tea, there were sounds of movement from the study, but when I carried everything through on a tray I had found, he was back in his chair. He looked better, and after a few sips of sweet tea looked better still.
“I’m very grateful to you, my boy. I’m sorry about that, I had … a bit of a turn. Tell me, is your name … Tom?”
“That’s right, sir. Tom Robertson. My mother helped carry your shopping the other day.” She had talked about our family, presumably.
The old man nodded as if he had been proved right.
“And how old are you? When were you born?”
“1986. I’m fifteen.”
“And when’s your birthday?”
“The 17th of September.”
His face dropped, I could not imagine why. Then his fingers moved as if he was doing sums in his head, and the answer seemed to cheer him up.
“Yes. So tell me about yourself, Tom,” he said. “You’re clearly not local. Where do you come from? What about your family? What are you doing at school?”
An outline of my uneventful life, my small family, my scientific bent, did not take long.
“And what are your hobbies? Your interests?”
I could hardly say boys, or Isaac, but I did tell him about ornithology. The bushy eyebrows rose. He asked where I had been bird-watching locally, and was impressed.
“You haven’t been here long. That’s a very good start.”
“Well, I’ve made friends with Isaac Evans from Ty Capel” — I nodded across the road — “and he’s well genned up on the birds round here. He’s taken me to most of these places.”
“Ah! I see. I wonder if he knows about the ravens on Craig Nyth y Gigfran. Yes, there really are ravens there” — the name means Raven’s Nest Crag — “but they’re difficult to see close to. Let me show you the way I used to get there.”
He got up creakily and moved behind the desk into the bay window, where I followed him. The crag loomed in full view over the town to the west, and with a claw-like finger he pointed out his recommended route. Then for a moment his gaze swung to the left, to the diagonal prospect of the Moelwyn.
“My favourite mountains,” he said softly. “They lived in my mind’s eye all the years I was away.”
He came back to birds. “And then there are the red grouse beyond Cnicht, round Llyn yr Adar. I’ve not been up there for years — it’s hard work to reach it — but I expect they’ll still be there.”
He rummaged for an old 1:25,000 map, and showed me where. I was grateful, and said so.
“But I’m afraid I’ve got to go now, sir,” I went on. “It’s nearly our tea time. Will you be all right by yourself?”
“Thank you, Tom, I am all right, and I will be all right. Thanks to you.”
“That’s OK, sir. I’ll just wash these up.”
I picked up the tray, and as I left the room I noticed that the photograph which had caught my eye was no longer there. I rapidly rinsed the mugs, and stuck my head into the front room again to say goodbye.
“Just before you go, Tom, two things. First, you call me ‘sir.’ Don’t you think that’s a little formal? I’m all for informality.”
“Well, what should I call you? I mean, ‘Professor Davies’ is quite a mouthful, and I can’t possibly call you, er, by your first name.”
I couldn’t, not possibly.
“No? Well … plain ‘Professor’ sounds very dry and academic. Ah! I have it! A compromise, but tending towards the informal. What about ‘Prof’?”
He grinned at me, almost like a boy, and I grinned back. I liked it. “Right. Prof it is.” And so it remained.
“The other thing is this. We still have much to talk about, so I hope you’ll come back to see me.”
“So do I, sir, I mean Prof.” He had already captivated me, I could not say why or how, and I would not dream of letting him go. “Anyway, there’s something I wanted to ask you. If I may.”
“Of course. Do you have anything on tomorrow morning? Do you go to church or chapel?”
I shook my head, rather more vigorously than I had intended, and he smiled at me again.
“No more do I. And you won’t be going out after birds with young Isaac either, because he will be in chapel. May I suggest eleven o’clock? That’s when I have a little tipple, a naughty survival from my Cambridge days. A glass of madeira, you know. Would your parents allow you that?”
“I expect so.” They were pretty laid back in that sort of way.
“Well, make sure you check with them. I’d hate to be accused of leading youth astray. Thank you, Tom. You’ve given an old man a new lease of life today. Excuse me if I don’t get up to see you out. Till tomorrow, then.”
“Goodnight, Prof.”
I was only seconds late for tea, and told Mum and Dad all about it.
“You’re right, Mum. The Prof is a lovely old boy. There wasn’t a chance of asking him about chapels, but I’m going to see him again tomorrow morning. And he says, am I allowed to have a glass of madeira, whatever that is?”
“Don’t see why not. It’s a fortified wine, bit like sherry.”
“And Mum, Dad. I had an idea. Could we ask the Prof in for lunch tomorrow? He seems to cook for himself, and he hasn’t got much in his fridge or cupboards.”
“That’s a good idea, Tom,” said Mum, looking at Dad for confirmation. “Yes, do that. It would be nice and neighbourly. One o’clock, as usual.”
*
Next morning I presented myself at the Prof’s on the stroke of eleven.
“Good morning, Tom. And do have you permission to join me in my tipple?”
“Morning, Prof. Yes, I have.”
“Good. Come you in, then.”
“But before I do, Mum says would you like to come to lunch with us today?”
“That’s a very kind thought, Tom. Well, if your mother’s quite sure, yes, I’ll be delighted to accept.”
I nipped home to tell Mum, and came straight back. He had put out two glasses and a decanter of dark brown stuff, which he poured out. We sat sipping it: smooth and sharp at the same time, and rather good.
“Well, Tom, what was it you wanted to ask me?”
“It’s about all these chapels. I’ve talked to Isaac, who’s a Calvinistic Methodist of course. But I don’t begin to understand the difference between them. Why are there so many, and so many sorts?”
“Well now. That’s a very large question. It’s a matter of history, and of human nature. Even a modestly detailed account would take a week. Where do we start? Yes, you’re right, there are a lot of places of worship in and around Blaenau, and there have been many more. About forty altogether, they say, twice as many as there were pubs. All for a population of eleven thousand or so, at the peak a century ago. One denomination might have several chapels, simply serving different parts of the town. That’s straightforward enough.
“But why so many denominations? Well, you understand the difference between Roman Catholics and protestants? How the Church of England, the Anglican church, was established at the Reformation, breaking free from Rome for political reasons as well as religious ones?”
I nodded. I did know that much, if only in outline.
“In Blaenau, the Anglicans are still around, of course, though here they’re now called the Church in Wales. And there’s a Catholic church which is fairly new, set up mainly for the Irish navvies who built the pump storage and the nuclear, and stayed. That’s fairly straightforward too.
“Now. After the Reformation, as time went by, some people became disenchanted with the Church of England, for various reasons. Splinter groups sprang up which developed into full-blown churches in their own right. They’re called nonconformist because they didn’t conform, or dissenters because they dissented. Thus you have the Bedyddwyr, the Baptists. The Annibynwyr, the Independents or Congregationalists. The Wesleyaid, the Wesleyan Methodists. And the Methodistiaid Calfinaidd, the Calvinistic Methodists — the MCs as we call them for short — who parted company from the Anglicans only in 1811, and despite the name they’re poles apart from the Wesleyans. Some of these churches broke away mainly for organisational reasons. The Baptists and MCs broke away more for doctrinal ones — let’s not go into that, not yet, anyway.
“They’re all represented here, and elsewhere there are many more varieties again, and there have been even more in the past. Splinters of splinters, and splinters of those. Set up when someone had a slight difference of opinion with his original church, often because he thought it too soft, and who peeled off with his followers to start a new one. Everybody thought that he alone had the true answer and that nobody else did. Nowadays, things are simpler. Fewer and fewer people feel that religion means anything, so the denominations are all shrinking. They tend to amalgamate now, not multiply — the Wesleyans and the Anglicans, for instance, may soon reunite. There’s more tolerance, on the whole. But there are exceptions who retain all the fervour of their ancestors. Like some of the MCs. So, does that answer your question? Or begin to answer it?”
“Yes, thanks. It’s clearer now. I’d no idea it was so complicated.”
“I hope I’m not disillusioning you. You don’t belong to any church, do you?”
“No, I don’t. Do you?”
He smiled gently. “No. I did once, but not now. The more I thought about it, and the more I talked to ministers and theologians and suchlike, the less sense it all seemed to make. Do you know that lovely verse of Omar Khayyám’s?
Myself when young did eagerly frequent
Doctor and saint, and heard great argument
About it and about; but evermore
Came out by the same door where in I went.
“I was actually brought up as an MC — here at Tabernacl, in fact. When you’re a child, you don’t question. But when I was a young man, I had a … crisis. I was in a quandary, and the MCs rejected me. Even today they’d reject a young man in a similar crisis. My only complaint about this house is” — he gestured abruptly over his shoulder — “that it faces Tabernacl. I tried other denominations, but it was the Anglicans who offered me a refuge, though I didn’t need it for long. For many years now I haven’t subscribed to any creed. Not even the Anglican.
“But when I go, I’ll be buried by the Anglicans. They seem to me the least intolerant of them all. And intolerance is so demeaning. Do you remember what the Wee Frees did to Lord Mackay?”
I was lost, and shook my head.
“No, silly of me. Of course you wouldn’t, you’re too young — it must have been ten years ago. Let me explain. The Wee Frees are a Presbyterian sect which splintered off from the Church of Scotland. Their views are extreme. To them, the pope is antichrist. Lord Mackay was the Lord Chancellor — you know, the senior legal eagle in the government, and speaker of the House of Lords. He was a Wee Free. One day, as in duty and friendship bound, he attended the funeral of a legal colleague. No harm in that, you say. Every harm, said the Wee Frees. This colleague had been a Catholic, and his funeral was in a Catholic church. For that … sin, they expelled Lord Mackay.”
“But that’s … obscene.”
“And that’s intolerance, Tom.”
There was a pause as I absorbed it. “But you’ve finished your madeira, Tom. Would you object if we adjourn to the square and continue our discussion there? I like to sit in the sun whenever it’s warm enough.”
We walked the fifty yards to the nearest bench. I still had another part of my question to put to him.
“Prof, Isaac was telling me that the MCs believe the bible is true. Literally true. And therefore evolution is wrong. That God did create the world in seven days, just as it says. In fact he said he didn’t believe it, he knew it. How can he know? I don’t understand that.”
“No more do I, Tom. Well, perhaps I do. Yes, the MCs — these MCs — are creationists and yes, they know they’re right. In the sense that they won’t admit that other people are entitled to different views. In the sense that their own beliefs are so ingrained that they can’t conceive they might be wrong. But they can’t prove that they’re right, any more than I can prove them wrong. So creationism is only a theory. An opinion, to which they are entitled. You, in contrast, are a scientist. You know all about the theory of evolution. That is only a theory too, isn’t it?”
“Oh yes.” I was much happier to admit it to the Prof than to Isaac.
“And as a scientist, what do you do when confronted by rival theories?”
“Well, I look at them, and see which is more, um, likely. And I try to think of experiments to test it. To prove or disprove it.”
“Exactly. And evolution looks vastly the more likely to you. Who knows, one day you may contribute towards a proof that it is correct. Tell me, do you believe in God, at all?”
“Well, no, I’m afraid not.”
“That’s nothing to be ashamed of. And you never have?”
I shook my head. “No, never.”
“I did believe, once. But my faith changed. First to doubt, and then to what the MCs would call perversion and heresy.” The Prof’s face was not exactly bitter, but definitely sad. “I came to believe not that God created man, but that man created God. Voltaire said that if God didn’t exist, it would be necessary to invent him. That was centuries ago, and it was probably true then, and always had been. Man was still wallowing in the dark and needed light. Man needs to be able to explain what goes on around him, and the notion of a mysterious all-powerful God was an easy and satisfactory way of explaining what he couldn’t understand.
“But science has now shed so much light of its own. It can’t explain everything yet, not by any means, and some scientists do believe in God. But God isn’t a necessary factor in any scientific explanation. Not yet. But he might be, one day. One of the largest questions, I understand, is what triggered the Big Bang. At present nobody has any real clue, but one day a clue may emerge. And, who knows, it may be a clue that surprises science. What does all that say to you, as a scientist?”
I thought very hard. “That I don’t believe in God,” I ventured, “but I admit he might exist. But that there’s no need to assume he does exist until there’s some evidence for it.”
The Prof beamed at me. “A man after my own heart. A logical and open mind. Whereas young Isaac’s is closed.”
I had to give acknowledgement where it was due.
“Prof, if it is open, it’s because you’ve opened it. I’ve never thought about things like this before.”
“All I’ve done is introduce you to a new concept. Your mind was already open, or opening. Scientists can’t afford to have closed minds, can they? You’re at the age, Tom, where childhood’s acceptance gives way to manhood’s questioning. For the most part, children accept what they’re told. But they can’t grow into fully-fledged human beings if they’re not encouraged to question. So keep your eyes and your mind open, Tom. Open to everything. Don’t be like Isaac. Keep asking questions. I suspect his parents don’t allow him to.”
I pondered on what I knew of them, and agreed. About the Parch, anyway. Isaac’s Mam probably didn’t get a look in. Which reminded me …
“Prof, when Rhiannon was telling us about them, she called him the Parch — I understand that — and called her his poor asen. What does that mean?”
“It means a rib. A facetious word for a wife.”
“Oh. Why?”
“That takes us back to creation. Look, Tom, run to my study and get a bible.”
He told me where to find it, and gave me the key.
“There are two different accounts in Genesis,” he said when I got back. “Two different creation myths. The MCs must accept both of them as true, by definition, but I don’t recall how they reconcile them. In the first chapter — look, here — on the sixth day God created both man and woman. ‘Male and female created he them.’ But in the next chapter it’s different. At first only Adam was created and put to live in the Garden of Eden. But he was lonely, so God took out one of his ribs and from it ‘made he a woman, and brought her unto the man. And Adam said, This is now bone of my bones, and flesh of my flesh.’ Hence Eve. Hence wife.”
I had not heard of that one. “How gross. Makes me think of those manky spare ribs from the Chinese takeaway. You know, sweet and sour.”
“Oh yes.” The wrinkles on the old face deepened as he smiled. “Yes, I did try those once. Never again. Red dye, tasting of nothing but monosodium glutamate.”
Mention of ribs had put me in mind of lunch, and I looked at my watch. Nearly one.
“We’d better go and eat, Prof, but I’ll just take the bible back first.” I was still feeling mischievous. “Do you think God created monosodium glutamate at the same time?”
The Prof’s small frame rumbled with laughter. “Now, now, Tom, you’re being naughty. What would the Parch say if he heard you?”
He almost had. As I passed Ty Capel, the Parch himself came out. He gave me a glacially condescending smile, which slipped ludicrously into surprise when he saw the very obvious bible in my hand. Pink with suppressed laughter, I restored it to its shelf, returned to collect the Prof, and told him. Giggling like children we went to my house, where he sobered down with an effort. Mum and Dad welcomed him, and installed him at the table.
“I do confess my diet is a trifle monotonous,” he said to Mum, “so your invitation is even kinder than you imagine.”
“Not our invitation, really,” replied Mum, “though we should have thought of it. No, it was Tom’s idea.”
“Yet another feather in his cap, then. I’ve already discovered quite a number. Like punctuality. He made sure he was home in time for tea yesterday, and that we arrived on time today. I approve of that. Has he always been punctual?”
“Oh yes, nothing to complain about there.”
“So he was punctual even in arriving in this world?”
Mum and Dad both laughed. “He arrived on the dot,” said Dad. “It was a joke between us. Tom, I don’t think we’ve told you this before, but you’re plenty old enough to hear it now. When your Mum found she was pregnant, it was pretty obvious you’d been conceived on Christmas Day. I was on a temporary job up in Scotland then, and only had Christmas Day at home. So I told Mum that if you didn’t arrive on the dot, I’d know she’d been having an affair with the milkman.”
“Get away,” said Mum, laughing. “The milkman had red hair and looked like Lance Percival. Wouldn’t have touched him with a bargepole. Anyway, you don’t look in the least like him, dear. Not that you look like anyone in our families either. We sometimes call him the changeling,” she explained to the Prof, who was comparing our faces with interest.
I had long been aware that I was different. Where they were both quite tall, I had always been short for my age. They both had curly dark hair, but mine was straight and fair. Their eyes were brown, mine blue. Our faces were utterly different. I was totally unlike either of them, or my grandparents or great-grandparents. It did not bother me a bit, being called a changeling. I knew Mum and Dad were my mum and dad, I had always loved them, and they had always loved me, so what did it matter?
“Tom the changeling,” said the Prof, savouring the name. “And may I ask why you called him Tom?”
“Well, that’s an odd thing,” replied Dad. “He should have been Peter. When we first decided to go for a child, we’d agreed on that, if it was a boy. But once he was on the way, we changed our minds. Dunno why. Tom suddenly seemed the right name, to both of us. Didn’t have to argue about it.”
I had not heard that either. But I approved. I liked being Tom.
Talk turned to Welsh names, and then to the Prof himself. He was a native of Blaenau. He had attended the local school — mine — and in 1938 had gone up to Cambridge with a scholarship, in those days the only possible way in for the child of a poor family. After a year, the war broke out and he was called up, serving mainly in Egypt. On being demobbed, he finished his course and progressed from fellowship to lectureship to the chair of English Literature. He had published many books and articles, but his real joy, he said, had been the company of the young men and women he had taught. Like most Welsh expatriates, he had never forsaken his roots. When he retired in 1985, Wales called him home again, back to his old house which he had kept on when his parents died. He had never married, and was now eighty-two. Rhiannon next door went in once a week to do his cleaning and washing, but he remained fiercely independent in everything, like shopping and cooking, which he could still manage.
I was able, as the weeks went by, to flesh out those bare bones of his present life. He spoke his native Welsh by preference, but he always used English with me because I found it easier. He was well respected: as he sat in the square or did his shopping, older people would pass the time of day with him. But they rarely called at his house and, to his disappointment, the generation gap and his long absence meant that he knew few youngsters. So he lived a solitary existence, and I began to see why he relished my company. But in one sense he had never retired. He continued to write, and he remained in touch with his academic colleagues. He had a computer and knew how to use it, and he had what sounded like a large email correspondence.
In other respects he was quaintly old-fashioned. Whatever the weather, his dress was the same: black shoes, grey trousers with turn-ups, baggy tweed jacket, velour or knitted waistcoat, and tie. For reading, he used heavy horn-rimmed glasses. He was old-fashioned too in the breadth of his knowledge. He could talk about anything, at the drop of a hat. He was informed, but not opinionated. He had his own views, and he would spell them out on request, but he was expert at making you think for yourself. It was all enlivened by a gently sparkling wit. Kids of my age tended to see the elderly as boring and condescending old farts, at best to be humoured, and I was hardly an exception to the rule. Now I saw how wrong I had been. The Prof astonished and delighted me. Mum’s phrase ‘a lovely old boy’ might be very simple, but it was spot on.
*
Lunch over, the Prof thanked us nicely and excused himself, saying it was time for his nap. When I had cleared the table, I crossed the road to collect Isaac. I was surprised that he was allowed out at all on a Sunday, but he was. Presumably he was not profaning the Sabbath because he was praising the Lord through his works, namely birds. In that case I was not profaning the Sabbath either. I was doubly praising the Lord by studying not only birds but Isaac too. He seemed particularly attractive today.
I passed on the Prof’s recommendations about interesting bird habitats. Isaac gave me a sharp look.
“Have you been talking to him?”
“Yes, what’s up? He’s great.”
“My Tad told me never to speak to him.”
“Why ever not?”
“He didn’t say. But he must have good reason.”
“Well, you’re missing out. He knows a thing or two about birds.”
But Isaac was ready to accept his advice at second-hand. Because Llyn yr Adar involved a whole day out, we plumped for Nyth y Gigfran today. We tackled it by the direct route from below, an inordinately hard slog in the hot sun up the interminably long incline. Above the old quarry shelf we zigzagged upwards as the Prof had suggested. The ravens’ nest was clearly visible, its tall stack of twigs whitewashed with droppings. The birds were disturbed by our presence, but we found a point where we could look down on the ledge with their nest and its chicks, and by lying very still we calmed the parents’ fears and they resumed feeding their young. We could not talk, but Isaac was clearly delighted, and threw me smiles of pleasure which made me cross-eyed with desire.
To distract my thoughts, I turned my binoculars on the town spread out in front of us and inspected our street, a good five hundred feet below. As I watched, the Prof came out of his house carrying his stick and a newspaper, and a moment later the Parch emerged from Ty Capel and got into his car. The Prof reached the road round the square, looked left and right, and began slowly to cross. As he did so, the Parch drove towards him, screeching to a halt with only feet to spare and blaring his horn. I could hear it from my perch nearly half a mile away. Not just bad driving, I thought, but deliberate intimidation. The Prof ambled on, to all appearances unfazed, and installed himself on the bench.
I was disturbed, but Isaac, his binoculars still on the ravens, was blissfully unaware of the little drama. When he had had his fill, we carried on upwards as being easier than climbing back down, and on reaching the ridge we cut round to the left and descended fairly gently into Cwmorthin. As we walked back through the square, we found the Prof still sitting on his bench, reading the Observer. He raised a hand to both of us impartially, but Isaac walked straight past him with a muttered “See you tomorrow, then, Tom.” Ashamed of him, I slumped down beside the Prof. Gratefully, too, for I was sweating and knackered.
“Prof, Isaac says he’s not allowed to speak to you, but doesn’t know why. Do you?”
“Oh yes. His father’s never spoken to me either. It can only be because of the MCs’ … let’s call it … disagreement with me. Wil Davies is persona non grata to them. The message must have been passed down from minister to minister for the last — what? — fifty-seven years.”
“But that’s … sad.”
“Isn’t it? Both in the sense you mean, and in the other.”
“Prof, I saw the Parch nearly run you over.”
“Not for the first time, either. Don’t worry, I’m sure he wouldn’t really. But how …? Oh, of course, you had a bird’s eye view from Nyth y Gigfran. How did it go with the ravens?”
I reported, and he was pleased. But I did not linger. I stank to high heaven and needed to get home for a shower.
*
Next day, Monday, was May Day bank holiday, when Isaac and I had agreed to check out the red grouse at Llyn yr Adar, weather permitting. It did permit, and we trekked up Cwmorthin to Bwlch Rhosydd, then across country and over the Cnicht ridge to the Nanmor side, the best part of two hours. Above the lake we found a knoll where we parked ourselves to watch. For an hour we saw nothing but black-headed gulls on the water, a few sandpipers along the shore, and occasional snipe in the tussocks. Llyn yr Adar was only partially living up to its name, which means Bird Lake. We passed the time absorbing the view, a wide panorama of mountains round from Snowdon itself, via the Glyder and Tryfan, to the distant Carneddau and Siabod. Finally our patience was rewarded. Three grouse came into sight, strutting singly through the heather and pecking as they went. They were no great rarity, according to the book, but were uncommon in these parts, and neither of us had seen any before. We watched their solemn antics for quite a while.
On the way back, beside Llyn Cwmcorsiog, we lit on the partly-eaten remains of a rabbit which some bird of prey had carried up from the valley and abandoned. Maybe our arrival had disturbed its mealtime, though we had seen nothing. Isaac, though curious, knew little about the insides of animals. But I was doing biology for GCSE, and seized a good opportunity. I fished out my pocket knife, which I kept pretty sharp, and completed the dissection. I pegged back the skin with twigs of heather, opened the ribs, and gave Isaac a conducted tour of the heart and lungs, the liver and spleen and kidneys — such as had not gone down the raptor’s throat — and the stomach and intestines. Which brought us to the excretory and reproductive organs. It was a male rabbit, and I was able to give a fairly comprehensive guide to that department.
To see on this small scale, our heads were close to the rabbit, and close to each other — sometimes even touching — and I felt his warmth and his breath on my face. I was very much aroused and so, I could see, was he. To any other boy, I would probably have made overtures there and then. But not to Isaac, who so obviously lived by different rules from me. I would pave the way as best I could, but the first open move had to be up to him. Given his background, it could not be otherwise. So as I pointed out the rabbit’s testicles and sperm ducts and penis, I was careful to use those clinical words. His interest was obvious, and so too was his ignorance. Several times he started to ask a question, but dried up. His face was red, and in the end I took the bull by the horns.
“Come on, Isaac. What are you trying to ask?”
“Tom, I don’t really understand what happens when you, er … you know.”
“Hasn’t anyone ever told you? What do you know?”
“Well. My Tad talked to me about it once. But he wasn’t … um, very specific. He just said that when a man marries, he lies with his wife and plants his seed in her, and if the seed grows it becomes a baby and is born nine months later. That’s about all.” For once he had none of that slightly superior air.
Oh Lord. Would you believe such innocence, at his age? Not even the birds and the bees. I had to start at square one, drawing sketches in my field notebook or using the rabbit by way of illustration. The difference between male and female anatomy. Hormones. Ovaries, eggs, uterus, vagina, clitoris. Testicles, sperm, semen, prostate, penis. The mechanics of erection, intercourse, ejaculation. Fertilisation and what followed. I was still using clinical words, most of which were clearly new to him. So I translated, with words like cunt, prick, balls, hard-on, shag, come. He had heard some of those at school, but had not always known what they meant. I ended with contraception. Thinking that abortion might be a taboo subject with him, I omitted that. He listened intently, his eyes on my face except when I pointed to my sketches or the rabbit.
“Thank you, Tom. That’s taught me a lot. I’m glad to know all about it at last.”
“All about it? That’s only the basics, Isaac. Of reproduction and, oh, let’s call it mainstream sex.”
“Mainstream? What do you mean?”
Hmmm. We were moving into even more interesting territory.
“Well, sex for reproduction. There’s sex for love and pleasure too, straight and gay.”
His forehead crinkled. His creed probably said that sex should not be pleasurable. If so, his curiosity over-rode it.
“Pleasure?”
“Well, yes. Sex ought to be fun. Isaac, haven’t you ever, er, even, er, played with yourself?” Dammit, I had no clue what words he might understand. Let’s be bold. “Masturbated, jerked off, wanked?”
He looked at me solemnly. “Yes,” he said quietly. “I know what you mean. Yes, I have, once or twice. But it was wrong.”
“Wrong? Wasn’t it, er, fun? Didn’t you enjoy it?”
“Yes.” Very quietly now. “That’s what made it so wrong.”
Oh dear. Hair shirts next?
“Well, I can’t see anything wrong with it. You’re not harming anyone. Even yourself.”
“Oh, but you are. It’s displeasing to God. Isn’t that what Onan did? Genesis 38:9. He spilled his seed on the ground, and the Lord slew him for it.”
I was flummoxed. I had no answer to that.
But he had another question. “And what do you mean, straight?”
Lord, again. What an innocent.
“Straight? It means heterosexual. Opposite of gay.”
His creed probably also said that gays were an abomination, but again he over-rode it.
“I have heard about gays. But, Tom, what do they do?”
Again I had to explain, in the clinical and the vernacular. A different attraction, gaydar. Mutual masturbation. Fellatio, blow-job. Sixty-nining. Anal penetration, fucking. Again he listened, watching me inscrutably.
“Yes, I see. That’s sodomy, isn’t it? Remember how God rained upon Sodom and upon Gomorrah brimstone and fire out of heaven? Genesis 19:24.”
I had no answer to that, either. I was utterly frustrated. I had been rock-hard for hours. So, by the look of it, had he. Did he never let his urges rip? The answer, it seemed, was no.
“Tom, how do you know about all this?”
“Oh, my parents, partly. Kids at school, partly. But mostly from the net.”
Mum and Dad were trusting enough not to monitor or block my computer, and I often visited porn sites. I was as well-educated in that respect as he was ill-informed.
“I see. And have you, er, done any of this yourself?”
“Well, no. Apart from wanking, of course.”
“But you’d like to?”
Could that be the beginning of an offer? “Yes, of course.”
“Well, don’t, Tom, please. As far as I can see, it’s all fornication. All offensive to God, except in marriage.”
I gave up. I was not going to get him. Unless I had sowed temptation enough to reap a harvest later. But not now.
Isaac came from a family where every penny mattered, and he asked tentatively if the rabbit would be all right to eat. Why not? It was fresh, and the meat had not been spoiled. So I skinned it for him, hacked off the head and feet, gutted it but naughtily left the penis and testicles in place as a reminder of his sex lesson, washed it in the lake, and crammed it into my lunch box. We left the residue as a consolation for the disappointed raptor, and walked home companionably enough. What little talk there was concerned birds.
*
Life in Blaenau rapidly settled into a routine. I would often go out with Isaac. But whereas he remained a solitary, I came to make other friends: not close friends, but a degree or two above casual ones. With them I would kick a football around on the playing field or take the bus down to the cinema in Porthmadog. Mum and Dad might help out at weekends by ferrying me, and one or two of them, to fun places like the dry ski slope at Rhiwgoch or the white water centre below Llyn Celyn. But one thing they could not understand was that all my friends were boys. I was at the age, according to their rulebook, when I should have a girlfriend, and I began to contemplate the unwelcome step of finding one as a cover. Otherwise I was just an ordinary boy, unusual, to all appearances, only in my interest in birds and my one close and very unexpected friendship.
Over the next few weeks I often saw the Prof, although we had no hugely profound conversations. We were getting to know each other, talking in his house or on the bench in the square or, occasionally, over the meal table at our place. He was patiently opening my mind to all manner of things that had never entered it before, and encouraging me to form my own opinions. Never once did he take a superior attitude. He treated me as a friend and an equal — a young friend, to be sure, but not one to be talked down to. He banished much of my mental and spiritual loneliness. He fostered my self-confidence. His sympathy and stability and broad-mindedness were a marvellous balance to my uneasily brittle and narrow relationship with Isaac. Although I barely appreciated it at the time, I know now that his gift to me was priceless.
To repeat, I was a very ordinary boy, not well-read, not well-informed, with a schoolboy sense of humour but no sparkling adult wit. What could I possibly have given him in return? Companionship, certainly, as an antidote to his own loneliness. And my own young brand of friendship which became more familiar as the days went by, and even, when the occasion was right, gently teasing. He saw me, I thought, as the son he had never had. I saw him not so much as a father figure — my own was good enough for most purposes — but as a wise and stimulating and very special friend. At all events, to put it quite simply, we clicked.
One afternoon, on the way back from school, I rang his bell and there was no answer. He should have been in, and I was worried. I made my way round the back via Rhiannon’s garden and peered through his bedroom window — he slept on the ground floor — and there he was on his bed, curled up, face screwed in pain and looking at me with pleading eyes. Urgent action was needed. The back door was locked, so I found a lump of slate and broke the kitchen window, through which I could reach to open the door.
“Prof!” I cried, on my knees beside him. “What’s wrong?”
“Bol,” he muttered. Stomach — one of the few occasions he ever used Welsh with me. It was obvious enough: he had vomited and lost control of his bowels.
I flew to the phone and called the doctor, who came round commendably fast. A bug that was going the rounds, was his verdict, compounded by the Prof’s age. Not a hospital case, provided he could be looked after carefully for the next few days. Luckily it was Friday, and I was free full-time for the weekend. Rhiannon got the prescriptions from the chemist before it shut, and rustled up a commode. Meanwhile I half-carried the Prof to the bath where I cleaned him up. A foul job, but yet a privilege. He took his medicine and sat in his dressing gown while I removed the bedding and replaced it, and by the time Mum and Dad got in from work he was clean and reasonably comfortable, with a hot-water bottle for his stomach, and had been persuaded to drink. Mum, bless her, dealt with the bedding, and Dad with the broken window. Nobody questioned my self-assumed role as chief nurse.
I spent the next five nights there, in a sleeping bag on the study floor, alert for sounds from the bedroom, helping him to the commode at decreasingly frequent intervals, doing intimate things for him that he could not do himself. During the day, Mum kept up a supply of food, while I sat and watched the Prof as he dozed — and sometimes dozed with him — and talked to him when he awoke. I encouraged him to drink often if little, and he made a good recovery. By Monday morning he was safe enough to be left by himself, which was fortunate since I had to go to school. Mum, who was not at work that day, looked in from time to time, and I took over again once I was released. By the time I arrived on Wednesday afternoon he was up and more or less back to normal. I found him tapping away at his computer, catching up on his backlog of emails. He ate a reasonable tea with me, and I took the dishes back home and returned to him. He told me to sit down.
“Tom, keep my front door key.” We had commandeered it while he was ill. “I have a spare. Let yourself in now, whenever you want. Don’t ring. And Tom.” He fixed me with his beady brown eyes. “I’ve been wondering what I could possibly give you by way of thank-offering for all that you’ve done for me. No” — I had started to protest — “I know you. You’ll say you don’t want anything, because you did what you did out of fondness. And I believe you. You’ve acted entirely in character. So I’ll give you nothing. Nothing tangible. Only my thanks. And, more important, these words from John Clare:
Love lies beyond
The tomb, the earth, which fades like dew!
I love the fond,
The faithful, and the true.
“Their surface meaning is obvious, but you won’t understand what’s beneath them.” How right he was. “Don’t ask, Tom. Just remember them.” He said them again. “Promise?”
“I promise,” and I repeated the verse back to him.
It is a promise I have very carefully kept.
We sat and looked at each other in deep togetherness, the old man and his surrogate son, the youngster and his guide, philosopher and friend. Or, I wondered belatedly, were we more even than that? Were we at the soul-mate level? If so, he was wildly different from what I had expected or, more accurately, what I had hoped for. No way was he the lover with whom I had dreamed of communing. No way was he, as Isaac was, the object of my physical lust. Nor, surely, was I of his. But our meeting of minds, our mutual if utterly non-sexual love, our absolute trust — were they not enough to qualify us as soul-mates? Well, no, perhaps not quite, not quite yet. When I was with him, all the ships in my fleet flew their true colours — all except one, which was flying not false colours, but no flag at all. If my trust was to be absolute, I must unfurl that final flag and reveal to him my last secret. It crossed my mind to do so there and then, but my nerve failed.
But the thought did not break our togetherness. Neither of us said another word. In the end I put my hand briefly on his, went home, and collapsed into bed, knackered.
*
Soon afterwards, exams started and, what with all the revision, life became hectic. The Prof was more or less back to his usual self and I still saw him frequently if only briefly — he knew better than to distract me at this time. But with exams over, the pace slackened again.
Having so little common ground, Isaac and I rarely set out to discuss anything but birds. Other subjects always seemed, inexorably and uncomfortably, to lead on to religion, and one memorable Saturday proved no exception. We were sitting in the dappled woodland shade of Coed Cymerau, our backs against a gnarled oak just above the old packhorse bridge near Bryn Melyn, keeping an eye and an ear open for woodpeckers and nuthatches, amid the soporific hum of insects and the plash of a waterfall. Nearby rustlings suggested that there were little mammals on the move — voles, probably. It was blissfully peaceful.
“I’d love to do this sort of thing full-time,” I said sleepily. “Warden in a nature reserve or whatever, looking after woodlands and wildlife.”
“What qualifications would you need?”
“Well, I’m thinking of carrying on with biology at A-level, along with chemistry and maths. Then university, I hope. Biology there. Ending up specialising in conservation and environmental studies. That should be enough. What are you thinking of doing?”
“No need to think. I know. Theological college, and ordination. That’s God’s destiny for me.”
“God’s destiny? You mean he’s got it all mapped out for you?”
“Of course. God determines everything we do, good or bad. We can’t resist it.”
“Heck, that’s crazy. That means we’ve got no choice. We must have that.”
“Oh no. There’s no free will outside God. There’s no room for it, because everything happens by divine predestination.”
I was shocked, but tried to meet him on his own ground.
“But, Isaac. You’d say we end up either in heaven or hell, right?”
“Right.”
“Well, whichever we end up in, it must be decided by whether we’ve lived good lives or bad. Right?”
“Wrong. It was decided at the creation. Look, Tom. The church on earth is made up of two sorts. There are the saints who can never lose their crown.” Strong echoes of the pulpit were coming through. “They’re the elect, the predestinate, chosen by God for heaven. Grace is given to them. They can’t say ‘yes please’ to it, or ‘no thank you’. Then there are the sinners who can’t attain salvation, no matter how hard they try. They’re reprobate, not elect, damned. Salvation’s beyond their reach.”
“Then what’s the point of even trying to be good, for heaven’s sake?” I had not intended the pun, and Isaac did not spot it. Not surprisingly.
“Better to try than not. Lots of people think they’re Christians, but only a few of them are entitled to everlasting life. The rest think they do all the right things. They may feel the same way as the elect, they may find the same uplift. But their faith’s only apparent, not real. Even so, God insinuates himself into their mind, so they can still taste his goodness. That taste is a good deal better than nothing.”
“But that can’t be right, Isaac. You must have got that wrong.”
“I haven’t. You probably don’t know it, but you’re being Arminian.” Armenian? What the hell was he on about? “You’re deliberately misreading the bible’s message. Making it into an easy cop-out. Its true message was laid out by Calvin. You have heard of Calvin, haven’t you?” he asked, without much conviction.
Actually, no. The only Calvins in my experience were Calvin Klein and Calvin and Hobbes. He could hardly mean either of those, so I shook my head.
He sighed. “John Calvin. French reformer. In the Reformation. Sixteenth century. Calvinistic Methodists — right? — because our teaching is based on his. I think I can quote him word for word on this. ‘Therefore some men are born devoted from the womb to certain death, so that God’s name may be glorified in their destruction. Because life and death are acts of God’s will.’”
“Destruction?” I was horrified. “But Isaac. I thought God was supposed to be a God of love, not of destruction.”
“So he is. Love for those he’s chosen. Not for those he’s condemned.”
“But that’s not fair. It’s not … just. If you’re condemned from the word go, it makes life … pointless. A nightmare.”
“No, it doesn’t. You don’t know whether you’re elect or reprobate till it comes to the crunch. So it makes sense to hope you’re going to heaven, and act accordingly.”
“Well, it makes no sense to me. It’s against all reason. God can’t, um, discriminate like that.”
“God can’t …? Oh, Tom, sometimes I wonder why I put up with you. Look, who are you to question God? He made you. You can’t dispute with your maker. Remember Romans 9:21? No, you wouldn’t. ‘Has the potter no right over his clay, to make out of the same lump one beautiful pot and one crude one?’ If God wants to show off his power, doesn’t he have the right to put his splendid pots on exhibition, to be admired, and allow the workaday ones to get smashed?”
Hmmm. I thought I could see the point. A potter might expect some say over the fate of his own pots. But damn it, men were not pots. It sounded like blatant favouritism, cosseting a few special products and writing off the bulk of humanity as cheap crockery. Well, I did not believe in God at all, so it was an academic question. But I was still appalled at a belief which insulted reason and mankind. And I was saddened to hear it from a gentle boy like this, whom I certainly liked, certainly lusted for, and hoped I even loved.
These thoughts were very unwelcome, and they shattered the magic of Coed Cymerau. I needed, quite urgently, to consult my oracle. As soon as I could without hurting Isaac’s feelings, I suggested we should go home. Once I had got rid of him I bearded the Prof and poured out my problems.
“You’re dipping your toe into deep waters here, Tom. Yes, predestination. It’s a harsh doctrine, with an intolerant God. Harsher than perhaps you realise. According to the bible, in the Garden of Eden, Adam and Eve were tempted by the snake and disobeyed God, didn’t they? That was the first sin committed by man. It’s called the Fall. Among Calvinists, there are various shades of opinion here. The more moderate ones say that God, after he’d created the world, looked at his list of everybody who was ever to be born, right up to the end of time. He decided which of them should end up in heaven — that’s what’s called election and predestination — and left the rest to punishment. He allowed the Fall to happen, though he didn’t actually set it up.
“That seems bad enough to you. But the extremists say that all this came before creation. That God chose who was to go to heaven, and who was condemned to sin and hell, before he’d even created Adam.”
I worked it out. “But that means God decided the Fall should happen. He actually made Adam sin. That’s bonkers.”
“But it’s what they say, Tom. And it’s all tied up with original sin.”
“Original sin?”
“It means that everyone has inherited Adam’s sin. Everyone is born with sin in-built. Nobody is born innocent. It means everyone is damned unless they’re rescued — born again, they call it — by baptism.”
“But that’s … disgusting.” I was flabbergasted. “It means that if a baby dies before it’s baptised, it automatically goes to hell.”
“It does. That’s why I called it a harsh doctrine. The MCs … well, what they teach is based on a document called the Confession of Faith, which they drew up in 1823. Even though they follow Calvin, it doesn’t say anything about election. That’s left to the individual minister. And I think I know the line followed by our friend across the road.”
And therefore by his son, who saw me, from his viewpoint, as beyond the pale, an unbeliever, damned. But he still seemed to like me, and he accepted me as a non-Welshman, which surely meant that he had some tolerance left. From my own viewpoint, I saw him as beyond the pale too, for keeping a blinkered and inflexible mind, for soaking up all this crap in the first place. But I still liked him, or more than liked him.
“But is that only the MCs? Other churches aren’t so tough?”
“No, most of them aren’t. True, some Presbyterians in Scotland and Northern Ireland are still Calvinistic hard-liners, like the Wee Frees. So are some Baptists, especially the Southern Baptists in the States. But most churches which ever taught predestination and original sin have now watered them down. Some even say that all unbaptised babies are saved. Most churches here follow the Arminian line now. That’s named after a Dutchman called Arminius, who led the protestant backlash against Calvin.”
“Oh, I see. Isaac called me an Arminian. I thought he said Armenian, and wondered what that had got to do with it.”
The Prof chuckled. “Anyway, Arminians say that man can haul himself up by his bootstraps. Everyone can be saved. If you aren’t saved, it’s your own fault, it wasn’t decreed by God. You do have free will. God is a God of love, not destruction.”
“That’s a lot better. And the Anglicans say that too?”
“Yes. Quite forcibly. That’s why I went to them from the MCs.”
I mulled it over. “Yes. I would too. So both, um, sides claim the bible’s behind them?”
“Oh yes. You can find texts in the bible to ‘prove’ — in inverted commas — almost anything you like. It’s not consistent.”
“That reminds me, Prof. Isaac said something else. He called God a potter who made lovely pots which he had the right to look after, and cheap ones which he had the right to chuck out. Well, if we don’t believe in God, it doesn’t really matter to us. But I can see some sense in it. If God did exist, and did create everything, shouldn’t he have control over what happens to his own pots?”
“Hmmm. Like most analogies, you can only take this one so far. If we were only pots, yes, maybe. But we’re human beings, who feel, who think for ourselves. We’re all different, but we’re all marvellous, we’re all potentially top-quality. If you had children, Tom, wouldn’t you try to give all of them the same chance?”
“Yes. Of course I would. Anything else would be favouritism.”
“And that’s unfair. Agreed. But this business about pots is interesting. Look, Tom, it’s time to introduce you properly to my old friend Omar Khayyám. I quoted him to you the other week. He was a Persian, in the twelfth century, best known in his day as an astronomer. And he also wrote poetry. The Rubáiyát. In my humble opinion it’s superb poetry. And in Edward FitzGerald’s translation it’s superb language. I can’t read Persian so I don’t know, but they say that FitzGerald is even better than the original.
“But the point is this. Omar was a Muslim, of course, and strict Islam is another harsh faith. Like Calvinism, it says that in the beginning God decided the destiny of every person who would ever be born. Predestination again. Well, Islam generated almost as many dissenters as Christianity, and Omar was one. He couldn’t find any alternative to predestination, but he didn’t like it. He took refuge in heresy.
“Now, Omar uses that same metaphor which Isaac quoted. He has the pots in a potter’s shop talking among themselves:
Said one among them, ‘Surely not in vain
My substance of the common earth was ta’en
And to this figure moulded, to be broke,
Or trampled back to shapeless earth again.’
Then said a second, ‘Ne’er a peevish boy
Would break the bowl from which he drank in joy;
And he that with his hand the vessel made
Will surely not in after wrath destroy.’
Whereat some one of the loquacious lot —
I think a Sufi pipkin, waxing hot —
‘All this of pot and potter. Tell me then,
Who is the potter, pray, and who the pot?’”
The Prof looked at me quizzically.
“Yes … I see … I think,” I said slowly. “We’re back to man creating God, aren’t we?”
“Yes. We are. People tend to see Omar’s message as ‘eat, drink and be merry, for tomorrow we die.’ But there’s a great deal more to him than that. He’s a rebel. Here are some verses of his on the standard theme of predestination. Orthodox, if distinctly cynical:
’Tis all a chequer-board of nights and days
Where Destiny with men for pieces plays:
Hither and thither moves, and mates, and slays,
And one by one back in the closet lays.
The moving finger writes, and having writ
Moves on: not all your piety nor wit
Shall lure it back to cancel half a line,
Nor all your tears wash out a word of it.
With earth’s first clay they did the last man knead,
And there of the last harvest sowed the seed:
And the first morning of creation wrote
What the last dawn of reckoning shall read.”
I found myself grinning broadly, as if I had had too much to drink. Hitherto, I had always reckoned poetry pretty boring stuff, but I was already on a high, catapulted there by the splendour of these verses as recited in the Prof’s clear and sensitive diction. I felt much the same incredulous delight as if I had spotted a hoopoe in Coed Maentwrog.
“And then the rebel, the heretic, comes out — the Arminian, if you prefer. And more than the Arminian:
Oh you, who did with pitfall and with gin
Beset the road I was to wander in,
You will not with predestination round
Enmesh me, and impute my fall to sin!
Oh you, who man of baser earth did make,
And who with Eden did devise the snake,
For all the sin wherewith the face of man
Is blackened, man’s forgiveness give — and take!”
I grinned more broadly still. This was rebellion on a grand scale, to talk of forgiving God for what he had done to man.
The Prof grinned equally broadly back at me. “He’s cheered you up, hasn’t he? Borrow him, Tom, and read him properly. He’s got plenty more that you’ll like. That bookcase, top shelf but one, about eight books from the left, blue paperback — yes, that’s it.”
Now that Calvin had been balanced by Omar, I went home much happier. I read the Rubáiyát in one sitting — not that all of it was easy to understand — and became totally intoxicated. Over the week I read it again and again, learned some by heart, and decided to share my new delight with Isaac. Even though he would dislike much of the message, surely he would appreciate the language.
*
Next Saturday we climbed up to Wrysgan to watch the peregrines that lived in the fissured cliffs — some of the cracks, Isaac said, were a relic of the great earthquake of 1984. We carried on along the old quarrymen’s track round the contour to Llyn Stwlan, where we sat on a rock overlooking the dam. On the right loomed Moelwyn Mawr, ahead loomed Moelwyn Bach, the jagged crags on its right-hand side famously in the shape of a man’s profile. It was supposed to resemble the Duke of Wellington, the Prof had told me, but in his opinion it looked much more like Ted Heath, the last prime minister but four. Not having seen either gentleman, I had to take his word for it.
I told Isaac about Omar and got out the book. He was wary. I read him some verses that were not contentious, and he seemed to like them. I read the orthodox verses about predestination which the Prof had quoted, and he nodded approvingly. But when I ventured on to the rebellious ones, his face grew thundery. He snatched the book from me to check that I was not making it up.
“But that’s blasphemy!”
He flung it far out into the lake where it floated for a bit, then became waterlogged and sank, perhaps to be sucked down the outlet pipe and pulped in Dad’s turbines.
“For God’s sake! That wasn’t my book!”
He looked abashed. “Oh. Whose was it?”
“The Prof’s.”
“Oh, him. That’s all right, then.” The Prof’s property was evidently fair game. “He’s destined for hell anyway, but that’s no excuse for trying to drag other people down there with him.”
I was livid. “The difference between you and the Prof is that you’re a bigot and he’s not. And I go along with him, not you. You claim you’ve got the monopoly of being right. I claim that you’ve just as much chance of ending up in hell as I have, or the Prof has. There’s another verse in that book” — I gestured at the lake — “which goes:
Oh you, who burns in heart for those who burn
In hell, whose fires yourself shall feed in turn,
How long be crying, ‘Mercy on them, God!’
Why, who are you to teach, and we to learn?”
Isaac threw me a look of pure fury, picked up his rucksack, and marched off. I did not call him back or try to follow. What was the point? I sat brooding over his forecast about the Prof’s destination. Hell. Or heaven. I really had not thought about them before, any more than I had thought about most such things. Isaac, I reckoned, was aiming for heaven in the next life by going through hell in this, confident that God had mapped out his route for him. But I did not believe that God existed. If he did not, could there be an afterlife? And if there was no afterlife, could there be such places as heaven and hell? Once again, Omar suggested the answer.
I sent my soul through the invisible,
Some letter of that afterlife to spell;
And by and by my soul returned to me
And answered ‘I myself am heaven and hell.’
Heaven but the vision of fulfilled desire,
And hell the shadow from a soul on fire,
Cast on the darkness into which ourselves,
So late emerged from, shall so soon expire.
That made sense. I could go along with heaven and hell being inside you, in this life. But if they did not exist in the afterlife, where did your soul go after you died? Anyway, what was the soul? From my biology, I understood a bit about the mind: consciousness, sensation, thought, reasoning, all the product of electrical activity in the brain. Like in a computer, but far more complex. And when the brain died, the mind died. The soul must be something different. Or even — I felt I was taking a big step here — did it exist at all? Omar evidently thought it did, but then he believed in God. If you did not believe in God, or in the accepted heaven and hell, why believe in the soul? The Prof had made me think for myself, but some questions were still too big for me. I must ask him.
As I made my long way home round the hairpin bends of the access road I could see Isaac striding away, far below me. Even at that distance he seemed to radiate a smouldering glow of self-righteous anger. But the Prof welcomed me as placidly as always, hot and bothered though I was. First I told him of the fate of his book.
“I’m sorry, Prof, it was my fault. I shouldn’t have shown it to him. I’ll buy you another.”
“Thank you, Tom, but no. I have other editions. No, I will buy you another copy, for you to keep this time. And you know, this business is a good illustration of intolerance, isn’t it? One of the many reasons why Calvin challenged the Catholics was that he objected to their excesses in persecuting heretics. The inquisition and suchlike. But he ruled Geneva — that’s where he was based — with a rod of iron. When he found himself opposed by another reformer called Servetus who wrote books castigating him, he had him burned at the stake, along with his books. Pots and kettles, eh? Anyway, he might destroy Servetus and his writings, but he could never destroy his message.”
Pots and kettles indeed. Not pleasant.
“Prof, why do some people fly off the handle like that? Why can’t they chew things over calmly? And if they can’t agree, then agree to differ?”
“I think the short answer, Tom, is pride. Some people have to be right. They can’t admit they might be wrong. They can’t stand their power being challenged. They have to demonstrate who’s the boss. I believe the modern term for them is control freaks. It’s the closed mind again. Which is why I’m so glad that yours is open and questioning.”
I blushed, and was prompted to raise my latest question, about heaven and hell. He listened patiently to my stumbling thoughts.
“You’ve a knack, Tom, of coming up with knotty problems. And the answers to them. You’re not the first to locate heaven and hell in the mind, you know, but you’re in distinguished company. Milton, for example.
The mind is its own place, and in itself
Can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven.
Even better, perhaps, T. S. Eliot.
Hell is oneself;
Hell is alone, the other figures in it
Merely projections. There is nothing to escape from
And nothing to escape to. One is always alone.
And I’d entirely agree with them, and with you. Heaven and hell are inside us.”
“And Prof, following on from that. If there’s no God, and no afterlife in heaven or hell, can we have a soul? I know what the mind is, I think, more or less. Activity in the brain, and it dies with us. But what is the soul, Prof?”
“It’s a woolly concept, it seems to me, not easy to distinguish from the mind. It’s said to be the noble, the emotional, the immortal side of ourselves. The emperor Hadrian wrote a delightful poem to his own soul. Animula vagula blandula — ‘wandering, charming little soul, guest and companion of my body.’ I rather like that idea. A guest and companion would be independent of us, and it wouldn’t necessarily die with us. If it didn’t, I suppose it could be called immortal. But your question is, where would it go after we had died? If I’ve got you right, you’re suggesting that if life after death is only man’s imagining, then the soul must be imaginary too. If that premise is correct, I don’t think I can shoot down the rest of your logic.”
For once, he seemed to be slightly side-stepping the issue, but I did not pick him up on it because I had another important question.
“Prof, you said you wanted to be buried by the Anglicans. But if there is no God, and no afterlife, even no soul, why does it matter?”
He chuckled. “Mainly because I hate the thought of being sneered into my grave by the Calvinists.”
“But why not have a service without any religion in it at all? You’re allowed to, aren’t you?”
“Oh yes, no problem. Why not a secular service? Well, maybe I see a church service as a sort of insurance policy, just in case I do have a soul, just in case — even more remotely — God does exist. If you had a child, Tom, would you have it baptised, just in case it died young, just in case unbaptised infants really were damned for eternity?”
I cogitated. It would be good to stand by one’s principles. But he was right. I had admitted God might exist. Therefore baptism might, just conceivably, do some good. It could certainly do no harm.
“Yes, maybe I would. Just in case.”
He nodded. “Yes. And it’s for the same sort of reason that I’ve plumped for a church funeral. Have you been baptised, Tom?”
I hadn’t the foggiest idea. I asked Mum and Dad when I got in. Yes, they rather sheepishly admitted, I had been. They weren’t religious, but their own parents and grandparents had expected them to have me done. And better safe than sorry …
Next time I saw Isaac he apologised about the book, to my surprise, and offered to buy a replacement. I thanked him but said no. I knew his pocket money was microscopic, and thought that it might not hurt to rub in the lesson.
“The Prof’s buying another copy himself. He said it all reminded him of Calvin and Servetus.”
Isaac understood at once, and had the grace to blush.
I still wanted to love him, though. He was entitled to his opinions. While I could not stomach their rigidity, I admired him for sticking up for them. Neither of us wished our friendship to founder on this rock, and we made a big if undeclared effort to continue as before. But my frustrations also continued, unabated. Even if either or both of us were predestined for hell, one thing that did not seem predestined was a sexual encounter between us. Yet I still hankered desperately for my heaven, for my vision of fulfilled desire.
*
The Prof’s state of health was now variable: sometimes he verged on the sprightly, sometimes he was painfully slow. He saved up his bigger shopping expeditions for Saturdays, so that I could carry his bags home. One July day, when I let myself in, I could not find him. I was quite worried until I heard noises from upstairs, where I had never set foot — his bathroom was beyond the kitchen — and I found him up there looking for a book. It turned out that he had another library on the first floor, at least equal in size to the one downstairs. Not only did it cost him a huge effort to climb up, but it struck me as downright dangerous for a man of his age who lived alone.
“Prof, are there any books downstairs which you never use? Or hardly ever?”
“Oh yes, quite a lot.”
“Well, why not move them up, and replace them with upstairs books which you use more often? Save you traipsing up and down stairs.”
“Why haven’t I thought of that before? Why not, indeed? Do I take it, Tom, you’re offering to do the fetching and carrying?”
As it turned out, the fetching and carrying took a whole weekend. It was hilarious. We called the game Predestination, and the Prof played the part of God. In his study, he decreed which books were reprobate and damned, and I took them off the shelves. Then, both of us giggling like six-year-olds, he put his arm round my shoulder, and I put my arm round his waist and half-carried him upstairs. There he chose the elect, the saints, which I likewise pulled out. Their destiny decided, I installed the damned in hell and the elect in heaven. The only thing awry was that heaven was downstairs and hell was up. Our frivolity would have shocked Isaac to death, not to mention the Parch. But we had a whale of a time.
*
As for Isaac, after our heart-to-heart by Llyn Cwmcorsiog I saw no sign that he harboured any — let us say — impure thoughts at all. Until one night, shortly before the end of term, when I looked out of the window before going to bed. Isaac’s light was still on, a sizeable strip showing between his curtains which were not completely closed. There was nothing unusual about that. They never were fully closed, simply because they were too narrow to meet. That household just did not have the money to replace curtains which had been made for a narrower window in some previous manse. What was new was that through the gap I could see the middle of his bed. He must have moved it, unaware that I could see it now. Mine was the only window in the street high enough to look down into his room. And on the bed was Isaac, or the relevant part of him. Naked, and vigorously beating himself off.
I knew it was spying, and knew I should not. But I could not help it. I watched, through my binoculars, which I tried to hold steady with my left hand while my right was active, very active, elsewhere. We came at the same time, he into a handkerchief, me onto the floor. Then his light went out. Well, I thought, winding down as I cleaned up the mess, however high-minded ministers’ sons may be, at least this one’s human after all. Or a little bit human. And if he’s that human, is he more human still? But the big unknown is whether he’s straight or gay. Or neither. If I was going to get anywhere at all, I would have to put it to the test. A scientific experiment, if you like. I spent the next hour or so hatching nefarious plans.
I found a juicy porn site of chicks being shagged, printed off a good picture, put it in a blank envelope and sealed it. Next day I took it to school, and while nobody was around I posted it into Isaac’s locker through the slit between the door and frame. When school finished, as I burrowed in my own locker nearby, I saw him collect some books, cast a puzzled look at the envelope, and stuff it into his pocket. That night I stood watch, a bit back from my window, lights off, binoculars in hand. His light came on and after a while he crossed the gap between the curtains, wearing his pyjamas and holding a piece of paper. He squatted down at the fireplace on the far wall, struck a match and burned the paper. Then he got into bed, under the blanket, and his light went out. I could not be sure, but I deduced the chicks had not turned him on.
On to the next stage, then. This time I went to a gay site and printed off another juicy picture, and followed the same procedure. It had better work this time — it was only two days to the end of term, and three days before our family was going off on holiday. And I was rewarded. His light came on and stayed on, he lay naked on the bed, and he looked at the picture held in one hand while he wanked with the other. As before, I went along with him. Once he was done, his light went out. I was getting closer.
Next evening, I asked him to come in to see something new on the RSPB website. He showed no suspicions. At the window I pointed to the square where a gaggle of sparrows was ridiculously having a bath in a puddle. He looked briefly, laughed, and sat down at the computer, while I stayed where I was, pretending to watch the sparrows but actually keeping an eye on him in the mirror beside the window. I had put a good gay porn site on the screen, long enough ago for the screensaver to have come up. As soon as he touched the mouse, there was the porn. He glanced round at me, but saw only my back. He knew plenty enough about computers by now to navigate round a site, and in the mirror I saw him clicking thumbnail after thumbnail for several minutes. When I thought the time was ripe I turned, and pretended surprise.
“Oops! Forgot that was up!”
But all my lovely plans crashed instantly in ruins. He leapt up and whirled round, hard-on very evident, face red.
“Dos yn fy ol i, Satan,” he spat out. “Rhwystr ydwyt ti i mi: am nad ydwyt yn synied y pethau sydd o Dduw, ond y pethau sydd o ddynion.”
My Welsh was good enough to catch the beginning, and I read up the rest later. ‘Get you behind me, Satan. You’re my stumbling-block. Your mind’s not on God’s things, but on man’s.’ Out he stormed, and I spent a very unhappy night.
Next day was the last day of term, which ended at lunch time. Awash with trepidation, I carefully avoided Isaac all morning. Indeed our paths did not cross until the final class. When it was finished, he came purposefully over to me.
“Tom, a word with you.” His tone was now of sorrow, not of anger. He waited until the room was empty before continuing.
“Tom, about last night. You know much more about all this than I do. But I’ve been thinking. I’ve been blind and slow, but now I see what you’re after. You’re gay, and you hope I am too, and you’re trying to tempt me.”
I could only nod.
“Yes, Tom, I am tempted that way. Yes, you did tempt me. With what you told me that day at Cwmcorsiog. And especially last night with the … computer. Yes, for a bit I did get carried away. Every one of God’s children is tempted. But God helped me to resist.”
It was the only chance I would ever have of saying what I needed to. I gulped.
“OK, Isaac, I did tempt you. Because I love you. I wanted to show you how I love you.”
“Tom, you mustn’t love me. I know you’re tempted. But you must resist it, for your own sake. And for mine. I like you, Tom. But I can’t love you. Not in that sense. You think about it while you’re away, and you’ll see what I mean. Right?”
I was too confused to answer, but he seemed to take my agreement for granted, as if the whole episode was over and done with.
“I must run,” he said. “I’ve got to change and get up to Llechwedd.” He had found a holiday job in the café at Quarry Tours.
Virtually everybody had already left, but as we went out into the corridor we saw Meurig and Ianto, two of the school’s younger bullies, emerge from a classroom a couple of doors along and head for the main entrance, sniggering as they went. Even though my mind was in turmoil, I wondered what they had been up to and, as we passed the room they had just left, I glanced inside. There, behaving very oddly, was a boy named Geraint, a year below us, whom I knew slightly. He was standing with his back to the wall, trying to cover his chest with his arms, and clearly on the verge of tears. He saw Isaac first and cringed, but at the sight of me he relaxed a little.
“Geraint! What’s up?” I asked in Welsh.
“Oh, Tom, please, you don’t have a spare shirt or sweater you could lend me, do you?”
What on earth for? It was a sweltering day.
“Sorry, Geraint, not here. I took my sports stuff home yesterday. But why … ?”
“I can’t go home like this,” he wailed. “Look!”
He lowered his arms. He was wearing a plain white tee-shirt, or one that had been plain white. But scrawled across the front in black marker pen was the message ‘Dw i’n gadi hoyw’ — I am a gay sissy. He turned round, and the same was written on the back. He lifted the shirt, and the same was written on his skin, front and back. I understood. Geraint lived, I knew, in Congl y Wal at the very far end of town. Unless he could find something to cover it up, he was condemned to walking a good mile through the centre of Blaenau announcing to the world that he was gay, and announcing it to his mother when he got home. He was a quiet and artistic type, almost feminine in face, a sitting target for homophobic louts like Ianto and Meurig. But I also knew that he was an unjustified target. He had a girlfriend, and presumably was not gay.
Isaac evidently did not know. “Go home like that,” he pronounced. “Proclaim your sins to the people, and repent, canys ffiaidd gan yr Arglwydd dy Dduw bob un a’r a wnelo hyn” — for all that do such things are an abomination unto the Lord your God. “Goodbye, Tom, I must go.” Off he went, as stern and righteous as any Old Testament prophet.
“But I’m not gay,” cried Geraint.
“It’s all right, Geraint. I know you aren’t. Don’t pay any attention to him. Look, come home with me — there won’t be anyone there — and I’ll clean you up. And put this on to get you there.”
I peeled off my tee-shirt with its RSPB logo and, whimpering with relief, he put it on over his own. Naked to the waist, I walked him the hundred yards home. We were close enough behind Isaac to see him disappear into Ty Capel.
Once in the refuge of my house, we surveyed the damage. The first priority was to clean the writing off Geraint’s skin, but the marker pen proved obstinate. Experiments with soap, washing-up liquid and white spirit hardly affected it, and we began to despair. Then I tried rougher tactics and found that the pan-scourer and Cif would shift it, at the cost of leaving his skin red and tender. He bore it stoically, but as I worked carefully around his nipples I saw a bulge grow in his jeans. Close contact with his very attractive body had already given me a bulge in mine. The setting was perfect for seduction, and he was so touchingly grateful for my help that I reckoned he would give me anything. But I could not ask for it. No way. It would be utterly wrong to take advantage of him.
I asked, instead, what had happened. The louts, much as I guessed, had been taunting him for most of the term, and as a final fling, the work of seconds, Meurig had pinioned his arms while Ianto wrote the messages. I was surprised he could spell that well. They could not be allowed to get away with it.
“Stand up to them, Geraint. I know you aren’t gay. You’ve got a girlfriend, haven’t you? Esyllt, isn’t it?” He nodded. “If they try any more monkey tricks, let me know.”
I was not very sure what I could do. But even if they were bigger than me, I was a year above them, and I did have my other friends who would back me up. With luck. Yet another thing that needed thinking about.
Once Geraint’s chest and back were clear of ink, I soothed his soreness with antiseptic cream. We then looked at his shirt. A write-off, we decided, so I binned it and dug out an almost identical one of my own.
“Oh Tom, you’re a hero. I’ll bring this back tomorrow.”
“Don’t bother, Geraint. Keep it. I’ve got plenty.” I knew his family did not have many beans to rub together.
As I had been cleaning him up, I had heard the letterbox rattle, and when I saw him out, bubbling with thanks, I found a hastily-scribbled note lying on the mat:
Tad’s just heard that he’s being posted down to Ceredigion, and we’re leaving at the end of August. But there’ll still be three weeks after you get back from holiday. Have a good time — Isaac.
So. So Isaac was going, and I knew I would miss his company. But unresolved questions were tumbling in my mind like washing in a dryer. Thinking that Geraint was gay, he had just been unforgivingly harsh to him, unforgivably harsh. That was typical of his attitude to anyone he saw as reprobate. Yet there was a conundrum here. He now knew for a fact that I was gay and therefore reprobate. Why had he been so considerate to me? After last night, I had been afraid our friendship had crumbled to nothing. But, provided I tempted him no more, he seemed ready to overlook my behaviour. To forgive it.
To forgive it? Yes. Last night had left me wallowing in disappointment and self-pity. Now I began to see his point, and to feel stirrings of guilt. I knew at last, for certain, that I would never win him over. I had tried, and I had failed. But had I been wrong in trying? That was the other question. What I had been tempting him to do was in his eyes a sin, an offence against the divine laws he believed in. But then, from my point of view, if I was not bound by those laws, it was hardly a sin to succumb to the temptation, was it? It might be a crime in the eyes of human law, at least until we were sixteen. But that was another matter altogether.
After pondering long and inconclusively I took my problem, as usual, to the Prof.
“May I ask your advice, please, Prof? I can’t tell you the details. But I’ve been trying to get … someone to do something he didn’t want to. It might have been a crime, in law, but only a minor one. But how do I know if it was wrong, morally wrong, to try?”
The Prof looked at me shrewdly. “I think the best yardstick, Tom, is that if it’s likely to hurt anyone at all, including yourself, in any way, short-term or long-term, then it’s wrong. True, punishment hurts, but that’s a quite different affair, provided it’s a just punishment. And that yardstick, in my humble opinion, is more important than the letter of the law. Because it also applies to behaviour outside the law, like being rude or inconsiderate, which can hurt just as much as physical assault. Does that help?”
It did. I had been tempting Isaac to break one of his taboos. It did not matter that his taboo was not mine.
“Yes,” I said heavily. “I have been inconsiderate. I have hurt him. And I’ve lost him. I never had a chance, anyway. I can see that now.”
I had been thinking out loud, and suddenly realised what I had said. My last flag had been accidentally unfurled. I looked at the Prof with mouth open and face red, but I knew him too well to be afraid.
He smiled gently. “Don’t worry, Tom. I’ve had a pretty good idea of what’s been going on. Or not going on. I do not disapprove, and it’s safe with me. You’re right, Tom — it was a forlorn hope from the start. Of course you’re disappointed. I know how you’re feeling now.
Ah love! Could you and I with fate conspire
To grasp this sorry scheme of things entire,
Would not we shatter it to bits — and then
Re-mould it nearer to the heart’s desire!
“But don’t be disappointed, not for too long. You hoped you’d find love from Isaac, but it’s clear you never will. Will even your friendship survive?”
“Yes … No … Look, Prof. Something’s just happened.” I told him about the events of the morning. “And now Isaac’s going. I don’t know what to think. It might be a good thing, since I’ve hurt him. But even though he sees me as, um, a sinner, he seems to have forgiven me. As if he still values me. Yet he was ready to let Geraint face the music. I don’t understand.”
“Put this in context, Tom. Think what you give Isaac that Geraint can’t. Think why …” He tailed off.
We looked at each other, and I found, not greatly to my surprise, that I could supply what he had left unsaid, not from my own mind, but by reading it in those brown eyes.
“Prof. You’re thinking it is no bad thing that Isaac’s going, because it never can be a real friendship. Because we don’t have enough common ground. If it weren’t for birds, we wouldn’t know each other at all. We hardly talk about anything else, except religion, and we don’t exactly agree on that. Isaac doesn’t have any other friends — to him, everybody’s a sinner, beyond the pale. To him, I’m a sinner too. Yet he puts up with me, even forgives me. You’re thinking that’s not tolerance, but self-interest, just because he doesn’t want to lose my company. My bird-talk. Isn’t that what you’re thinking? And you don’t want to say it because it might seem unkind?”
The Prof was smiling lovingly. “Tom, you have no secrets left, do you? Not now. And soon I’ll have none left either, if you can read my mind as accurately as that. Yes. That’s exactly what I’m thinking. And do you think the same?”
I gazed at the drab grey building opposite, TABERNACL M. C., where Isaac’s mind was centred and mine emphatically was not. I had lusted only for his body, hadn’t I? Not, to be honest, for his mind. Birds were our only bond, and his was a friendship only of convenience. There was no meeting of minds. Whereas the Prof and I …
“Yes, I do think the same.”
“You never were compatible, Tom. Don’t think too badly of Isaac. He’s been conditioned into the way he is. Brainwashed, if you like. But you’ve each learned lessons from the other. I suggest you talk birds with him as usual, until he leaves. And then, without grief or guilt, let him go his own way, and you go yours. They’re very different ways. There’s a most excellent limerick, even though it is about destiny, which you may not know.
There once was a man who said ‘Damn!
It is borne in upon me I am
An engine that moves
In predestinate grooves.
I’m not even a bus, I’m a tram.’
“That’s Isaac. He’s a tram, who can follow only the narrow track that’s been laid down for him. You’re a bus. You can drive anywhere. Anywhere you like. You’ll find better friendships elsewhere, Tom. More important, you’ll find a better love. I wouldn’t dare call that your destiny, not after our discussions. But it’s simply inconceivable that so inquisitive and intelligent a person as you, so lovable and so loving, should not find it, though it may take time.”
I drew a deep breath. He had given me plenty of new food for thought, but he had already solved my conundrum and lifted a heavy burden off my shoulders.
“Thanks, Prof. Thanks. That’s good. You’re a star!”
“And you’re lucky, Tom. As you search for your love, you’ll be going out into a world which is ever more tolerant. Of course there are exceptions, and plenty of them. Individual exceptions like Ianto and Meurig. And general ones too — Macaulay found ‘no spectacle so ridiculous as the British public in one of its periodical fits of morality.’ That was a century and a half ago, and it still holds true. Sometimes society still has a fit and takes a step backwards. But most of the steps are in the right direction.
“In fact another small one has been taken today. You won’t have heard the one o’clock news. You know the Archbishop of Canterbury’s retiring?” I nodded. “As head of the whole Anglican communion throughout the world, he’s in a pretty influential position. George Carey, who’s on his way out, is a sadly stodgy character. Well, they’ve just announced his successor. Rowan Williams, who’s currently Archbishop of Wales. He’s a good man. A liberal. A moderniser. He’s already ordained gay priests.”
“Wow! That’s great!” I had had no idea the Anglicans were as progressive as that.
“It might ultimately rub off on other churches too, though of course not everyone will approve. One thing I’m sure of is that there’ll be thunder from the Parch’s pulpit on Sunday morning. Tom … ” — the eye he cocked at me had a truly wicked gleam in it — “shall we be very naughty and celebrate, while he’s thundering, with a glass of madeira?”
I laughed. “I’d have loved to, Prof. But we’re going away tomorrow, for our holiday. Remember?”
His face fell. “I’d forgotten. How long for?”
“A fortnight. Back on the 10th. I’m going to miss you, Prof. But I’ll phone you regularly, just to check you’re all right. I feel a bit mean, not being able to help with your shopping and stuff. But Rhiannon will look after that.”
There was a long pause as he gazed at me.
“Don’t you worry,” he said abruptly. “You’d better go and do your packing. It must be time. Goodbye, Tom, and thank you. Enjoy yourself away from this old man.”
He creaked to his feet, and to my amazement he opened his arms, clearly expecting a hug. I obliged. Inside his baggy jacket he felt like a small sparrow, heart fluttering. And I kissed him lightly on the lips. To this day I do not know what prompted me. I could perfectly well just have hugged him.
After a few seconds he broke free and almost pushed me out of the door. As I turned round with a wave and a “Be good!” he was staring after me as if he would never see me again.
*
He never did.
But I saw him. We had our holiday, in a caravan on the Devon coast. Superficially fun, but all the time my heart was in Wales. I phoned him every other day, briefly, and all was well. My last call was on the Thursday, and we got home very late on the Saturday night. Next morning I had two important things to do. I wanted to see Isaac, but he would be in chapel. The first priority, anyway, was to check on the Prof.
I let myself in and was making for the study with a cheerful greeting on my lips when a middle-aged woman came out of the kitchen.
“Diawl, what on earth do you think you’re up to?”
“I’ve come to see the Professor.”
“Where did you get the key from?”
“Why, from the Prof. I let myself in and out.”
She looked at me speculatively. “Who are you?”
“Tom Robertson. I live two doors along.”
“Oh yes, I do know about you, then. I didn’t think you’d be so young. I’m Wil’s niece. Megan Parry.” I recognised her now, from the photos on the mantelpiece.
Then came the bombshell. “My uncle’s dead.”
My heart stopped and my mouth fell open.
She inspected me with an inscrutable face, as if trying to weigh up the boy before her, young-looking, struck dumb, too shocked to cry. A portly man of much the same age appeared from the kitchen.
“This is Tom Robertson,” she explained to him. And to me, “This is my husband,” and she tacitly handed me over, as if deputing an unwelcome job to a minion. Both contrived to convey their disapproval of me.
“What … happened?” I managed to get out.
“Oh, he had a massive heart attack on Friday morning,” said Mr Parry, “on the way to the Co-op, and died almost immediately. He must have known it might happen, because he’d written out detailed instructions for us, for his funeral. Do you want to see him?”
I was taken even more aback. I had heard of the Welsh custom of the dead being put on display in their own home, for friends to pay their respects and to say a last goodbye. Having been brought up in sanitised English ways, I had never seen a dead body before. I did not want to see any dead body, let alone the body of my friend. But I could only say yes. I had to say yes. To say no would be to betray him utterly.
Mr Parry led me into the study. The curtains were closed. The air was stuffy. The coffin sat on trestles in front of the desk. He lifted off the lid and I forced myself to look. There the Prof lay, in a white shroud, his hair covered in an obscene little white bonnet, his hands like claws folded over his stomach. He was a sparrow lying on its back, small, shrivelled, and dead. But beneath the beaky nose and the bushy eyebrows his face was still and peaceful. I looked for a long time, re-memorising what was already engraved on my mind. Then, my throat far too tight to utter any sound, I bent to kiss him gently on the lips, smelling a mixture of chemicals and cosmetics. Silently I framed a simple farewell.
“Bye, Prof. Thanks. My love. And good luck. If you need it where you’ve gone.” That said it all.
Mr Parry was speaking. “You must have been, er, good friends. If you want to come to the funeral, it’s the day after tomorrow, Tuesday. 11.30, in the church at Llan. And you can come to the gathering at the Pengwern Arms afterwards.”
I escaped without opening my mouth, crept home, and collapsed on my bed. Mum and Dad, hearing my sobs, came up to investigate, and were kind and gentle. “He had a good innings, Tom. You’ve been privileged to know him. Just remember him, for his goodness and his kindness. Don’t grieve too much.”
But the whole day I grieved, and did not step outside the house. I lay, and thought, and remembered. Or just lay, and ached in wretchedness. I tried to find comfort in the Rubáiyát, and cried myself to sleep.
Next morning I stirred myself and went to the florist, where after much deliberation I bought a modest bunch of red roses. I wrote a card for it, and took it round. Mrs Parry’s eyes widened, but she thanked me nicely. After all, the flowers were as much a token for her, the bereaved, as for the dead. Or were they also a symbol of mortality?
Oh threats of Hell and hopes of Paradise!
One thing at least is certain — this life flies;
One thing is certain, and the rest is lies:
The flower that once has blown for ever dies.
I continued in my grief, and was incapable of going out again. Isaac would have to wait.
On Tuesday morning, both Mum and Dad were at work and I caught the bus to Llan Ffestiniog, the age-old village three miles away, mother of the young industrial offshoot of Blaenau Ffestiniog. It was nearly half past eleven when I got out at the Pengwern, and the parish church was almost full. Some of the congregation were locals, the rest obviously strangers — the elderly ones ex-colleagues from Cambridge, I guessed, the younger ones perhaps ex-students. Feeling totally out of place, I sat at the very back. The coffin stood in front of the altar, and on it lay red flowers and something silver — too far away to make out any detail.
The service was essentially in English, presumably for the benefit of the strangers. And not the modern form of service, but the old. No doubt the Prof himself had insisted on the Tudor language, even if he did not go along with its message.
The introduction. ‘We brought nothing into this world, and it is certain we can carry nothing out.’ Nothing tangible, no. That he would not deny — who could? And nothing intangible either, if we did not admit the idea of the soul as guest and companion of our body.
The psalm. ‘Lord, let me know mine end, and the number of my days, that I may be certified how long I have to live.’ Lord, let me know nothing of the sort. With hindsight, I was sure the Prof had known the number of his own days. But I did not want to know mine.
The reading. ‘Behold, I show you a mystery. We shall not all sleep, but we shall all be changed, in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye.’ My skin crept. ‘Death is swallowed up in victory. O death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory?’ This sort of stuff had once been mumbo jumbo to me. Why did it now strike a sudden chord?
The address, mercifully short. The vicar spelled out the distinguished career of this son of Ffestiniog, praising his kindness and good nature. He clearly had not known the Prof himself, and was merely mouthing the platitudes the family had told him to say.
Finally the hymn, requested, so the vicar informed us, by the Prof himself. A good Welsh hymn too, Calon lân.
Nid wy’n gofyn bywyd moethus
Aur y byd na’i berlau mân.
Gofyn rwyf am galon hapus,
Calon onest, calon lân
‘I ask not for a life of luxury, worldly gold or petty pearls. I ask for a happy heart, an honest heart, a pure heart.’ Amen to that, at least.
The Prof was to be buried in the new overflow cemetery a hundred yards away, the churchyard itself being too full for further occupants. The coffin on its trolley was trundled out down the aisle. As it passed slowly beside me, I looked closely at what lay on top. The silver thing was a deep circlet, a sort of diadem or crown. The flowers were red roses, and seemed familiar. I saw the writing on the card. It was mine.
The congregation emptied itself out, starting from the front, and I was last to leave, in a daze. It ambled down the road with me at the back, my feet trying to keep up, my mind trying to keep up. At the cemetery I stood on the fringe, on tiptoe, trying to see. Someone grasped my arm. It was Mr Parry. “Come along, lad,” he muttered, and pushed me through the crowd to stand next to his wife, beside the oblong hole lined with artificial grass. The coffin lay at its head, but the flowers and circlet had been removed.
The vicar began to drone. ‘Man that is born of a woman hath but a short time to live, and is full of misery. He cometh up, and is cut down, like a flower; he fleeth as it were a shadow, and never continueth in one stay.’ My eyes wandered, and with them my mind, to the mountains across the valley. If the Prof had any way to enjoy it, his resting place commanded a broadside view of his beloved Moelwyn. I scanned the town sprawling across to the right, three miles away, and picked out Tabernacl. Beside it, I thought I could make out my attic window. If so, I would be able to see his grave from there, with my binoculars.
I came back with a start, willing my emotions not to take over my mind. The coffin was being lowered into the grave. ‘We therefore commit his body to the ground: earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust: in sure and certain hope of the resurrection to eternal life.’ No. Not sure, not certain. No hope, because no belief. But still a pleasant contrast to the doom and gloom of the Calvinists. We threw down handfuls of stony earth which rattled on the coffin lid, on the little silver plate which read
William Davies
11 Mawrth 1920-
9 Awst 2002
‘That we may have our perfect consummation and bliss, both in body and soul.’ Yes, if we do have souls. But we don’t. So why did that sentence hit me between the eyes?
The ritual was over. It had answered no questions, only raised them. It had given no comfort to the living — not, at any rate, to me — and surely it had given none to the dead.
When I pulled myself together enough to ask about the flowers, I found that the Parrys had disappeared. Some people still hung around the cemetery chattering, but most were straggling back up past the church to the Pengwern Arms, and I straggled after them. Inside, tables of sandwiches and quiches and cakes and tea were surrounded by a politely jostling crowd. I was not feeling in the least sociable. I did not in the least want to stay. But I had to find the answer to my question, and hovered on the outskirts again. After a while I was buttonholed by an elderly man — I never discovered who he was — clutching a glass of whisky. He gave the impression that it was by no means his first of the day, and he was friendly and unguarded.
“Hullo, I saw you with Megan. Didn’t know Wil had any young relatives.”
“I’m not a relative. Just a friend, from along the street.”
“Oh. Nice of Megan to put you at the front, then. And nice of her to put the bardic crown on the coffin. Wouldn’t have expected it of her.”
“Bardic crown?”
“Didn’t you know? Wil won the crown at the National Eisteddfod. Just after the war. 1946, it must have been. Not the chair — that’s for the awdl. The crown’s for free verse. Very clever bit of poetry, his. Coded, of course. Had to be, then.”
I looked my puzzlement.
“Oh, it was a love poem. To his boyfriend. Who was only a boy, not much older than you. Come to think of it, he looked very like you, too.”
I was slow on the uptake today.
“Oh Lord, didn’t you know?” He leant conspiratorially close, wafting whisky fumes into my face. “Wil was gay. Quite a scandal, I can tell you. Inside the family and out. But they were made for each other. They were very happy together.”
“I didn’t … know about that. Er, what happened to his, um, friend?”
“Oh, he died. Cancer, you know.” The alcoholic face had mercifully withdrawn from mine. “Very sad. Remember that well. It was soon after Wil retired. Just before he left Cambridge. Tom died on Christmas Day, must have been 19, um, 85.”
Before I could grapple with that, Mr Parry emerged from the crush. He evidently heard the last bit, for he gave the old man a withering look and drew me away.
“Tom. I have a duty to do. Wil left very precise instructions for his funeral. We didn’t, er, entirely approve of all of them, but we had to carry out his wishes. You were to be at the front at the interment. If you brought flowers for the funeral, they and they alone were to go on the coffin. His crown was to go on the coffin too, and as soon as the funeral was over it was to be given to you. And you were to be given a package which he’d addressed to you. It’s in here with the crown.”
He handed over a quite heavily laden bag — a cheap and thin plastic bag from the Co-op which no doubt symbolised the Parrys’ opinion of the whole business. His obviously unpalatable duty done, he disappeared back into the throng.
I could not have spoken a word to anyone, so I turned and went out. With misted eyes I stumbled along the path which skirts the churchyard, and up onto the rocky knoll beyond. It looks clear across the valley to the Moelwyn, clear down the valley to the estuary, and into the cemetery below where they had nearly finished filling in the grave. I sat on the rickety bench and opened the bag, blinking enough tears away to see.
Inside was the crown, and with it was a large sealed envelope which contained five items.
The first was an old unframed studio photograph, head and shoulders, of a teenager, strikingly recognisable as the Prof. The hair was black, the eyebrows were already heavy, the eyes held that unmistakable twinkle of penetrating amusement. I turned it over. On the back was written ‘Wil Davies, 1935, yn 15 oed’ — aged fifteen.
And there was the typescript of the poem which had won him the crown. It was entitled Y Cyfeiliorn, which can mean the quandary, or the perversion, or the heresy, as you choose. It started by adapting a pennill, a folk song:
Mae dwy galon yn fy mynwes,
Un yn oer a’r lall yn gynnes;
Un yn gynnes am dy garu,
A’r llall yn oer rhag ofn dy golli.
‘There are two hearts in my breast. One is cold and the other warm. One is warm through love of you, the other cold for fear of losing you.’ Later, with the help of the dictionary, I worked out the rest. A man was telling of his love, which was frowned on by all except the two most closely concerned. It was addressed, on the face of it, to a girl. If one had the clue and read between the lines, it was addressed to a boy.
And there was the framed photograph which I had glimpsed on the Prof’s mantelpiece, before it disappeared. It was of another boy of about fifteen, but rather more recent — the hairstyle, tie and jacket smacked of the 1940s. Looking at it properly now, I realised at once why his face had rung a bell. He looked quite remarkably like me. It was signed, in young writing, ‘Wil, from Tom, with love.’
The hairs rose on my neck.
And there was a large book bound in soft red leather, a sumptuous edition of the Rubáiyát illustrated with sensuous Preraphaelite-style paintings. The inscription on the flyleaf read, in the same youthful hand:
Wil, from Tom.
Ah, my beloved, fill the cup that clears
Today of past regrets and future fears.
Christmas 1945
My flesh crawled.
Finally, there was a letter to me, from the Prof.
My dear Tom, my second Tom,
You cannot know what joy you have revived in an old heart. Remember me, if you can. And remember that sooner or later a new and better love will come your way. It will be easy to recognise. Go out into the world, Tom, in search of it. Go in search of what we are not allowed to call your destiny. Go with my thanks, and my blessing, and my love.
Your Wil
8th August 2002
There was nothing else. If there had been, I could not have seen it for tears.
The jigsaw was falling into place. The first Tom had died on the same day that I had been conceived. Coincidence, surely. It could only be coincidence. The name was common enough. But the Prof had seen me as his first love’s double, as his second Tom, and had loved me too. That was what bowled me over. I had known full well that he liked me. I had thought that he loved me almost as a son. I had had no idea that his love was of the other kind, the love of a lover. He had not shown it, in word or deed. But his last wishes could mean nothing else. This bequest of mementoes of the first Tom, who had been his lover, could mean nothing else. And, he had said, “Love lies beyond the tomb.” Now that I thought I understood it, that could mean nothing else either. Only in his death had the flag of the Prof’s secret been unfurled.
I could not confront it rationally, not yet. I simply sat, gazing unseeingly at the eternal mountains, noting subconsciously a flight of starlings, glancing at the raw earth which now filled the grave, sensing the warmth of his love washing over me. My own love for him was reinforced. So, in tandem, was my grief, and once back in the shelter of home I would give way to it. No matter there. Mum and Dad would assume, with every reason, that I was merely desolated by the funeral. They would not understand the truth. If they did, they would most certainly disapprove. I loved them dearly and, on their plane, they loved me dearly too, but there were some things they could not be allowed to know. The crown would sit openly on my desk as a gift from my friend; a surprising gift but, shorn of its background, in no way offensive. The rest of the treasures would disappear from sight in the jumble that was my bookshelf.
I have no idea how long I sat there before I felt enough under control to catch the bus home. I got off opposite the Co-op. No more shopping for the Prof, I thought inconsequentially, and tears trickled anew. But the stresses of the day were not yet over.
Standing outside Ty Capel was a removal van. Isaac came out of the house, spotted me fifty yards away, and shouted along the street.
“Tom! Tom! We’re leaving! Now! Tad’s needed in Ceredigion earlier than expected. We only heard a week ago, and I haven’t set eyes on you since. We’re almost ready to go.”
We were closer now. He saw the tears on my cheeks and misinterpreted them.
“Hey, it’s not that bad, you know. But I’ll miss you too. I’ve enjoyed being with you, Tom, watching the birds, talking about them, even if we haven’t agreed on … much else. I don’t suppose we’ll see each other again. But we can still write. I’ll send you our new address.”
He held out his hand, formally. I had grown up a lot in recent weeks, and I was ready now to let him go. But I could not let him go like that. Not him. Not my first, inaccessible, love. To his embarrassed astonishment I took him by the shoulders and kissed him on the lips. He was tall and vibrant and very much alive. Not small and shrivelled and dead, like the Prof. But I could only give him the same message.
“Bye, Isaac. Thanks. My love. And good luck. If you need it where you’re going.”
As he stood staring after me, I turned and went home, without looking back, clutching my precious bag.
Neither Mum nor Dad was yet in from work. From the haven of my room I glanced out of both the windows. Behind, a faint half-moon was rising above Carreg Ddu. In front, the Evans family was climbing into its ancient Cortina and the removal van was rolling away past the scruffy flower beds of the square. I opened the red-bound Rubáiyát at random.
Yon rising moon that looks for us again —
How oft hereafter will she wax and wane;
How oft hereafter rising look for us
Through this same garden — and for one in vain!
Today I had said a last farewell to two friends. One was young Calvin, lovely in body but incompatible in mind. Well-meaning but self-interested and self-righteous, imprisoned by his holier-than-thou dogma, incapable of giving love outside its walls. The future bore that out: he never even sent his address, and memory soon grew dim.
The other friend, however decrepit in body, had been lovely in mind — I dared not say in soul. Wise old Omar, free-thinking and tolerant and generous in his love. No, it was not Calvin who would be missing from my garden. It was Omar himself, the Prof. To him I would have written, every day, could mail have reached him. His memory stayed green.
*
And now, against all hope, he is more than mere memory. He is back again beside me, in the flesh.
He had foretold that I would find a new love, a love better than Isaac, a love easily recognised. For sixteen forlorn and lonely years I searched, and failed, and almost despaired. Only now, in this year of grace 2018, has his prophecy been fulfilled. I have found that better love, out of the blue, in a form beyond all expectation.
He did prove easy to recognise. Small of build, black of hair, eyebrows already heavy, eyes holding that unmistakable twinkle of penetrating amusement. Inquisitive and intelligent, lovable and loving. We matched. And now at last, as was promised over the Prof’s grave, we have our perfect consummation and bliss, both in body and soul.
In soul as well as body? Yes, in both. He is the spitting image of the Prof at fifteen. His name is also William, Wil the second, now united — reunited — to Tom the second. He was conceived — he asked his parents, and they could pin it down — on the 9th of August 2002, the very day the first Wil died. Just as I was conceived the very day the first Tom died.
Coincidence? Once, possibly. Twice, unimaginable.
There is only one alternative. Time was when I would have laughed to scorn the idea of reincarnation — how could it be possible, since we do not have souls?
But that premise is wrong. I know it, now. But I did not know it until the moment I recognised Wil the second, and in that moment understood how love can lie beyond the tomb.
The Prof, I now see, had known it long years before, from the moment he set eyes on Tom the second and uttered his cryptic greeting.
“Clouds of glory!” he had cried.
*
Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting:
The soul that rises with us, our life’s star,
Hath had elsewhere its setting,
And cometh from afar.
Not in entire forgetfulness,
And not in utter nakedness,
But trailing clouds of glory do we come
From God, who is our home.]]> Edward FitzGerald’s Rubáiyát was first published in 1859 and over the next thirty years went through five editions, each different from the last. I have quoted verses in the form which pleases me most, regardless of which edition they appeared in. I have also ventured to modernise their archaic thou, thee, didst, etc.
A word about Calvinistic Methodists. It would be quite unfair to tar them all with the same brush. Like most sects they have their fundamentalists, such as those portrayed here, but they have their moderates too. The same of course holds true, in reverse, of the Anglicans.
In what follows, everything spoken or written in Welsh has been translated, except for exclamations and endearments whose exact meaning does not matter. Various drafts have been read by Hilary, by Grasshopper and by Neea, and I am hugely grateful for all their criticisms.
We are born, it seems, with our souls empty, naked and asleep. Their awakening and clothing and filling entails a long journey, which can be especially arduous in adolescence as sexuality emerges. It is perhaps most arduous of all for boys who are gay. They have to work harder to discover who they are, and to come to terms with the answer. The effort of concealing a significant part of themselves often makes them loners, in desperate need of a friendship more intense than straight boys require: not necessarily a sexual relationship, but a communion of souls which at that age is all too rarely found. The story told here is of such a boy, and of a crucial stage in his soul’s journey.
2 Rhagfyr 2002
Although the events chronicled here took place half my lifetime ago, the time has come, quite unexpectedly, when I need to set them down in black and white. To recover the detail, I have had to delve deep into memories that I have not visited for years, and in doing so I have understood much that I did not understand before. The reason for bringing it all to the surface now will become clear when I have finished.
When I was thirteen, we had moved from south-eastern England up to Llanberis in North Wales, where Dad had landed a job as an engineer at the Dinorwig power station. Nestling at the foot of Snowdon, it was a good place to live. I necessarily learnt Welsh at school and had reached the stage of being able to hold my own, but I was not confident in it and much preferred my mother tongue. Mum and Dad picked up no more than a smattering, and we spoke only English at home.
Then in 2002, after two years of Llanberis, Dad was promoted to a better job at the Ffestiniog pumped storage power station. It was unreasonably far for him to commute — well over an hour’s drive away by slow and circuitous roads — so we moved again, to the former slate-quarrying centre of Blaenau Ffestiniog. There was not much for youngsters to do in the town. It was commonly condemned as grey and wet (which it was) and depressing (which, being surrounded by mountains, it was not). But it was depressed, and had been ever since the quarrying industry had collapsed. Houses were dirt cheap, and we found a splendid one, at the end of a terrace and flanked on one side by a square which pretended to be a public garden, with a few bedraggled shrubs and flowers and a bench or two.
Our house, alone in the street, had a loft conversion, with big windows projecting from the roof both front and back. It was allocated to me, and I was in heaven, for it offered superb views. In front it looked out over the roof of the house opposite and down the valley beyond, and diagonally to the mountains on either side. At the back it looked up at the precipitous crags of Carreg Ddu which beetled above the High Street. My hobby was birds — of the feathered kind, I hasten to add — and there promised to be a good variety visible from my eyrie, from the humble sparrows and blackbirds and occasional tits of the square to the hawks and falcons and buzzards of the crags.
Mum found a part-time secretarial job at the plastics factory, and we moved at Easter, ready for the summer term. School was handy, little more than a hundred yards away. For an ordinary kind of boy who was neither macho nor a complete wimp, neither an extrovert nor a hermit, I found my feet readily enough. Some of the kids there were pretty rough, and some were none too tolerant of the English. I soon learned to steer clear of both sorts, and got on reasonably well with the rest.
Yet there was a snag. I was gay. One part of me had to be hidden behind a screen, where it skulked in stifled isolation. My unfulfilled cravings of the flesh were one thing. My loneliness of soul was quite another. I could not turn to Mum and Dad for support. Don’t get me wrong — they were great parents, fun, easy-going, and generous with the understanding and trust and love which I badly needed. They gave it cheerfully to those parts of me which they could see and approve. But their simple philosophy was anchored to some deep-seated prejudices, and I knew that it would mutate, should they glimpse behind my screen, into incomprehension and disgust. That being unthinkable, I longed all the more for a companion with whom I could share my real self, for a soul-mate to understand and trust and love me on a different plane.
I had already come across a number of boys I found attractive. I had lusted after their bodies and yearned for their souls. All in vain. No fish rose to the few very cautious baits which I dangled. I dared try nothing more. The climate at school, both at Llanberis and Blaenau, was not encouraging. For straight kids there was no problem — you could be as promiscuous as you liked. The message for gays was equally clear — one false move and most of the kids, not to mention the staff, would be down on you like a ton of bricks. All I could do was look, and lust, and yearn, and hope.
From the very first day at my new school, one boy in particular caught my eye. We were the same age, fifteen and a half. But while I was below average in height, English-fair and young-looking, he was taller, with dark hair, strong regular features, an austere but gentle manner and, I noticed the first time I saw him stripped in the changing room, a body to die for. The sight of him, the thought of him, stirred my young hormones as they had never been stirred before.
His name was Isaac Evans. He was very Welsh, hailing from South Wales as his accent told even me, but perfectly tolerant of incomers and entirely ready to talk in English, his being vastly better than my Welsh. He lived directly opposite us in Ty Capel, ‘Chapel House,’ and next door to it was the chapel where his father was the minister. I had already brooded on its bleak architecture, and the plaque on the gable frowned its curt statement at me whenever I looked out of my front window:
TABERNACL M. C. ADEILADWYD 1867
Tabernacle, Calvinistic Methodist, built 1867.
One evening very soon after we arrived, Isaac was in his bedroom, which faced mine across the street, when he saw me leaning out, binoculars to eyes, trying to identify some distant birds of prey that were wheeling against the backdrop of Moel yr Hydd. He called over, asking what I was watching. When I told him, he said that he knew a bit about birds, and because he could not see them from where he was, I invited him to come up. He brought his own binoculars, and took a look.
“Ah, yes. Peregrines. They nest in the cliff above Wrysgan quarry. You can tell from their flight that they’re not merlins.”
That led on to a discussion about the difference between the various falcons, and it soon emerged that he knew more than a bit. I showed him my books, which interested him because he did not have many, and the Royal Society for the Protection of Birds website, which fascinated him because he had no computer. So began our friendship, and so my hidden hopes were fed.
Thereafter, many an evening and weekend day we went out together, watching choughs in the old quarry pit up at Rhosydd, buzzards on the moors above Maenofferen, tree-creepers in the ancient forests of the valley side, waders on the Dwyryd estuary. Once, having taken the Sherpa bus to Nant Gwynant, we saw red kites, which were beginning to move up from the Berwyn and to re-colonise Snowdonia.
Isaac was a serious boy, much more serious than me, with a strange wry humour but little chit-chat and no sense of mischief at all. He welcomed me, it seemed, for my company, for my computer which gave him access to ornithological websites, and because I took him seriously and could meet him on his own specialist territory. I liked to think he welcomed me for other reasons too, but I feared, even at the time, that I was being over-optimistic. He seemed to have no other friends. The kids at school did not pick on him but, while treating him respectfully, kept him at arm’s length because of his religious views. These I found puzzling and difficult. He never tried to force them unsolicited down my throat, that I will say for him. He only talked about them if asked, or if the subject cropped up of its own accord.
The first time it did, very shortly after we met, we were walking home from watching wagtails in Cwm Bowydd when Isaac asked why I was interested in birds.
“Oh, all sorts of reasons. Their variety. Their habitats. Migration. How they communicate. They live in our world, but yet in their own, if you see what I mean. Just a wonderful part of nature. Why do you like them?”
He gave me a considering look, as if weighing up my limited ability to understand.
“Much the same as you, and more. Because, as a wonderful part of nature, they’re part of God’s creation. You know about Genesis?”
Condescending, I thought, and I was a trifle miffed. I may have read precious little of the bible, but I was just about up to the creation story. I nodded, but he still spelled it out for me.
“On the fifth day God made the fish and the birds that fly above the earth in the open firmament of heaven. All creation is good, and we should praise it. And, as far as it can, all creation should praise the creator.” There was more than a hint in his words of what I guessed was pulpit-talk. “Know Psalm 148?”
Er, no. I couldn’t run to that, and had to shake my head.
“Part of it goes: ‘Praise the Lord on earth’” — he was clearly translating in his head as he went along — “‘you dragons and all deeps, fire and hail, snow and mist, stormy wind fulfilling his word, mountains and hills, fruitful trees and cedars, wild beasts and all animals, reptiles and winged birds, young men and girls, old men and boys, praise the name of the Lord.’ Everything that God created is good, and everything that praises the Lord is good — just listen to that chaffinch, Tom. And all God’s goodness deserves studying. But a single person can’t study the whole of creation. So I’ve chosen birds.”
Oh Lord, if that wasn’t the wrong phrase. Agreed, studying birds was a large enough hobby, or duty if you had to call it that. On top of studying boys, in my case. But that chaffinch, I reckoned, wasn’t praising the Lord. It was chatting up a lady chaffinch, with rather different motives. Mind you, if God really had created birds and boys, not to mention all the rest, he had also created sex, and that was good. He must surely have considered less enjoyable alternatives, and rejected them. So I would happily praise the Lord through sex, given the opportunity. But I did not know Isaac nearly well enough to say so, and strongly suspected he would not see it in quite my flippant way.
Meanwhile, I found his assurance hard to swallow.
“You go along with everything the bible says, then?”
“Yes, of course. It seems you don’t, Tom. But it’s God word, so it must be true.”
“Literally?”
“Literally.”
I had heard of people like him, especially in the American south, but I had never expected to meet one. I recalled that he was not doing biology or geology or anything at GCSE that might prove contentious. Deliberately, maybe. I was already embarrassed and out of my depth, but I had enough spark in me to stand my ground and protest.
“No, I don’t go along with it. But you say it’s God’s word. You can only believe that. You can’t know it.”
“Oh no, Tom. I do know it.”
It was the first time I had met that certainty which goes beyond logic.
“But what about Darwin, and evolution, and fossils, and the Big Bang fifteen billion years ago or whatever? How do you explain them away?”
“Tom, can you prove Darwinism, and that the universe started with the Big Bang, and all those things? Prove them?”
“Well, um, no, I suppose not.” I would be a Nobel prize-winner if I could, but I was reluctant to admit it.
“So they’re only theories, not fact. You can only believe in them. You can’t know them.”
He was throwing my words back at me, and I felt as if I was banging my head against a brick wall.
“But the bible proves itself,” he went on. “One day I’ll show you how, if you really want to know, but there isn’t time now.”
Just as well, perhaps. We were already in our street, and there outside Ty Capel was an ancient Cortina with his Tad and Mam climbing out. Isaac introduced us. His Tad was a wiry man, bible-black, dour, lantern-jawed, with thin lips barely covering the large teeth behind. His Mam seemed wispy and ineffectual, definitely second fiddle to her husband. We had already heard about them from Rhiannon our next-door neighbour, who from the moment we arrived had been joyfully putting us in the local picture and keeping us there. She called Isaac’s father the Parch, short for Y Parchedig, the Reverend. So, therefore, did we. She had no good word for him.
“That old vulture! He was at the back of the queue for the milk of human kindness. Not a patch on the vicar, or old Glyn Williams up at Moriah. And his poor asen! What she has to put up with!”
The Parch fitted my stereotyped image of the killjoy fundamentalist. He had other MC chapels on his beat, and on Sunday afternoons and evenings he would be off in the battered Cortina to keep them in line. So there was usually only a morning service opposite, and from my window I had already watched the small band of elderly worshippers filing in and, much later, out, looking as dour and killjoy as their minister. Congregations were rapidly falling off in those days, and chapels were being demolished left and right, or converted into garages or supermarkets. It did not look as if Tabernacl would last much longer.
I had just experienced Isaac exuding a temporary aura of righteousness. The Parch, I found, exuded a much stronger one, full-time. On this first meeting he was as gracious as an iceberg might be, and looked at me with that pitying smile which the man who is convinced he is heading for heaven reserves for someone who he is convinced is not. Accuse me of giving a dog a bad name, but I never found cause to change my opinion.
To jump ahead, although Isaac was quite a frequent visitor to my room and my computer, only once did he eat with us. No more, because I think he disapproved of our family frivolity. Laxity, he would probably have called it. A meal not preceded by grace, and accompanied by open laughter, affronted him. Once, in return, I was invited to tea at Ty Capel. It was a poor house. I do not mean that disparagingly. The Parch’s stipend, I gathered, was microscopic, the house was shabby and the furniture threadbare. No blame for that, only sympathy. The sole luxury, if it deserved the name, was an aged TV set on which the Parch watched rugby. Out of character, an outsider might think, but to the Welsh rugby is almost a religion: the one religion which unites them all. What the household was missing was humanity and fun. It gave off a miasma of pious rectitude which I found stifling.
But in this realm, I had to admit, I was in totally foreign territory. I was not religious or churchy in any sense at all. We were an ordinary family, lower middle-class if you insist on labels, which just did not talk about such things. They all seemed irrelevant to Mum and Dad. I was an ordinary boy, and they had never seemed remotely relevant to me either. Except for occasional family weddings or funerals, I had never set foot in a church, or a chapel. Until Isaac, I had never met anyone who professed strong views either way. I had come across some church- and chapel-goers, of course, but they did not wear their beliefs on their sleeve. Isaac’s defiant certainty was evidently a hallmark of the Calvinistic Methodists. What was so special about them? What made them different?
That evening, with Mum and Dad, I raised the subject, not very hopeful of an answer because they closed their minds to things they disapproved of or did not understand.
“I’ve been wondering about all these chapels. Why are there so many of them in Blaenau? What’s the difference between them?”
“Search me,” said Dad. “Not my cup of tea. They’re for people who don’t like the ordinary church. But what the difference is between Methodists and Baptists and things I’ve never fathomed. Remember Tegid at Llanberis? That mechanic with pierced ears who was a damned queer? A year or so back I was out with him in the van, sorting out a transformer, when we saw another chapel biting the dust. So I asked him what happens when a chapel closes down. Does the congregation just shift lock stock and barrel to the next one down the road? ‘Oh, good heavens, no,’ he said. ‘Can’t do that. Different God.’ But he didn’t explain any further.”
“Hmmm. Then you don’t know anything about Calvinistic Methodists in particular?”
“Fraid not, except they seem to be the most common sort round here, and they’re strict, I’ve heard. If you want an insider account, you’ll have to ask Isaac or the Parch, though you’ll probably get a sermon you didn’t bargain for. If you want an outsider’s view, well, I dunno.”
“Tell you what,” said Mum. “There’s the old professor. Wil Davies, next beyond Rhiannon. Were you there when she was telling us about him? He’s over eighty, lives by himself, a tiny little man. Rhiannon does for him, and she says he knows everything worth knowing. I gave him a hand with his shopping back from the Co-op today, and we talked about the history of Blaenau. Or rather he did, and I listened. He’s a lovely old boy. Ask him, Tom. He’ll be able to tell you. You’d like him, and I’m sure he’d like you to talk to. I think he’s lonely.”
*
I had not seen him so far. But next Saturday afternoon I was going up into town when he came down the other way, carrying a couple of Co-op bags which, in combination with his walking stick, made an awkward burden. There was no mistaking him. He was indeed tiny. His face was very Welsh: straight steel-grey hair flecked with silver, bushy black eyebrows, and a wrinkled leathery complexion. His brown eyes were small but alert and twinkling, his nose was beaky, and his wide mouth was mobile with humour and wit. Unusually for a boy who was not particularly outgoing, I had no hesitation in starting a conversation. His eyes were on the ground as he navigated the rough paving stones, and he did not see me until I stopped beside him.
“Let me carry your bags for you, sir.”
I was not sure why I said ‘sir.’ I never said it to anyone else, not even at school. In his case, it simply seemed right.
As he looked up at my face, his eyes widened and he swayed visibly. I was concerned, and reached out a hand to support him.
“Clouds of glory!” he exclaimed under his breath.
I did not understand, but was visited for a fleeting moment by a faint and elusive memory.
“Let me help you home, sir. I know where you live. Next door but one to us.”
He gave up his bags without protest and, carrying them both in one hand, I put the other round his arm and walked him slowly for the last hundred yards to his house. On the doorstep he scrutinised me again, for longer this time, his mouth slightly open.
“Thank you, ngwas. Thank you very much.”
He fumbled in his pocket for his key, and tried without success to put it in the keyhole.
“Let me, sir.” I got the door open and stood aside to let him in. “I think you ought to sit down.”
“Yes. I do believe you’re right.”
He turned in to the front room, and I dumped the bags in the hall and followed him. It was a study with a large desk in the window and, most extraordinary to me, every wall was lined with laden bookshelves: a hundred times as many books, I guessed, as we had in our whole house. The mantelpiece carried a number of framed photographs of people, one of whom, to my passing glance, rang a faint bell. He sat down heavily in the leather chair at the desk.
“Sir, may I suggest a cup of tea?”
He gazed at me again, and nodded. “Please, yes. And one for yourself too. You will find milk in the shopping bag.”
“Would you like me to put the rest of your shopping away?”
“That would be very kind.”
Picking up the bags on the way, I found the kitchen. The layout was the same as in our house. I filled the kettle and plugged it in. Mugs were on a shelf, sugar and a carton of tea-bags were on the working top, spoons were in the obvious drawer. No problem. While the kettle boiled, I stowed away his purchases in the fridge and cupboards. Again, all pretty obvious: there was no great variety there. As I made the tea, there were sounds of movement from the study, but when I carried everything through on a tray I had found, he was back in his chair. He looked better, and after a few sips of sweet tea looked better still.
“I’m very grateful to you, my boy. I’m sorry about that, I had … a bit of a turn. Tell me, is your name … Tom?”
“That’s right, sir. Tom Robertson. My mother helped carry your shopping the other day.” She had talked about our family, presumably.
The old man nodded as if he had been proved right.
“And how old are you? When were you born?”
“1986. I’m fifteen.”
“And when’s your birthday?”
“The 17th of September.”
His face dropped, I could not imagine why. Then his fingers moved as if he was doing sums in his head, and the answer seemed to cheer him up.
“Yes. So tell me about yourself, Tom,” he said. “You’re clearly not local. Where do you come from? What about your family? What are you doing at school?”
An outline of my uneventful life, my small family, my scientific bent, did not take long.
“And what are your hobbies? Your interests?”
I could hardly say boys, or Isaac, but I did tell him about ornithology. The bushy eyebrows rose. He asked where I had been bird-watching locally, and was impressed.
“You haven’t been here long. That’s a very good start.”
“Well, I’ve made friends with Isaac Evans from Ty Capel” — I nodded across the road — “and he’s well genned up on the birds round here. He’s taken me to most of these places.”
“Ah! I see. I wonder if he knows about the ravens on Craig Nyth y Gigfran. Yes, there really are ravens there” — the name means Raven’s Nest Crag — “but they’re difficult to see close to. Let me show you the way I used to get there.”
He got up creakily and moved behind the desk into the bay window, where I followed him. The crag loomed in full view over the town to the west, and with a claw-like finger he pointed out his recommended route. Then for a moment his gaze swung to the left, to the diagonal prospect of the Moelwyn.
“My favourite mountains,” he said softly. “They lived in my mind’s eye all the years I was away.”
He came back to birds. “And then there are the red grouse beyond Cnicht, round Llyn yr Adar. I’ve not been up there for years — it’s hard work to reach it — but I expect they’ll still be there.”
He rummaged for an old 1:25,000 map, and showed me where. I was grateful, and said so.
“But I’m afraid I’ve got to go now, sir,” I went on. “It’s nearly our tea time. Will you be all right by yourself?”
“Thank you, Tom, I am all right, and I will be all right. Thanks to you.”
“That’s OK, sir. I’ll just wash these up.”
I picked up the tray, and as I left the room I noticed that the photograph which had caught my eye was no longer there. I rapidly rinsed the mugs, and stuck my head into the front room again to say goodbye.
“Just before you go, Tom, two things. First, you call me ‘sir.’ Don’t you think that’s a little formal? I’m all for informality.”
“Well, what should I call you? I mean, ‘Professor Davies’ is quite a mouthful, and I can’t possibly call you, er, by your first name.”
I couldn’t, not possibly.
“No? Well … plain ‘Professor’ sounds very dry and academic. Ah! I have it! A compromise, but tending towards the informal. What about ‘Prof’?”
He grinned at me, almost like a boy, and I grinned back. I liked it. “Right. Prof it is.” And so it remained.
“The other thing is this. We still have much to talk about, so I hope you’ll come back to see me.”
“So do I, sir, I mean Prof.” He had already captivated me, I could not say why or how, and I would not dream of letting him go. “Anyway, there’s something I wanted to ask you. If I may.”
“Of course. Do you have anything on tomorrow morning? Do you go to church or chapel?”
I shook my head, rather more vigorously than I had intended, and he smiled at me again.
“No more do I. And you won’t be going out after birds with young Isaac either, because he will be in chapel. May I suggest eleven o’clock? That’s when I have a little tipple, a naughty survival from my Cambridge days. A glass of madeira, you know. Would your parents allow you that?”
“I expect so.” They were pretty laid back in that sort of way.
“Well, make sure you check with them. I’d hate to be accused of leading youth astray. Thank you, Tom. You’ve given an old man a new lease of life today. Excuse me if I don’t get up to see you out. Till tomorrow, then.”
“Goodnight, Prof.”
I was only seconds late for tea, and told Mum and Dad all about it.
“You’re right, Mum. The Prof is a lovely old boy. There wasn’t a chance of asking him about chapels, but I’m going to see him again tomorrow morning. And he says, am I allowed to have a glass of madeira, whatever that is?”
“Don’t see why not. It’s a fortified wine, bit like sherry.”
“And Mum, Dad. I had an idea. Could we ask the Prof in for lunch tomorrow? He seems to cook for himself, and he hasn’t got much in his fridge or cupboards.”
“That’s a good idea, Tom,” said Mum, looking at Dad for confirmation. “Yes, do that. It would be nice and neighbourly. One o’clock, as usual.”
*
Next morning I presented myself at the Prof’s on the stroke of eleven.
“Good morning, Tom. And do have you permission to join me in my tipple?”
“Morning, Prof. Yes, I have.”
“Good. Come you in, then.”
“But before I do, Mum says would you like to come to lunch with us today?”
“That’s a very kind thought, Tom. Well, if your mother’s quite sure, yes, I’ll be delighted to accept.”
I nipped home to tell Mum, and came straight back. He had put out two glasses and a decanter of dark brown stuff, which he poured out. We sat sipping it: smooth and sharp at the same time, and rather good.
“Well, Tom, what was it you wanted to ask me?”
“It’s about all these chapels. I’ve talked to Isaac, who’s a Calvinistic Methodist of course. But I don’t begin to understand the difference between them. Why are there so many, and so many sorts?”
“Well now. That’s a very large question. It’s a matter of history, and of human nature. Even a modestly detailed account would take a week. Where do we start? Yes, you’re right, there are a lot of places of worship in and around Blaenau, and there have been many more. About forty altogether, they say, twice as many as there were pubs. All for a population of eleven thousand or so, at the peak a century ago. One denomination might have several chapels, simply serving different parts of the town. That’s straightforward enough.
“But why so many denominations? Well, you understand the difference between Roman Catholics and protestants? How the Church of England, the Anglican church, was established at the Reformation, breaking free from Rome for political reasons as well as religious ones?”
I nodded. I did know that much, if only in outline.
“In Blaenau, the Anglicans are still around, of course, though here they’re now called the Church in Wales. And there’s a Catholic church which is fairly new, set up mainly for the Irish navvies who built the pump storage and the nuclear, and stayed. That’s fairly straightforward too.
“Now. After the Reformation, as time went by, some people became disenchanted with the Church of England, for various reasons. Splinter groups sprang up which developed into full-blown churches in their own right. They’re called nonconformist because they didn’t conform, or dissenters because they dissented. Thus you have the Bedyddwyr, the Baptists. The Annibynwyr, the Independents or Congregationalists. The Wesleyaid, the Wesleyan Methodists. And the Methodistiaid Calfinaidd, the Calvinistic Methodists — the MCs as we call them for short — who parted company from the Anglicans only in 1811, and despite the name they’re poles apart from the Wesleyans. Some of these churches broke away mainly for organisational reasons. The Baptists and MCs broke away more for doctrinal ones — let’s not go into that, not yet, anyway.
“They’re all represented here, and elsewhere there are many more varieties again, and there have been even more in the past. Splinters of splinters, and splinters of those. Set up when someone had a slight difference of opinion with his original church, often because he thought it too soft, and who peeled off with his followers to start a new one. Everybody thought that he alone had the true answer and that nobody else did. Nowadays, things are simpler. Fewer and fewer people feel that religion means anything, so the denominations are all shrinking. They tend to amalgamate now, not multiply — the Wesleyans and the Anglicans, for instance, may soon reunite. There’s more tolerance, on the whole. But there are exceptions who retain all the fervour of their ancestors. Like some of the MCs. So, does that answer your question? Or begin to answer it?”
“Yes, thanks. It’s clearer now. I’d no idea it was so complicated.”
“I hope I’m not disillusioning you. You don’t belong to any church, do you?”
“No, I don’t. Do you?”
He smiled gently. “No. I did once, but not now. The more I thought about it, and the more I talked to ministers and theologians and suchlike, the less sense it all seemed to make. Do you know that lovely verse of Omar Khayyám’s?
Myself when young did eagerly frequent
Doctor and saint, and heard great argument
About it and about; but evermore
Came out by the same door where in I went.
“I was actually brought up as an MC — here at Tabernacl, in fact. When you’re a child, you don’t question. But when I was a young man, I had a … crisis. I was in a quandary, and the MCs rejected me. Even today they’d reject a young man in a similar crisis. My only complaint about this house is” — he gestured abruptly over his shoulder — “that it faces Tabernacl. I tried other denominations, but it was the Anglicans who offered me a refuge, though I didn’t need it for long. For many years now I haven’t subscribed to any creed. Not even the Anglican.
“But when I go, I’ll be buried by the Anglicans. They seem to me the least intolerant of them all. And intolerance is so demeaning. Do you remember what the Wee Frees did to Lord Mackay?”
I was lost, and shook my head.
“No, silly of me. Of course you wouldn’t, you’re too young — it must have been ten years ago. Let me explain. The Wee Frees are a Presbyterian sect which splintered off from the Church of Scotland. Their views are extreme. To them, the pope is antichrist. Lord Mackay was the Lord Chancellor — you know, the senior legal eagle in the government, and speaker of the House of Lords. He was a Wee Free. One day, as in duty and friendship bound, he attended the funeral of a legal colleague. No harm in that, you say. Every harm, said the Wee Frees. This colleague had been a Catholic, and his funeral was in a Catholic church. For that … sin, they expelled Lord Mackay.”
“But that’s … obscene.”
“And that’s intolerance, Tom.”
There was a pause as I absorbed it. “But you’ve finished your madeira, Tom. Would you object if we adjourn to the square and continue our discussion there? I like to sit in the sun whenever it’s warm enough.”
We walked the fifty yards to the nearest bench. I still had another part of my question to put to him.
“Prof, Isaac was telling me that the MCs believe the bible is true. Literally true. And therefore evolution is wrong. That God did create the world in seven days, just as it says. In fact he said he didn’t believe it, he knew it. How can he know? I don’t understand that.”
“No more do I, Tom. Well, perhaps I do. Yes, the MCs — these MCs — are creationists and yes, they know they’re right. In the sense that they won’t admit that other people are entitled to different views. In the sense that their own beliefs are so ingrained that they can’t conceive they might be wrong. But they can’t prove that they’re right, any more than I can prove them wrong. So creationism is only a theory. An opinion, to which they are entitled. You, in contrast, are a scientist. You know all about the theory of evolution. That is only a theory too, isn’t it?”
“Oh yes.” I was much happier to admit it to the Prof than to Isaac.
“And as a scientist, what do you do when confronted by rival theories?”
“Well, I look at them, and see which is more, um, likely. And I try to think of experiments to test it. To prove or disprove it.”
“Exactly. And evolution looks vastly the more likely to you. Who knows, one day you may contribute towards a proof that it is correct. Tell me, do you believe in God, at all?”
“Well, no, I’m afraid not.”
“That’s nothing to be ashamed of. And you never have?”
I shook my head. “No, never.”
“I did believe, once. But my faith changed. First to doubt, and then to what the MCs would call perversion and heresy.” The Prof’s face was not exactly bitter, but definitely sad. “I came to believe not that God created man, but that man created God. Voltaire said that if God didn’t exist, it would be necessary to invent him. That was centuries ago, and it was probably true then, and always had been. Man was still wallowing in the dark and needed light. Man needs to be able to explain what goes on around him, and the notion of a mysterious all-powerful God was an easy and satisfactory way of explaining what he couldn’t understand.
“But science has now shed so much light of its own. It can’t explain everything yet, not by any means, and some scientists do believe in God. But God isn’t a necessary factor in any scientific explanation. Not yet. But he might be, one day. One of the largest questions, I understand, is what triggered the Big Bang. At present nobody has any real clue, but one day a clue may emerge. And, who knows, it may be a clue that surprises science. What does all that say to you, as a scientist?”
I thought very hard. “That I don’t believe in God,” I ventured, “but I admit he might exist. But that there’s no need to assume he does exist until there’s some evidence for it.”
The Prof beamed at me. “A man after my own heart. A logical and open mind. Whereas young Isaac’s is closed.”
I had to give acknowledgement where it was due.
“Prof, if it is open, it’s because you’ve opened it. I’ve never thought about things like this before.”
“All I’ve done is introduce you to a new concept. Your mind was already open, or opening. Scientists can’t afford to have closed minds, can they? You’re at the age, Tom, where childhood’s acceptance gives way to manhood’s questioning. For the most part, children accept what they’re told. But they can’t grow into fully-fledged human beings if they’re not encouraged to question. So keep your eyes and your mind open, Tom. Open to everything. Don’t be like Isaac. Keep asking questions. I suspect his parents don’t allow him to.”
I pondered on what I knew of them, and agreed. About the Parch, anyway. Isaac’s Mam probably didn’t get a look in. Which reminded me …
“Prof, when Rhiannon was telling us about them, she called him the Parch — I understand that — and called her his poor asen. What does that mean?”
“It means a rib. A facetious word for a wife.”
“Oh. Why?”
“That takes us back to creation. Look, Tom, run to my study and get a bible.”
He told me where to find it, and gave me the key.
“There are two different accounts in Genesis,” he said when I got back. “Two different creation myths. The MCs must accept both of them as true, by definition, but I don’t recall how they reconcile them. In the first chapter — look, here — on the sixth day God created both man and woman. ‘Male and female created he them.’ But in the next chapter it’s different. At first only Adam was created and put to live in the Garden of Eden. But he was lonely, so God took out one of his ribs and from it ‘made he a woman, and brought her unto the man. And Adam said, This is now bone of my bones, and flesh of my flesh.’ Hence Eve. Hence wife.”
I had not heard of that one. “How gross. Makes me think of those manky spare ribs from the Chinese takeaway. You know, sweet and sour.”
“Oh yes.” The wrinkles on the old face deepened as he smiled. “Yes, I did try those once. Never again. Red dye, tasting of nothing but monosodium glutamate.”
Mention of ribs had put me in mind of lunch, and I looked at my watch. Nearly one.
“We’d better go and eat, Prof, but I’ll just take the bible back first.” I was still feeling mischievous. “Do you think God created monosodium glutamate at the same time?”
The Prof’s small frame rumbled with laughter. “Now, now, Tom, you’re being naughty. What would the Parch say if he heard you?”
He almost had. As I passed Ty Capel, the Parch himself came out. He gave me a glacially condescending smile, which slipped ludicrously into surprise when he saw the very obvious bible in my hand. Pink with suppressed laughter, I restored it to its shelf, returned to collect the Prof, and told him. Giggling like children we went to my house, where he sobered down with an effort. Mum and Dad welcomed him, and installed him at the table.
“I do confess my diet is a trifle monotonous,” he said to Mum, “so your invitation is even kinder than you imagine.”
“Not our invitation, really,” replied Mum, “though we should have thought of it. No, it was Tom’s idea.”
“Yet another feather in his cap, then. I’ve already discovered quite a number. Like punctuality. He made sure he was home in time for tea yesterday, and that we arrived on time today. I approve of that. Has he always been punctual?”
“Oh yes, nothing to complain about there.”
“So he was punctual even in arriving in this world?”
Mum and Dad both laughed. “He arrived on the dot,” said Dad. “It was a joke between us. Tom, I don’t think we’ve told you this before, but you’re plenty old enough to hear it now. When your Mum found she was pregnant, it was pretty obvious you’d been conceived on Christmas Day. I was on a temporary job up in Scotland then, and only had Christmas Day at home. So I told Mum that if you didn’t arrive on the dot, I’d know she’d been having an affair with the milkman.”
“Get away,” said Mum, laughing. “The milkman had red hair and looked like Lance Percival. Wouldn’t have touched him with a bargepole. Anyway, you don’t look in the least like him, dear. Not that you look like anyone in our families either. We sometimes call him the changeling,” she explained to the Prof, who was comparing our faces with interest.
I had long been aware that I was different. Where they were both quite tall, I had always been short for my age. They both had curly dark hair, but mine was straight and fair. Their eyes were brown, mine blue. Our faces were utterly different. I was totally unlike either of them, or my grandparents or great-grandparents. It did not bother me a bit, being called a changeling. I knew Mum and Dad were my mum and dad, I had always loved them, and they had always loved me, so what did it matter?
“Tom the changeling,” said the Prof, savouring the name. “And may I ask why you called him Tom?”
“Well, that’s an odd thing,” replied Dad. “He should have been Peter. When we first decided to go for a child, we’d agreed on that, if it was a boy. But once he was on the way, we changed our minds. Dunno why. Tom suddenly seemed the right name, to both of us. Didn’t have to argue about it.”
I had not heard that either. But I approved. I liked being Tom.
Talk turned to Welsh names, and then to the Prof himself. He was a native of Blaenau. He had attended the local school — mine — and in 1938 had gone up to Cambridge with a scholarship, in those days the only possible way in for the child of a poor family. After a year, the war broke out and he was called up, serving mainly in Egypt. On being demobbed, he finished his course and progressed from fellowship to lectureship to the chair of English Literature. He had published many books and articles, but his real joy, he said, had been the company of the young men and women he had taught. Like most Welsh expatriates, he had never forsaken his roots. When he retired in 1985, Wales called him home again, back to his old house which he had kept on when his parents died. He had never married, and was now eighty-two. Rhiannon next door went in once a week to do his cleaning and washing, but he remained fiercely independent in everything, like shopping and cooking, which he could still manage.
I was able, as the weeks went by, to flesh out those bare bones of his present life. He spoke his native Welsh by preference, but he always used English with me because I found it easier. He was well respected: as he sat in the square or did his shopping, older people would pass the time of day with him. But they rarely called at his house and, to his disappointment, the generation gap and his long absence meant that he knew few youngsters. So he lived a solitary existence, and I began to see why he relished my company. But in one sense he had never retired. He continued to write, and he remained in touch with his academic colleagues. He had a computer and knew how to use it, and he had what sounded like a large email correspondence.
In other respects he was quaintly old-fashioned. Whatever the weather, his dress was the same: black shoes, grey trousers with turn-ups, baggy tweed jacket, velour or knitted waistcoat, and tie. For reading, he used heavy horn-rimmed glasses. He was old-fashioned too in the breadth of his knowledge. He could talk about anything, at the drop of a hat. He was informed, but not opinionated. He had his own views, and he would spell them out on request, but he was expert at making you think for yourself. It was all enlivened by a gently sparkling wit. Kids of my age tended to see the elderly as boring and condescending old farts, at best to be humoured, and I was hardly an exception to the rule. Now I saw how wrong I had been. The Prof astonished and delighted me. Mum’s phrase ‘a lovely old boy’ might be very simple, but it was spot on.
*
Lunch over, the Prof thanked us nicely and excused himself, saying it was time for his nap. When I had cleared the table, I crossed the road to collect Isaac. I was surprised that he was allowed out at all on a Sunday, but he was. Presumably he was not profaning the Sabbath because he was praising the Lord through his works, namely birds. In that case I was not profaning the Sabbath either. I was doubly praising the Lord by studying not only birds but Isaac too. He seemed particularly attractive today.
I passed on the Prof’s recommendations about interesting bird habitats. Isaac gave me a sharp look.
“Have you been talking to him?”
“Yes, what’s up? He’s great.”
“My Tad told me never to speak to him.”
“Why ever not?”
“He didn’t say. But he must have good reason.”
“Well, you’re missing out. He knows a thing or two about birds.”
But Isaac was ready to accept his advice at second-hand. Because Llyn yr Adar involved a whole day out, we plumped for Nyth y Gigfran today. We tackled it by the direct route from below, an inordinately hard slog in the hot sun up the interminably long incline. Above the old quarry shelf we zigzagged upwards as the Prof had suggested. The ravens’ nest was clearly visible, its tall stack of twigs whitewashed with droppings. The birds were disturbed by our presence, but we found a point where we could look down on the ledge with their nest and its chicks, and by lying very still we calmed the parents’ fears and they resumed feeding their young. We could not talk, but Isaac was clearly delighted, and threw me smiles of pleasure which made me cross-eyed with desire.
To distract my thoughts, I turned my binoculars on the town spread out in front of us and inspected our street, a good five hundred feet below. As I watched, the Prof came out of his house carrying his stick and a newspaper, and a moment later the Parch emerged from Ty Capel and got into his car. The Prof reached the road round the square, looked left and right, and began slowly to cross. As he did so, the Parch drove towards him, screeching to a halt with only feet to spare and blaring his horn. I could hear it from my perch nearly half a mile away. Not just bad driving, I thought, but deliberate intimidation. The Prof ambled on, to all appearances unfazed, and installed himself on the bench.
I was disturbed, but Isaac, his binoculars still on the ravens, was blissfully unaware of the little drama. When he had had his fill, we carried on upwards as being easier than climbing back down, and on reaching the ridge we cut round to the left and descended fairly gently into Cwmorthin. As we walked back through the square, we found the Prof still sitting on his bench, reading the Observer. He raised a hand to both of us impartially, but Isaac walked straight past him with a muttered “See you tomorrow, then, Tom.” Ashamed of him, I slumped down beside the Prof. Gratefully, too, for I was sweating and knackered.
“Prof, Isaac says he’s not allowed to speak to you, but doesn’t know why. Do you?”
“Oh yes. His father’s never spoken to me either. It can only be because of the MCs’ … let’s call it … disagreement with me. Wil Davies is persona non grata to them. The message must have been passed down from minister to minister for the last — what? — fifty-seven years.”
“But that’s … sad.”
“Isn’t it? Both in the sense you mean, and in the other.”
“Prof, I saw the Parch nearly run you over.”
“Not for the first time, either. Don’t worry, I’m sure he wouldn’t really. But how …? Oh, of course, you had a bird’s eye view from Nyth y Gigfran. How did it go with the ravens?”
I reported, and he was pleased. But I did not linger. I stank to high heaven and needed to get home for a shower.
*
Next day, Monday, was May Day bank holiday, when Isaac and I had agreed to check out the red grouse at Llyn yr Adar, weather permitting. It did permit, and we trekked up Cwmorthin to Bwlch Rhosydd, then across country and over the Cnicht ridge to the Nanmor side, the best part of two hours. Above the lake we found a knoll where we parked ourselves to watch. For an hour we saw nothing but black-headed gulls on the water, a few sandpipers along the shore, and occasional snipe in the tussocks. Llyn yr Adar was only partially living up to its name, which means Bird Lake. We passed the time absorbing the view, a wide panorama of mountains round from Snowdon itself, via the Glyder and Tryfan, to the distant Carneddau and Siabod. Finally our patience was rewarded. Three grouse came into sight, strutting singly through the heather and pecking as they went. They were no great rarity, according to the book, but were uncommon in these parts, and neither of us had seen any before. We watched their solemn antics for quite a while.
On the way back, beside Llyn Cwmcorsiog, we lit on the partly-eaten remains of a rabbit which some bird of prey had carried up from the valley and abandoned. Maybe our arrival had disturbed its mealtime, though we had seen nothing. Isaac, though curious, knew little about the insides of animals. But I was doing biology for GCSE, and seized a good opportunity. I fished out my pocket knife, which I kept pretty sharp, and completed the dissection. I pegged back the skin with twigs of heather, opened the ribs, and gave Isaac a conducted tour of the heart and lungs, the liver and spleen and kidneys — such as had not gone down the raptor’s throat — and the stomach and intestines. Which brought us to the excretory and reproductive organs. It was a male rabbit, and I was able to give a fairly comprehensive guide to that department.
To see on this small scale, our heads were close to the rabbit, and close to each other — sometimes even touching — and I felt his warmth and his breath on my face. I was very much aroused and so, I could see, was he. To any other boy, I would probably have made overtures there and then. But not to Isaac, who so obviously lived by different rules from me. I would pave the way as best I could, but the first open move had to be up to him. Given his background, it could not be otherwise. So as I pointed out the rabbit’s testicles and sperm ducts and penis, I was careful to use those clinical words. His interest was obvious, and so too was his ignorance. Several times he started to ask a question, but dried up. His face was red, and in the end I took the bull by the horns.
“Come on, Isaac. What are you trying to ask?”
“Tom, I don’t really understand what happens when you, er … you know.”
“Hasn’t anyone ever told you? What do you know?”
“Well. My Tad talked to me about it once. But he wasn’t … um, very specific. He just said that when a man marries, he lies with his wife and plants his seed in her, and if the seed grows it becomes a baby and is born nine months later. That’s about all.” For once he had none of that slightly superior air.
Oh Lord. Would you believe such innocence, at his age? Not even the birds and the bees. I had to start at square one, drawing sketches in my field notebook or using the rabbit by way of illustration. The difference between male and female anatomy. Hormones. Ovaries, eggs, uterus, vagina, clitoris. Testicles, sperm, semen, prostate, penis. The mechanics of erection, intercourse, ejaculation. Fertilisation and what followed. I was still using clinical words, most of which were clearly new to him. So I translated, with words like cunt, prick, balls, hard-on, shag, come. He had heard some of those at school, but had not always known what they meant. I ended with contraception. Thinking that abortion might be a taboo subject with him, I omitted that. He listened intently, his eyes on my face except when I pointed to my sketches or the rabbit.
“Thank you, Tom. That’s taught me a lot. I’m glad to know all about it at last.”
“All about it? That’s only the basics, Isaac. Of reproduction and, oh, let’s call it mainstream sex.”
“Mainstream? What do you mean?”
Hmmm. We were moving into even more interesting territory.
“Well, sex for reproduction. There’s sex for love and pleasure too, straight and gay.”
His forehead crinkled. His creed probably said that sex should not be pleasurable. If so, his curiosity over-rode it.
“Pleasure?”
“Well, yes. Sex ought to be fun. Isaac, haven’t you ever, er, even, er, played with yourself?” Dammit, I had no clue what words he might understand. Let’s be bold. “Masturbated, jerked off, wanked?”
He looked at me solemnly. “Yes,” he said quietly. “I know what you mean. Yes, I have, once or twice. But it was wrong.”
“Wrong? Wasn’t it, er, fun? Didn’t you enjoy it?”
“Yes.” Very quietly now. “That’s what made it so wrong.”
Oh dear. Hair shirts next?
“Well, I can’t see anything wrong with it. You’re not harming anyone. Even yourself.”
“Oh, but you are. It’s displeasing to God. Isn’t that what Onan did? Genesis 38:9. He spilled his seed on the ground, and the Lord slew him for it.”
I was flummoxed. I had no answer to that.
But he had another question. “And what do you mean, straight?”
Lord, again. What an innocent.
“Straight? It means heterosexual. Opposite of gay.”
His creed probably also said that gays were an abomination, but again he over-rode it.
“I have heard about gays. But, Tom, what do they do?”
Again I had to explain, in the clinical and the vernacular. A different attraction, gaydar. Mutual masturbation. Fellatio, blow-job. Sixty-nining. Anal penetration, fucking. Again he listened, watching me inscrutably.
“Yes, I see. That’s sodomy, isn’t it? Remember how God rained upon Sodom and upon Gomorrah brimstone and fire out of heaven? Genesis 19:24.”
I had no answer to that, either. I was utterly frustrated. I had been rock-hard for hours. So, by the look of it, had he. Did he never let his urges rip? The answer, it seemed, was no.
“Tom, how do you know about all this?”
“Oh, my parents, partly. Kids at school, partly. But mostly from the net.”
Mum and Dad were trusting enough not to monitor or block my computer, and I often visited porn sites. I was as well-educated in that respect as he was ill-informed.
“I see. And have you, er, done any of this yourself?”
“Well, no. Apart from wanking, of course.”
“But you’d like to?”
Could that be the beginning of an offer? “Yes, of course.”
“Well, don’t, Tom, please. As far as I can see, it’s all fornication. All offensive to God, except in marriage.”
I gave up. I was not going to get him. Unless I had sowed temptation enough to reap a harvest later. But not now.
Isaac came from a family where every penny mattered, and he asked tentatively if the rabbit would be all right to eat. Why not? It was fresh, and the meat had not been spoiled. So I skinned it for him, hacked off the head and feet, gutted it but naughtily left the penis and testicles in place as a reminder of his sex lesson, washed it in the lake, and crammed it into my lunch box. We left the residue as a consolation for the disappointed raptor, and walked home companionably enough. What little talk there was concerned birds.
*
Life in Blaenau rapidly settled into a routine. I would often go out with Isaac. But whereas he remained a solitary, I came to make other friends: not close friends, but a degree or two above casual ones. With them I would kick a football around on the playing field or take the bus down to the cinema in Porthmadog. Mum and Dad might help out at weekends by ferrying me, and one or two of them, to fun places like the dry ski slope at Rhiwgoch or the white water centre below Llyn Celyn. But one thing they could not understand was that all my friends were boys. I was at the age, according to their rulebook, when I should have a girlfriend, and I began to contemplate the unwelcome step of finding one as a cover. Otherwise I was just an ordinary boy, unusual, to all appearances, only in my interest in birds and my one close and very unexpected friendship.
Over the next few weeks I often saw the Prof, although we had no hugely profound conversations. We were getting to know each other, talking in his house or on the bench in the square or, occasionally, over the meal table at our place. He was patiently opening my mind to all manner of things that had never entered it before, and encouraging me to form my own opinions. Never once did he take a superior attitude. He treated me as a friend and an equal — a young friend, to be sure, but not one to be talked down to. He banished much of my mental and spiritual loneliness. He fostered my self-confidence. His sympathy and stability and broad-mindedness were a marvellous balance to my uneasily brittle and narrow relationship with Isaac. Although I barely appreciated it at the time, I know now that his gift to me was priceless.
To repeat, I was a very ordinary boy, not well-read, not well-informed, with a schoolboy sense of humour but no sparkling adult wit. What could I possibly have given him in return? Companionship, certainly, as an antidote to his own loneliness. And my own young brand of friendship which became more familiar as the days went by, and even, when the occasion was right, gently teasing. He saw me, I thought, as the son he had never had. I saw him not so much as a father figure — my own was good enough for most purposes — but as a wise and stimulating and very special friend. At all events, to put it quite simply, we clicked.
One afternoon, on the way back from school, I rang his bell and there was no answer. He should have been in, and I was worried. I made my way round the back via Rhiannon’s garden and peered through his bedroom window — he slept on the ground floor — and there he was on his bed, curled up, face screwed in pain and looking at me with pleading eyes. Urgent action was needed. The back door was locked, so I found a lump of slate and broke the kitchen window, through which I could reach to open the door.
“Prof!” I cried, on my knees beside him. “What’s wrong?”
“Bol,” he muttered. Stomach — one of the few occasions he ever used Welsh with me. It was obvious enough: he had vomited and lost control of his bowels.
I flew to the phone and called the doctor, who came round commendably fast. A bug that was going the rounds, was his verdict, compounded by the Prof’s age. Not a hospital case, provided he could be looked after carefully for the next few days. Luckily it was Friday, and I was free full-time for the weekend. Rhiannon got the prescriptions from the chemist before it shut, and rustled up a commode. Meanwhile I half-carried the Prof to the bath where I cleaned him up. A foul job, but yet a privilege. He took his medicine and sat in his dressing gown while I removed the bedding and replaced it, and by the time Mum and Dad got in from work he was clean and reasonably comfortable, with a hot-water bottle for his stomach, and had been persuaded to drink. Mum, bless her, dealt with the bedding, and Dad with the broken window. Nobody questioned my self-assumed role as chief nurse.
I spent the next five nights there, in a sleeping bag on the study floor, alert for sounds from the bedroom, helping him to the commode at decreasingly frequent intervals, doing intimate things for him that he could not do himself. During the day, Mum kept up a supply of food, while I sat and watched the Prof as he dozed — and sometimes dozed with him — and talked to him when he awoke. I encouraged him to drink often if little, and he made a good recovery. By Monday morning he was safe enough to be left by himself, which was fortunate since I had to go to school. Mum, who was not at work that day, looked in from time to time, and I took over again once I was released. By the time I arrived on Wednesday afternoon he was up and more or less back to normal. I found him tapping away at his computer, catching up on his backlog of emails. He ate a reasonable tea with me, and I took the dishes back home and returned to him. He told me to sit down.
“Tom, keep my front door key.” We had commandeered it while he was ill. “I have a spare. Let yourself in now, whenever you want. Don’t ring. And Tom.” He fixed me with his beady brown eyes. “I’ve been wondering what I could possibly give you by way of thank-offering for all that you’ve done for me. No” — I had started to protest — “I know you. You’ll say you don’t want anything, because you did what you did out of fondness. And I believe you. You’ve acted entirely in character. So I’ll give you nothing. Nothing tangible. Only my thanks. And, more important, these words from John Clare:
Love lies beyond
The tomb, the earth, which fades like dew!
I love the fond,
The faithful, and the true.
“Their surface meaning is obvious, but you won’t understand what’s beneath them.” How right he was. “Don’t ask, Tom. Just remember them.” He said them again. “Promise?”
“I promise,” and I repeated the verse back to him.
It is a promise I have very carefully kept.
We sat and looked at each other in deep togetherness, the old man and his surrogate son, the youngster and his guide, philosopher and friend. Or, I wondered belatedly, were we more even than that? Were we at the soul-mate level? If so, he was wildly different from what I had expected or, more accurately, what I had hoped for. No way was he the lover with whom I had dreamed of communing. No way was he, as Isaac was, the object of my physical lust. Nor, surely, was I of his. But our meeting of minds, our mutual if utterly non-sexual love, our absolute trust — were they not enough to qualify us as soul-mates? Well, no, perhaps not quite, not quite yet. When I was with him, all the ships in my fleet flew their true colours — all except one, which was flying not false colours, but no flag at all. If my trust was to be absolute, I must unfurl that final flag and reveal to him my last secret. It crossed my mind to do so there and then, but my nerve failed.
But the thought did not break our togetherness. Neither of us said another word. In the end I put my hand briefly on his, went home, and collapsed into bed, knackered.
*
Soon afterwards, exams started and, what with all the revision, life became hectic. The Prof was more or less back to his usual self and I still saw him frequently if only briefly — he knew better than to distract me at this time. But with exams over, the pace slackened again.
Having so little common ground, Isaac and I rarely set out to discuss anything but birds. Other subjects always seemed, inexorably and uncomfortably, to lead on to religion, and one memorable Saturday proved no exception. We were sitting in the dappled woodland shade of Coed Cymerau, our backs against a gnarled oak just above the old packhorse bridge near Bryn Melyn, keeping an eye and an ear open for woodpeckers and nuthatches, amid the soporific hum of insects and the plash of a waterfall. Nearby rustlings suggested that there were little mammals on the move — voles, probably. It was blissfully peaceful.
“I’d love to do this sort of thing full-time,” I said sleepily. “Warden in a nature reserve or whatever, looking after woodlands and wildlife.”
“What qualifications would you need?”
“Well, I’m thinking of carrying on with biology at A-level, along with chemistry and maths. Then university, I hope. Biology there. Ending up specialising in conservation and environmental studies. That should be enough. What are you thinking of doing?”
“No need to think. I know. Theological college, and ordination. That’s God’s destiny for me.”
“God’s destiny? You mean he’s got it all mapped out for you?”
“Of course. God determines everything we do, good or bad. We can’t resist it.”
“Heck, that’s crazy. That means we’ve got no choice. We must have that.”
“Oh no. There’s no free will outside God. There’s no room for it, because everything happens by divine predestination.”
I was shocked, but tried to meet him on his own ground.
“But, Isaac. You’d say we end up either in heaven or hell, right?”
“Right.”
“Well, whichever we end up in, it must be decided by whether we’ve lived good lives or bad. Right?”
“Wrong. It was decided at the creation. Look, Tom. The church on earth is made up of two sorts. There are the saints who can never lose their crown.” Strong echoes of the pulpit were coming through. “They’re the elect, the predestinate, chosen by God for heaven. Grace is given to them. They can’t say ‘yes please’ to it, or ‘no thank you’. Then there are the sinners who can’t attain salvation, no matter how hard they try. They’re reprobate, not elect, damned. Salvation’s beyond their reach.”
“Then what’s the point of even trying to be good, for heaven’s sake?” I had not intended the pun, and Isaac did not spot it. Not surprisingly.
“Better to try than not. Lots of people think they’re Christians, but only a few of them are entitled to everlasting life. The rest think they do all the right things. They may feel the same way as the elect, they may find the same uplift. But their faith’s only apparent, not real. Even so, God insinuates himself into their mind, so they can still taste his goodness. That taste is a good deal better than nothing.”
“But that can’t be right, Isaac. You must have got that wrong.”
“I haven’t. You probably don’t know it, but you’re being Arminian.” Armenian? What the hell was he on about? “You’re deliberately misreading the bible’s message. Making it into an easy cop-out. Its true message was laid out by Calvin. You have heard of Calvin, haven’t you?” he asked, without much conviction.
Actually, no. The only Calvins in my experience were Calvin Klein and Calvin and Hobbes. He could hardly mean either of those, so I shook my head.
He sighed. “John Calvin. French reformer. In the Reformation. Sixteenth century. Calvinistic Methodists — right? — because our teaching is based on his. I think I can quote him word for word on this. ‘Therefore some men are born devoted from the womb to certain death, so that God’s name may be glorified in their destruction. Because life and death are acts of God’s will.’”
“Destruction?” I was horrified. “But Isaac. I thought God was supposed to be a God of love, not of destruction.”
“So he is. Love for those he’s chosen. Not for those he’s condemned.”
“But that’s not fair. It’s not … just. If you’re condemned from the word go, it makes life … pointless. A nightmare.”
“No, it doesn’t. You don’t know whether you’re elect or reprobate till it comes to the crunch. So it makes sense to hope you’re going to heaven, and act accordingly.”
“Well, it makes no sense to me. It’s against all reason. God can’t, um, discriminate like that.”
“God can’t …? Oh, Tom, sometimes I wonder why I put up with you. Look, who are you to question God? He made you. You can’t dispute with your maker. Remember Romans 9:21? No, you wouldn’t. ‘Has the potter no right over his clay, to make out of the same lump one beautiful pot and one crude one?’ If God wants to show off his power, doesn’t he have the right to put his splendid pots on exhibition, to be admired, and allow the workaday ones to get smashed?”
Hmmm. I thought I could see the point. A potter might expect some say over the fate of his own pots. But damn it, men were not pots. It sounded like blatant favouritism, cosseting a few special products and writing off the bulk of humanity as cheap crockery. Well, I did not believe in God at all, so it was an academic question. But I was still appalled at a belief which insulted reason and mankind. And I was saddened to hear it from a gentle boy like this, whom I certainly liked, certainly lusted for, and hoped I even loved.
These thoughts were very unwelcome, and they shattered the magic of Coed Cymerau. I needed, quite urgently, to consult my oracle. As soon as I could without hurting Isaac’s feelings, I suggested we should go home. Once I had got rid of him I bearded the Prof and poured out my problems.
“You’re dipping your toe into deep waters here, Tom. Yes, predestination. It’s a harsh doctrine, with an intolerant God. Harsher than perhaps you realise. According to the bible, in the Garden of Eden, Adam and Eve were tempted by the snake and disobeyed God, didn’t they? That was the first sin committed by man. It’s called the Fall. Among Calvinists, there are various shades of opinion here. The more moderate ones say that God, after he’d created the world, looked at his list of everybody who was ever to be born, right up to the end of time. He decided which of them should end up in heaven — that’s what’s called election and predestination — and left the rest to punishment. He allowed the Fall to happen, though he didn’t actually set it up.
“That seems bad enough to you. But the extremists say that all this came before creation. That God chose who was to go to heaven, and who was condemned to sin and hell, before he’d even created Adam.”
I worked it out. “But that means God decided the Fall should happen. He actually made Adam sin. That’s bonkers.”
“But it’s what they say, Tom. And it’s all tied up with original sin.”
“Original sin?”
“It means that everyone has inherited Adam’s sin. Everyone is born with sin in-built. Nobody is born innocent. It means everyone is damned unless they’re rescued — born again, they call it — by baptism.”
“But that’s … disgusting.” I was flabbergasted. “It means that if a baby dies before it’s baptised, it automatically goes to hell.”
“It does. That’s why I called it a harsh doctrine. The MCs … well, what they teach is based on a document called the Confession of Faith, which they drew up in 1823. Even though they follow Calvin, it doesn’t say anything about election. That’s left to the individual minister. And I think I know the line followed by our friend across the road.”
And therefore by his son, who saw me, from his viewpoint, as beyond the pale, an unbeliever, damned. But he still seemed to like me, and he accepted me as a non-Welshman, which surely meant that he had some tolerance left. From my own viewpoint, I saw him as beyond the pale too, for keeping a blinkered and inflexible mind, for soaking up all this crap in the first place. But I still liked him, or more than liked him.
“But is that only the MCs? Other churches aren’t so tough?”
“No, most of them aren’t. True, some Presbyterians in Scotland and Northern Ireland are still Calvinistic hard-liners, like the Wee Frees. So are some Baptists, especially the Southern Baptists in the States. But most churches which ever taught predestination and original sin have now watered them down. Some even say that all unbaptised babies are saved. Most churches here follow the Arminian line now. That’s named after a Dutchman called Arminius, who led the protestant backlash against Calvin.”
“Oh, I see. Isaac called me an Arminian. I thought he said Armenian, and wondered what that had got to do with it.”
The Prof chuckled. “Anyway, Arminians say that man can haul himself up by his bootstraps. Everyone can be saved. If you aren’t saved, it’s your own fault, it wasn’t decreed by God. You do have free will. God is a God of love, not destruction.”
“That’s a lot better. And the Anglicans say that too?”
“Yes. Quite forcibly. That’s why I went to them from the MCs.”
I mulled it over. “Yes. I would too. So both, um, sides claim the bible’s behind them?”
“Oh yes. You can find texts in the bible to ‘prove’ — in inverted commas — almost anything you like. It’s not consistent.”
“That reminds me, Prof. Isaac said something else. He called God a potter who made lovely pots which he had the right to look after, and cheap ones which he had the right to chuck out. Well, if we don’t believe in God, it doesn’t really matter to us. But I can see some sense in it. If God did exist, and did create everything, shouldn’t he have control over what happens to his own pots?”
“Hmmm. Like most analogies, you can only take this one so far. If we were only pots, yes, maybe. But we’re human beings, who feel, who think for ourselves. We’re all different, but we’re all marvellous, we’re all potentially top-quality. If you had children, Tom, wouldn’t you try to give all of them the same chance?”
“Yes. Of course I would. Anything else would be favouritism.”
“And that’s unfair. Agreed. But this business about pots is interesting. Look, Tom, it’s time to introduce you properly to my old friend Omar Khayyám. I quoted him to you the other week. He was a Persian, in the twelfth century, best known in his day as an astronomer. And he also wrote poetry. The Rubáiyát. In my humble opinion it’s superb poetry. And in Edward FitzGerald’s translation it’s superb language. I can’t read Persian so I don’t know, but they say that FitzGerald is even better than the original.
“But the point is this. Omar was a Muslim, of course, and strict Islam is another harsh faith. Like Calvinism, it says that in the beginning God decided the destiny of every person who would ever be born. Predestination again. Well, Islam generated almost as many dissenters as Christianity, and Omar was one. He couldn’t find any alternative to predestination, but he didn’t like it. He took refuge in heresy.
“Now, Omar uses that same metaphor which Isaac quoted. He has the pots in a potter’s shop talking among themselves:
Said one among them, ‘Surely not in vain
My substance of the common earth was ta’en
And to this figure moulded, to be broke,
Or trampled back to shapeless earth again.’
Then said a second, ‘Ne’er a peevish boy
Would break the bowl from which he drank in joy;
And he that with his hand the vessel made
Will surely not in after wrath destroy.’
Whereat some one of the loquacious lot —
I think a Sufi pipkin, waxing hot —
‘All this of pot and potter. Tell me then,
Who is the potter, pray, and who the pot?’”
The Prof looked at me quizzically.
“Yes … I see … I think,” I said slowly. “We’re back to man creating God, aren’t we?”
“Yes. We are. People tend to see Omar’s message as ‘eat, drink and be merry, for tomorrow we die.’ But there’s a great deal more to him than that. He’s a rebel. Here are some verses of his on the standard theme of predestination. Orthodox, if distinctly cynical:
’Tis all a chequer-board of nights and days
Where Destiny with men for pieces plays:
Hither and thither moves, and mates, and slays,
And one by one back in the closet lays.
The moving finger writes, and having writ
Moves on: not all your piety nor wit
Shall lure it back to cancel half a line,
Nor all your tears wash out a word of it.
With earth’s first clay they did the last man knead,
And there of the last harvest sowed the seed:
And the first morning of creation wrote
What the last dawn of reckoning shall read.”
I found myself grinning broadly, as if I had had too much to drink. Hitherto, I had always reckoned poetry pretty boring stuff, but I was already on a high, catapulted there by the splendour of these verses as recited in the Prof’s clear and sensitive diction. I felt much the same incredulous delight as if I had spotted a hoopoe in Coed Maentwrog.
“And then the rebel, the heretic, comes out — the Arminian, if you prefer. And more than the Arminian:
Oh you, who did with pitfall and with gin
Beset the road I was to wander in,
You will not with predestination round
Enmesh me, and impute my fall to sin!
Oh you, who man of baser earth did make,
And who with Eden did devise the snake,
For all the sin wherewith the face of man
Is blackened, man’s forgiveness give — and take!”
I grinned more broadly still. This was rebellion on a grand scale, to talk of forgiving God for what he had done to man.
The Prof grinned equally broadly back at me. “He’s cheered you up, hasn’t he? Borrow him, Tom, and read him properly. He’s got plenty more that you’ll like. That bookcase, top shelf but one, about eight books from the left, blue paperback — yes, that’s it.”
Now that Calvin had been balanced by Omar, I went home much happier. I read the Rubáiyát in one sitting — not that all of it was easy to understand — and became totally intoxicated. Over the week I read it again and again, learned some by heart, and decided to share my new delight with Isaac. Even though he would dislike much of the message, surely he would appreciate the language.
*
Next Saturday we climbed up to Wrysgan to watch the peregrines that lived in the fissured cliffs — some of the cracks, Isaac said, were a relic of the great earthquake of 1984. We carried on along the old quarrymen’s track round the contour to Llyn Stwlan, where we sat on a rock overlooking the dam. On the right loomed Moelwyn Mawr, ahead loomed Moelwyn Bach, the jagged crags on its right-hand side famously in the shape of a man’s profile. It was supposed to resemble the Duke of Wellington, the Prof had told me, but in his opinion it looked much more like Ted Heath, the last prime minister but four. Not having seen either gentleman, I had to take his word for it.
I told Isaac about Omar and got out the book. He was wary. I read him some verses that were not contentious, and he seemed to like them. I read the orthodox verses about predestination which the Prof had quoted, and he nodded approvingly. But when I ventured on to the rebellious ones, his face grew thundery. He snatched the book from me to check that I was not making it up.
“But that’s blasphemy!”
He flung it far out into the lake where it floated for a bit, then became waterlogged and sank, perhaps to be sucked down the outlet pipe and pulped in Dad’s turbines.
“For God’s sake! That wasn’t my book!”
He looked abashed. “Oh. Whose was it?”
“The Prof’s.”
“Oh, him. That’s all right, then.” The Prof’s property was evidently fair game. “He’s destined for hell anyway, but that’s no excuse for trying to drag other people down there with him.”
I was livid. “The difference between you and the Prof is that you’re a bigot and he’s not. And I go along with him, not you. You claim you’ve got the monopoly of being right. I claim that you’ve just as much chance of ending up in hell as I have, or the Prof has. There’s another verse in that book” — I gestured at the lake — “which goes:
Oh you, who burns in heart for those who burn
In hell, whose fires yourself shall feed in turn,
How long be crying, ‘Mercy on them, God!’
Why, who are you to teach, and we to learn?”
Isaac threw me a look of pure fury, picked up his rucksack, and marched off. I did not call him back or try to follow. What was the point? I sat brooding over his forecast about the Prof’s destination. Hell. Or heaven. I really had not thought about them before, any more than I had thought about most such things. Isaac, I reckoned, was aiming for heaven in the next life by going through hell in this, confident that God had mapped out his route for him. But I did not believe that God existed. If he did not, could there be an afterlife? And if there was no afterlife, could there be such places as heaven and hell? Once again, Omar suggested the answer.
I sent my soul through the invisible,
Some letter of that afterlife to spell;
And by and by my soul returned to me
And answered ‘I myself am heaven and hell.’
Heaven but the vision of fulfilled desire,
And hell the shadow from a soul on fire,
Cast on the darkness into which ourselves,
So late emerged from, shall so soon expire.
That made sense. I could go along with heaven and hell being inside you, in this life. But if they did not exist in the afterlife, where did your soul go after you died? Anyway, what was the soul? From my biology, I understood a bit about the mind: consciousness, sensation, thought, reasoning, all the product of electrical activity in the brain. Like in a computer, but far more complex. And when the brain died, the mind died. The soul must be something different. Or even — I felt I was taking a big step here — did it exist at all? Omar evidently thought it did, but then he believed in God. If you did not believe in God, or in the accepted heaven and hell, why believe in the soul? The Prof had made me think for myself, but some questions were still too big for me. I must ask him.
As I made my long way home round the hairpin bends of the access road I could see Isaac striding away, far below me. Even at that distance he seemed to radiate a smouldering glow of self-righteous anger. But the Prof welcomed me as placidly as always, hot and bothered though I was. First I told him of the fate of his book.
“I’m sorry, Prof, it was my fault. I shouldn’t have shown it to him. I’ll buy you another.”
“Thank you, Tom, but no. I have other editions. No, I will buy you another copy, for you to keep this time. And you know, this business is a good illustration of intolerance, isn’t it? One of the many reasons why Calvin challenged the Catholics was that he objected to their excesses in persecuting heretics. The inquisition and suchlike. But he ruled Geneva — that’s where he was based — with a rod of iron. When he found himself opposed by another reformer called Servetus who wrote books castigating him, he had him burned at the stake, along with his books. Pots and kettles, eh? Anyway, he might destroy Servetus and his writings, but he could never destroy his message.”
Pots and kettles indeed. Not pleasant.
“Prof, why do some people fly off the handle like that? Why can’t they chew things over calmly? And if they can’t agree, then agree to differ?”
“I think the short answer, Tom, is pride. Some people have to be right. They can’t admit they might be wrong. They can’t stand their power being challenged. They have to demonstrate who’s the boss. I believe the modern term for them is control freaks. It’s the closed mind again. Which is why I’m so glad that yours is open and questioning.”
I blushed, and was prompted to raise my latest question, about heaven and hell. He listened patiently to my stumbling thoughts.
“You’ve a knack, Tom, of coming up with knotty problems. And the answers to them. You’re not the first to locate heaven and hell in the mind, you know, but you’re in distinguished company. Milton, for example.
The mind is its own place, and in itself
Can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven.
Even better, perhaps, T. S. Eliot.
Hell is oneself;
Hell is alone, the other figures in it
Merely projections. There is nothing to escape from
And nothing to escape to. One is always alone.
And I’d entirely agree with them, and with you. Heaven and hell are inside us.”
“And Prof, following on from that. If there’s no God, and no afterlife in heaven or hell, can we have a soul? I know what the mind is, I think, more or less. Activity in the brain, and it dies with us. But what is the soul, Prof?”
“It’s a woolly concept, it seems to me, not easy to distinguish from the mind. It’s said to be the noble, the emotional, the immortal side of ourselves. The emperor Hadrian wrote a delightful poem to his own soul. Animula vagula blandula — ‘wandering, charming little soul, guest and companion of my body.’ I rather like that idea. A guest and companion would be independent of us, and it wouldn’t necessarily die with us. If it didn’t, I suppose it could be called immortal. But your question is, where would it go after we had died? If I’ve got you right, you’re suggesting that if life after death is only man’s imagining, then the soul must be imaginary too. If that premise is correct, I don’t think I can shoot down the rest of your logic.”
For once, he seemed to be slightly side-stepping the issue, but I did not pick him up on it because I had another important question.
“Prof, you said you wanted to be buried by the Anglicans. But if there is no God, and no afterlife, even no soul, why does it matter?”
He chuckled. “Mainly because I hate the thought of being sneered into my grave by the Calvinists.”
“But why not have a service without any religion in it at all? You’re allowed to, aren’t you?”
“Oh yes, no problem. Why not a secular service? Well, maybe I see a church service as a sort of insurance policy, just in case I do have a soul, just in case — even more remotely — God does exist. If you had a child, Tom, would you have it baptised, just in case it died young, just in case unbaptised infants really were damned for eternity?”
I cogitated. It would be good to stand by one’s principles. But he was right. I had admitted God might exist. Therefore baptism might, just conceivably, do some good. It could certainly do no harm.
“Yes, maybe I would. Just in case.”
He nodded. “Yes. And it’s for the same sort of reason that I’ve plumped for a church funeral. Have you been baptised, Tom?”
I hadn’t the foggiest idea. I asked Mum and Dad when I got in. Yes, they rather sheepishly admitted, I had been. They weren’t religious, but their own parents and grandparents had expected them to have me done. And better safe than sorry …
Next time I saw Isaac he apologised about the book, to my surprise, and offered to buy a replacement. I thanked him but said no. I knew his pocket money was microscopic, and thought that it might not hurt to rub in the lesson.
“The Prof’s buying another copy himself. He said it all reminded him of Calvin and Servetus.”
Isaac understood at once, and had the grace to blush.
I still wanted to love him, though. He was entitled to his opinions. While I could not stomach their rigidity, I admired him for sticking up for them. Neither of us wished our friendship to founder on this rock, and we made a big if undeclared effort to continue as before. But my frustrations also continued, unabated. Even if either or both of us were predestined for hell, one thing that did not seem predestined was a sexual encounter between us. Yet I still hankered desperately for my heaven, for my vision of fulfilled desire.
*
The Prof’s state of health was now variable: sometimes he verged on the sprightly, sometimes he was painfully slow. He saved up his bigger shopping expeditions for Saturdays, so that I could carry his bags home. One July day, when I let myself in, I could not find him. I was quite worried until I heard noises from upstairs, where I had never set foot — his bathroom was beyond the kitchen — and I found him up there looking for a book. It turned out that he had another library on the first floor, at least equal in size to the one downstairs. Not only did it cost him a huge effort to climb up, but it struck me as downright dangerous for a man of his age who lived alone.
“Prof, are there any books downstairs which you never use? Or hardly ever?”
“Oh yes, quite a lot.”
“Well, why not move them up, and replace them with upstairs books which you use more often? Save you traipsing up and down stairs.”
“Why haven’t I thought of that before? Why not, indeed? Do I take it, Tom, you’re offering to do the fetching and carrying?”
As it turned out, the fetching and carrying took a whole weekend. It was hilarious. We called the game Predestination, and the Prof played the part of God. In his study, he decreed which books were reprobate and damned, and I took them off the shelves. Then, both of us giggling like six-year-olds, he put his arm round my shoulder, and I put my arm round his waist and half-carried him upstairs. There he chose the elect, the saints, which I likewise pulled out. Their destiny decided, I installed the damned in hell and the elect in heaven. The only thing awry was that heaven was downstairs and hell was up. Our frivolity would have shocked Isaac to death, not to mention the Parch. But we had a whale of a time.
*
As for Isaac, after our heart-to-heart by Llyn Cwmcorsiog I saw no sign that he harboured any — let us say — impure thoughts at all. Until one night, shortly before the end of term, when I looked out of the window before going to bed. Isaac’s light was still on, a sizeable strip showing between his curtains which were not completely closed. There was nothing unusual about that. They never were fully closed, simply because they were too narrow to meet. That household just did not have the money to replace curtains which had been made for a narrower window in some previous manse. What was new was that through the gap I could see the middle of his bed. He must have moved it, unaware that I could see it now. Mine was the only window in the street high enough to look down into his room. And on the bed was Isaac, or the relevant part of him. Naked, and vigorously beating himself off.
I knew it was spying, and knew I should not. But I could not help it. I watched, through my binoculars, which I tried to hold steady with my left hand while my right was active, very active, elsewhere. We came at the same time, he into a handkerchief, me onto the floor. Then his light went out. Well, I thought, winding down as I cleaned up the mess, however high-minded ministers’ sons may be, at least this one’s human after all. Or a little bit human. And if he’s that human, is he more human still? But the big unknown is whether he’s straight or gay. Or neither. If I was going to get anywhere at all, I would have to put it to the test. A scientific experiment, if you like. I spent the next hour or so hatching nefarious plans.
I found a juicy porn site of chicks being shagged, printed off a good picture, put it in a blank envelope and sealed it. Next day I took it to school, and while nobody was around I posted it into Isaac’s locker through the slit between the door and frame. When school finished, as I burrowed in my own locker nearby, I saw him collect some books, cast a puzzled look at the envelope, and stuff it into his pocket. That night I stood watch, a bit back from my window, lights off, binoculars in hand. His light came on and after a while he crossed the gap between the curtains, wearing his pyjamas and holding a piece of paper. He squatted down at the fireplace on the far wall, struck a match and burned the paper. Then he got into bed, under the blanket, and his light went out. I could not be sure, but I deduced the chicks had not turned him on.
On to the next stage, then. This time I went to a gay site and printed off another juicy picture, and followed the same procedure. It had better work this time — it was only two days to the end of term, and three days before our family was going off on holiday. And I was rewarded. His light came on and stayed on, he lay naked on the bed, and he looked at the picture held in one hand while he wanked with the other. As before, I went along with him. Once he was done, his light went out. I was getting closer.
Next evening, I asked him to come in to see something new on the RSPB website. He showed no suspicions. At the window I pointed to the square where a gaggle of sparrows was ridiculously having a bath in a puddle. He looked briefly, laughed, and sat down at the computer, while I stayed where I was, pretending to watch the sparrows but actually keeping an eye on him in the mirror beside the window. I had put a good gay porn site on the screen, long enough ago for the screensaver to have come up. As soon as he touched the mouse, there was the porn. He glanced round at me, but saw only my back. He knew plenty enough about computers by now to navigate round a site, and in the mirror I saw him clicking thumbnail after thumbnail for several minutes. When I thought the time was ripe I turned, and pretended surprise.
“Oops! Forgot that was up!”
But all my lovely plans crashed instantly in ruins. He leapt up and whirled round, hard-on very evident, face red.
“Dos yn fy ol i, Satan,” he spat out. “Rhwystr ydwyt ti i mi: am nad ydwyt yn synied y pethau sydd o Dduw, ond y pethau sydd o ddynion.”
My Welsh was good enough to catch the beginning, and I read up the rest later. ‘Get you behind me, Satan. You’re my stumbling-block. Your mind’s not on God’s things, but on man’s.’ Out he stormed, and I spent a very unhappy night.
Next day was the last day of term, which ended at lunch time. Awash with trepidation, I carefully avoided Isaac all morning. Indeed our paths did not cross until the final class. When it was finished, he came purposefully over to me.
“Tom, a word with you.” His tone was now of sorrow, not of anger. He waited until the room was empty before continuing.
“Tom, about last night. You know much more about all this than I do. But I’ve been thinking. I’ve been blind and slow, but now I see what you’re after. You’re gay, and you hope I am too, and you’re trying to tempt me.”
I could only nod.
“Yes, Tom, I am tempted that way. Yes, you did tempt me. With what you told me that day at Cwmcorsiog. And especially last night with the … computer. Yes, for a bit I did get carried away. Every one of God’s children is tempted. But God helped me to resist.”
It was the only chance I would ever have of saying what I needed to. I gulped.
“OK, Isaac, I did tempt you. Because I love you. I wanted to show you how I love you.”
“Tom, you mustn’t love me. I know you’re tempted. But you must resist it, for your own sake. And for mine. I like you, Tom. But I can’t love you. Not in that sense. You think about it while you’re away, and you’ll see what I mean. Right?”
I was too confused to answer, but he seemed to take my agreement for granted, as if the whole episode was over and done with.
“I must run,” he said. “I’ve got to change and get up to Llechwedd.” He had found a holiday job in the café at Quarry Tours.
Virtually everybody had already left, but as we went out into the corridor we saw Meurig and Ianto, two of the school’s younger bullies, emerge from a classroom a couple of doors along and head for the main entrance, sniggering as they went. Even though my mind was in turmoil, I wondered what they had been up to and, as we passed the room they had just left, I glanced inside. There, behaving very oddly, was a boy named Geraint, a year below us, whom I knew slightly. He was standing with his back to the wall, trying to cover his chest with his arms, and clearly on the verge of tears. He saw Isaac first and cringed, but at the sight of me he relaxed a little.
“Geraint! What’s up?” I asked in Welsh.
“Oh, Tom, please, you don’t have a spare shirt or sweater you could lend me, do you?”
What on earth for? It was a sweltering day.
“Sorry, Geraint, not here. I took my sports stuff home yesterday. But why … ?”
“I can’t go home like this,” he wailed. “Look!”
He lowered his arms. He was wearing a plain white tee-shirt, or one that had been plain white. But scrawled across the front in black marker pen was the message ‘Dw i’n gadi hoyw’ — I am a gay sissy. He turned round, and the same was written on the back. He lifted the shirt, and the same was written on his skin, front and back. I understood. Geraint lived, I knew, in Congl y Wal at the very far end of town. Unless he could find something to cover it up, he was condemned to walking a good mile through the centre of Blaenau announcing to the world that he was gay, and announcing it to his mother when he got home. He was a quiet and artistic type, almost feminine in face, a sitting target for homophobic louts like Ianto and Meurig. But I also knew that he was an unjustified target. He had a girlfriend, and presumably was not gay.
Isaac evidently did not know. “Go home like that,” he pronounced. “Proclaim your sins to the people, and repent, canys ffiaidd gan yr Arglwydd dy Dduw bob un a’r a wnelo hyn” — for all that do such things are an abomination unto the Lord your God. “Goodbye, Tom, I must go.” Off he went, as stern and righteous as any Old Testament prophet.
“But I’m not gay,” cried Geraint.
“It’s all right, Geraint. I know you aren’t. Don’t pay any attention to him. Look, come home with me — there won’t be anyone there — and I’ll clean you up. And put this on to get you there.”
I peeled off my tee-shirt with its RSPB logo and, whimpering with relief, he put it on over his own. Naked to the waist, I walked him the hundred yards home. We were close enough behind Isaac to see him disappear into Ty Capel.
Once in the refuge of my house, we surveyed the damage. The first priority was to clean the writing off Geraint’s skin, but the marker pen proved obstinate. Experiments with soap, washing-up liquid and white spirit hardly affected it, and we began to despair. Then I tried rougher tactics and found that the pan-scourer and Cif would shift it, at the cost of leaving his skin red and tender. He bore it stoically, but as I worked carefully around his nipples I saw a bulge grow in his jeans. Close contact with his very attractive body had already given me a bulge in mine. The setting was perfect for seduction, and he was so touchingly grateful for my help that I reckoned he would give me anything. But I could not ask for it. No way. It would be utterly wrong to take advantage of him.
I asked, instead, what had happened. The louts, much as I guessed, had been taunting him for most of the term, and as a final fling, the work of seconds, Meurig had pinioned his arms while Ianto wrote the messages. I was surprised he could spell that well. They could not be allowed to get away with it.
“Stand up to them, Geraint. I know you aren’t gay. You’ve got a girlfriend, haven’t you? Esyllt, isn’t it?” He nodded. “If they try any more monkey tricks, let me know.”
I was not very sure what I could do. But even if they were bigger than me, I was a year above them, and I did have my other friends who would back me up. With luck. Yet another thing that needed thinking about.
Once Geraint’s chest and back were clear of ink, I soothed his soreness with antiseptic cream. We then looked at his shirt. A write-off, we decided, so I binned it and dug out an almost identical one of my own.
“Oh Tom, you’re a hero. I’ll bring this back tomorrow.”
“Don’t bother, Geraint. Keep it. I’ve got plenty.” I knew his family did not have many beans to rub together.
As I had been cleaning him up, I had heard the letterbox rattle, and when I saw him out, bubbling with thanks, I found a hastily-scribbled note lying on the mat:
Tad’s just heard that he’s being posted down to Ceredigion, and we’re leaving at the end of August. But there’ll still be three weeks after you get back from holiday. Have a good time — Isaac.
So. So Isaac was going, and I knew I would miss his company. But unresolved questions were tumbling in my mind like washing in a dryer. Thinking that Geraint was gay, he had just been unforgivingly harsh to him, unforgivably harsh. That was typical of his attitude to anyone he saw as reprobate. Yet there was a conundrum here. He now knew for a fact that I was gay and therefore reprobate. Why had he been so considerate to me? After last night, I had been afraid our friendship had crumbled to nothing. But, provided I tempted him no more, he seemed ready to overlook my behaviour. To forgive it.
To forgive it? Yes. Last night had left me wallowing in disappointment and self-pity. Now I began to see his point, and to feel stirrings of guilt. I knew at last, for certain, that I would never win him over. I had tried, and I had failed. But had I been wrong in trying? That was the other question. What I had been tempting him to do was in his eyes a sin, an offence against the divine laws he believed in. But then, from my point of view, if I was not bound by those laws, it was hardly a sin to succumb to the temptation, was it? It might be a crime in the eyes of human law, at least until we were sixteen. But that was another matter altogether.
After pondering long and inconclusively I took my problem, as usual, to the Prof.
“May I ask your advice, please, Prof? I can’t tell you the details. But I’ve been trying to get … someone to do something he didn’t want to. It might have been a crime, in law, but only a minor one. But how do I know if it was wrong, morally wrong, to try?”
The Prof looked at me shrewdly. “I think the best yardstick, Tom, is that if it’s likely to hurt anyone at all, including yourself, in any way, short-term or long-term, then it’s wrong. True, punishment hurts, but that’s a quite different affair, provided it’s a just punishment. And that yardstick, in my humble opinion, is more important than the letter of the law. Because it also applies to behaviour outside the law, like being rude or inconsiderate, which can hurt just as much as physical assault. Does that help?”
It did. I had been tempting Isaac to break one of his taboos. It did not matter that his taboo was not mine.
“Yes,” I said heavily. “I have been inconsiderate. I have hurt him. And I’ve lost him. I never had a chance, anyway. I can see that now.”
I had been thinking out loud, and suddenly realised what I had said. My last flag had been accidentally unfurled. I looked at the Prof with mouth open and face red, but I knew him too well to be afraid.
He smiled gently. “Don’t worry, Tom. I’ve had a pretty good idea of what’s been going on. Or not going on. I do not disapprove, and it’s safe with me. You’re right, Tom — it was a forlorn hope from the start. Of course you’re disappointed. I know how you’re feeling now.
Ah love! Could you and I with fate conspire
To grasp this sorry scheme of things entire,
Would not we shatter it to bits — and then
Re-mould it nearer to the heart’s desire!
“But don’t be disappointed, not for too long. You hoped you’d find love from Isaac, but it’s clear you never will. Will even your friendship survive?”
“Yes … No … Look, Prof. Something’s just happened.” I told him about the events of the morning. “And now Isaac’s going. I don’t know what to think. It might be a good thing, since I’ve hurt him. But even though he sees me as, um, a sinner, he seems to have forgiven me. As if he still values me. Yet he was ready to let Geraint face the music. I don’t understand.”
“Put this in context, Tom. Think what you give Isaac that Geraint can’t. Think why …” He tailed off.
We looked at each other, and I found, not greatly to my surprise, that I could supply what he had left unsaid, not from my own mind, but by reading it in those brown eyes.
“Prof. You’re thinking it is no bad thing that Isaac’s going, because it never can be a real friendship. Because we don’t have enough common ground. If it weren’t for birds, we wouldn’t know each other at all. We hardly talk about anything else, except religion, and we don’t exactly agree on that. Isaac doesn’t have any other friends — to him, everybody’s a sinner, beyond the pale. To him, I’m a sinner too. Yet he puts up with me, even forgives me. You’re thinking that’s not tolerance, but self-interest, just because he doesn’t want to lose my company. My bird-talk. Isn’t that what you’re thinking? And you don’t want to say it because it might seem unkind?”
The Prof was smiling lovingly. “Tom, you have no secrets left, do you? Not now. And soon I’ll have none left either, if you can read my mind as accurately as that. Yes. That’s exactly what I’m thinking. And do you think the same?”
I gazed at the drab grey building opposite, TABERNACL M. C., where Isaac’s mind was centred and mine emphatically was not. I had lusted only for his body, hadn’t I? Not, to be honest, for his mind. Birds were our only bond, and his was a friendship only of convenience. There was no meeting of minds. Whereas the Prof and I …
“Yes, I do think the same.”
“You never were compatible, Tom. Don’t think too badly of Isaac. He’s been conditioned into the way he is. Brainwashed, if you like. But you’ve each learned lessons from the other. I suggest you talk birds with him as usual, until he leaves. And then, without grief or guilt, let him go his own way, and you go yours. They’re very different ways. There’s a most excellent limerick, even though it is about destiny, which you may not know.
There once was a man who said ‘Damn!
It is borne in upon me I am
An engine that moves
In predestinate grooves.
I’m not even a bus, I’m a tram.’
“That’s Isaac. He’s a tram, who can follow only the narrow track that’s been laid down for him. You’re a bus. You can drive anywhere. Anywhere you like. You’ll find better friendships elsewhere, Tom. More important, you’ll find a better love. I wouldn’t dare call that your destiny, not after our discussions. But it’s simply inconceivable that so inquisitive and intelligent a person as you, so lovable and so loving, should not find it, though it may take time.”
I drew a deep breath. He had given me plenty of new food for thought, but he had already solved my conundrum and lifted a heavy burden off my shoulders.
“Thanks, Prof. Thanks. That’s good. You’re a star!”
“And you’re lucky, Tom. As you search for your love, you’ll be going out into a world which is ever more tolerant. Of course there are exceptions, and plenty of them. Individual exceptions like Ianto and Meurig. And general ones too — Macaulay found ‘no spectacle so ridiculous as the British public in one of its periodical fits of morality.’ That was a century and a half ago, and it still holds true. Sometimes society still has a fit and takes a step backwards. But most of the steps are in the right direction.
“In fact another small one has been taken today. You won’t have heard the one o’clock news. You know the Archbishop of Canterbury’s retiring?” I nodded. “As head of the whole Anglican communion throughout the world, he’s in a pretty influential position. George Carey, who’s on his way out, is a sadly stodgy character. Well, they’ve just announced his successor. Rowan Williams, who’s currently Archbishop of Wales. He’s a good man. A liberal. A moderniser. He’s already ordained gay priests.”
“Wow! That’s great!” I had had no idea the Anglicans were as progressive as that.
“It might ultimately rub off on other churches too, though of course not everyone will approve. One thing I’m sure of is that there’ll be thunder from the Parch’s pulpit on Sunday morning. Tom … ” — the eye he cocked at me had a truly wicked gleam in it — “shall we be very naughty and celebrate, while he’s thundering, with a glass of madeira?”
I laughed. “I’d have loved to, Prof. But we’re going away tomorrow, for our holiday. Remember?”
His face fell. “I’d forgotten. How long for?”
“A fortnight. Back on the 10th. I’m going to miss you, Prof. But I’ll phone you regularly, just to check you’re all right. I feel a bit mean, not being able to help with your shopping and stuff. But Rhiannon will look after that.”
There was a long pause as he gazed at me.
“Don’t you worry,” he said abruptly. “You’d better go and do your packing. It must be time. Goodbye, Tom, and thank you. Enjoy yourself away from this old man.”
He creaked to his feet, and to my amazement he opened his arms, clearly expecting a hug. I obliged. Inside his baggy jacket he felt like a small sparrow, heart fluttering. And I kissed him lightly on the lips. To this day I do not know what prompted me. I could perfectly well just have hugged him.
After a few seconds he broke free and almost pushed me out of the door. As I turned round with a wave and a “Be good!” he was staring after me as if he would never see me again.
*
He never did.
But I saw him. We had our holiday, in a caravan on the Devon coast. Superficially fun, but all the time my heart was in Wales. I phoned him every other day, briefly, and all was well. My last call was on the Thursday, and we got home very late on the Saturday night. Next morning I had two important things to do. I wanted to see Isaac, but he would be in chapel. The first priority, anyway, was to check on the Prof.
I let myself in and was making for the study with a cheerful greeting on my lips when a middle-aged woman came out of the kitchen.
“Diawl, what on earth do you think you’re up to?”
“I’ve come to see the Professor.”
“Where did you get the key from?”
“Why, from the Prof. I let myself in and out.”
She looked at me speculatively. “Who are you?”
“Tom Robertson. I live two doors along.”
“Oh yes, I do know about you, then. I didn’t think you’d be so young. I’m Wil’s niece. Megan Parry.” I recognised her now, from the photos on the mantelpiece.
Then came the bombshell. “My uncle’s dead.”
My heart stopped and my mouth fell open.
She inspected me with an inscrutable face, as if trying to weigh up the boy before her, young-looking, struck dumb, too shocked to cry. A portly man of much the same age appeared from the kitchen.
“This is Tom Robertson,” she explained to him. And to me, “This is my husband,” and she tacitly handed me over, as if deputing an unwelcome job to a minion. Both contrived to convey their disapproval of me.
“What … happened?” I managed to get out.
“Oh, he had a massive heart attack on Friday morning,” said Mr Parry, “on the way to the Co-op, and died almost immediately. He must have known it might happen, because he’d written out detailed instructions for us, for his funeral. Do you want to see him?”
I was taken even more aback. I had heard of the Welsh custom of the dead being put on display in their own home, for friends to pay their respects and to say a last goodbye. Having been brought up in sanitised English ways, I had never seen a dead body before. I did not want to see any dead body, let alone the body of my friend. But I could only say yes. I had to say yes. To say no would be to betray him utterly.
Mr Parry led me into the study. The curtains were closed. The air was stuffy. The coffin sat on trestles in front of the desk. He lifted off the lid and I forced myself to look. There the Prof lay, in a white shroud, his hair covered in an obscene little white bonnet, his hands like claws folded over his stomach. He was a sparrow lying on its back, small, shrivelled, and dead. But beneath the beaky nose and the bushy eyebrows his face was still and peaceful. I looked for a long time, re-memorising what was already engraved on my mind. Then, my throat far too tight to utter any sound, I bent to kiss him gently on the lips, smelling a mixture of chemicals and cosmetics. Silently I framed a simple farewell.
“Bye, Prof. Thanks. My love. And good luck. If you need it where you’ve gone.” That said it all.
Mr Parry was speaking. “You must have been, er, good friends. If you want to come to the funeral, it’s the day after tomorrow, Tuesday. 11.30, in the church at Llan. And you can come to the gathering at the Pengwern Arms afterwards.”
I escaped without opening my mouth, crept home, and collapsed on my bed. Mum and Dad, hearing my sobs, came up to investigate, and were kind and gentle. “He had a good innings, Tom. You’ve been privileged to know him. Just remember him, for his goodness and his kindness. Don’t grieve too much.”
But the whole day I grieved, and did not step outside the house. I lay, and thought, and remembered. Or just lay, and ached in wretchedness. I tried to find comfort in the Rubáiyát, and cried myself to sleep.
Next morning I stirred myself and went to the florist, where after much deliberation I bought a modest bunch of red roses. I wrote a card for it, and took it round. Mrs Parry’s eyes widened, but she thanked me nicely. After all, the flowers were as much a token for her, the bereaved, as for the dead. Or were they also a symbol of mortality?
Oh threats of Hell and hopes of Paradise!
One thing at least is certain — this life flies;
One thing is certain, and the rest is lies:
The flower that once has blown for ever dies.
I continued in my grief, and was incapable of going out again. Isaac would have to wait.
On Tuesday morning, both Mum and Dad were at work and I caught the bus to Llan Ffestiniog, the age-old village three miles away, mother of the young industrial offshoot of Blaenau Ffestiniog. It was nearly half past eleven when I got out at the Pengwern, and the parish church was almost full. Some of the congregation were locals, the rest obviously strangers — the elderly ones ex-colleagues from Cambridge, I guessed, the younger ones perhaps ex-students. Feeling totally out of place, I sat at the very back. The coffin stood in front of the altar, and on it lay red flowers and something silver — too far away to make out any detail.
The service was essentially in English, presumably for the benefit of the strangers. And not the modern form of service, but the old. No doubt the Prof himself had insisted on the Tudor language, even if he did not go along with its message.
The introduction. ‘We brought nothing into this world, and it is certain we can carry nothing out.’ Nothing tangible, no. That he would not deny — who could? And nothing intangible either, if we did not admit the idea of the soul as guest and companion of our body.
The psalm. ‘Lord, let me know mine end, and the number of my days, that I may be certified how long I have to live.’ Lord, let me know nothing of the sort. With hindsight, I was sure the Prof had known the number of his own days. But I did not want to know mine.
The reading. ‘Behold, I show you a mystery. We shall not all sleep, but we shall all be changed, in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye.’ My skin crept. ‘Death is swallowed up in victory. O death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory?’ This sort of stuff had once been mumbo jumbo to me. Why did it now strike a sudden chord?
The address, mercifully short. The vicar spelled out the distinguished career of this son of Ffestiniog, praising his kindness and good nature. He clearly had not known the Prof himself, and was merely mouthing the platitudes the family had told him to say.
Finally the hymn, requested, so the vicar informed us, by the Prof himself. A good Welsh hymn too, Calon lân.
Nid wy’n gofyn bywyd moethus
Aur y byd na’i berlau mân.
Gofyn rwyf am galon hapus,
Calon onest, calon lân
‘I ask not for a life of luxury, worldly gold or petty pearls. I ask for a happy heart, an honest heart, a pure heart.’ Amen to that, at least.
The Prof was to be buried in the new overflow cemetery a hundred yards away, the churchyard itself being too full for further occupants. The coffin on its trolley was trundled out down the aisle. As it passed slowly beside me, I looked closely at what lay on top. The silver thing was a deep circlet, a sort of diadem or crown. The flowers were red roses, and seemed familiar. I saw the writing on the card. It was mine.
The congregation emptied itself out, starting from the front, and I was last to leave, in a daze. It ambled down the road with me at the back, my feet trying to keep up, my mind trying to keep up. At the cemetery I stood on the fringe, on tiptoe, trying to see. Someone grasped my arm. It was Mr Parry. “Come along, lad,” he muttered, and pushed me through the crowd to stand next to his wife, beside the oblong hole lined with artificial grass. The coffin lay at its head, but the flowers and circlet had been removed.
The vicar began to drone. ‘Man that is born of a woman hath but a short time to live, and is full of misery. He cometh up, and is cut down, like a flower; he fleeth as it were a shadow, and never continueth in one stay.’ My eyes wandered, and with them my mind, to the mountains across the valley. If the Prof had any way to enjoy it, his resting place commanded a broadside view of his beloved Moelwyn. I scanned the town sprawling across to the right, three miles away, and picked out Tabernacl. Beside it, I thought I could make out my attic window. If so, I would be able to see his grave from there, with my binoculars.
I came back with a start, willing my emotions not to take over my mind. The coffin was being lowered into the grave. ‘We therefore commit his body to the ground: earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust: in sure and certain hope of the resurrection to eternal life.’ No. Not sure, not certain. No hope, because no belief. But still a pleasant contrast to the doom and gloom of the Calvinists. We threw down handfuls of stony earth which rattled on the coffin lid, on the little silver plate which read
William Davies
11 Mawrth 1920-
9 Awst 2002
‘That we may have our perfect consummation and bliss, both in body and soul.’ Yes, if we do have souls. But we don’t. So why did that sentence hit me between the eyes?
The ritual was over. It had answered no questions, only raised them. It had given no comfort to the living — not, at any rate, to me — and surely it had given none to the dead.
When I pulled myself together enough to ask about the flowers, I found that the Parrys had disappeared. Some people still hung around the cemetery chattering, but most were straggling back up past the church to the Pengwern Arms, and I straggled after them. Inside, tables of sandwiches and quiches and cakes and tea were surrounded by a politely jostling crowd. I was not feeling in the least sociable. I did not in the least want to stay. But I had to find the answer to my question, and hovered on the outskirts again. After a while I was buttonholed by an elderly man — I never discovered who he was — clutching a glass of whisky. He gave the impression that it was by no means his first of the day, and he was friendly and unguarded.
“Hullo, I saw you with Megan. Didn’t know Wil had any young relatives.”
“I’m not a relative. Just a friend, from along the street.”
“Oh. Nice of Megan to put you at the front, then. And nice of her to put the bardic crown on the coffin. Wouldn’t have expected it of her.”
“Bardic crown?”
“Didn’t you know? Wil won the crown at the National Eisteddfod. Just after the war. 1946, it must have been. Not the chair — that’s for the awdl. The crown’s for free verse. Very clever bit of poetry, his. Coded, of course. Had to be, then.”
I looked my puzzlement.
“Oh, it was a love poem. To his boyfriend. Who was only a boy, not much older than you. Come to think of it, he looked very like you, too.”
I was slow on the uptake today.
“Oh Lord, didn’t you know?” He leant conspiratorially close, wafting whisky fumes into my face. “Wil was gay. Quite a scandal, I can tell you. Inside the family and out. But they were made for each other. They were very happy together.”
“I didn’t … know about that. Er, what happened to his, um, friend?”
“Oh, he died. Cancer, you know.” The alcoholic face had mercifully withdrawn from mine. “Very sad. Remember that well. It was soon after Wil retired. Just before he left Cambridge. Tom died on Christmas Day, must have been 19, um, 85.”
Before I could grapple with that, Mr Parry emerged from the crush. He evidently heard the last bit, for he gave the old man a withering look and drew me away.
“Tom. I have a duty to do. Wil left very precise instructions for his funeral. We didn’t, er, entirely approve of all of them, but we had to carry out his wishes. You were to be at the front at the interment. If you brought flowers for the funeral, they and they alone were to go on the coffin. His crown was to go on the coffin too, and as soon as the funeral was over it was to be given to you. And you were to be given a package which he’d addressed to you. It’s in here with the crown.”
He handed over a quite heavily laden bag — a cheap and thin plastic bag from the Co-op which no doubt symbolised the Parrys’ opinion of the whole business. His obviously unpalatable duty done, he disappeared back into the throng.
I could not have spoken a word to anyone, so I turned and went out. With misted eyes I stumbled along the path which skirts the churchyard, and up onto the rocky knoll beyond. It looks clear across the valley to the Moelwyn, clear down the valley to the estuary, and into the cemetery below where they had nearly finished filling in the grave. I sat on the rickety bench and opened the bag, blinking enough tears away to see.
Inside was the crown, and with it was a large sealed envelope which contained five items.
The first was an old unframed studio photograph, head and shoulders, of a teenager, strikingly recognisable as the Prof. The hair was black, the eyebrows were already heavy, the eyes held that unmistakable twinkle of penetrating amusement. I turned it over. On the back was written ‘Wil Davies, 1935, yn 15 oed’ — aged fifteen.
And there was the typescript of the poem which had won him the crown. It was entitled Y Cyfeiliorn, which can mean the quandary, or the perversion, or the heresy, as you choose. It started by adapting a pennill, a folk song:
Mae dwy galon yn fy mynwes,
Un yn oer a’r lall yn gynnes;
Un yn gynnes am dy garu,
A’r llall yn oer rhag ofn dy golli.
‘There are two hearts in my breast. One is cold and the other warm. One is warm through love of you, the other cold for fear of losing you.’ Later, with the help of the dictionary, I worked out the rest. A man was telling of his love, which was frowned on by all except the two most closely concerned. It was addressed, on the face of it, to a girl. If one had the clue and read between the lines, it was addressed to a boy.
And there was the framed photograph which I had glimpsed on the Prof’s mantelpiece, before it disappeared. It was of another boy of about fifteen, but rather more recent — the hairstyle, tie and jacket smacked of the 1940s. Looking at it properly now, I realised at once why his face had rung a bell. He looked quite remarkably like me. It was signed, in young writing, ‘Wil, from Tom, with love.’
The hairs rose on my neck.
And there was a large book bound in soft red leather, a sumptuous edition of the Rubáiyát illustrated with sensuous Preraphaelite-style paintings. The inscription on the flyleaf read, in the same youthful hand:
Wil, from Tom.
Ah, my beloved, fill the cup that clears
Today of past regrets and future fears.
Christmas 1945
My flesh crawled.
Finally, there was a letter to me, from the Prof.
My dear Tom, my second Tom,
You cannot know what joy you have revived in an old heart. Remember me, if you can. And remember that sooner or later a new and better love will come your way. It will be easy to recognise. Go out into the world, Tom, in search of it. Go in search of what we are not allowed to call your destiny. Go with my thanks, and my blessing, and my love.
Your Wil
8th August 2002
There was nothing else. If there had been, I could not have seen it for tears.
The jigsaw was falling into place. The first Tom had died on the same day that I had been conceived. Coincidence, surely. It could only be coincidence. The name was common enough. But the Prof had seen me as his first love’s double, as his second Tom, and had loved me too. That was what bowled me over. I had known full well that he liked me. I had thought that he loved me almost as a son. I had had no idea that his love was of the other kind, the love of a lover. He had not shown it, in word or deed. But his last wishes could mean nothing else. This bequest of mementoes of the first Tom, who had been his lover, could mean nothing else. And, he had said, “Love lies beyond the tomb.” Now that I thought I understood it, that could mean nothing else either. Only in his death had the flag of the Prof’s secret been unfurled.
I could not confront it rationally, not yet. I simply sat, gazing unseeingly at the eternal mountains, noting subconsciously a flight of starlings, glancing at the raw earth which now filled the grave, sensing the warmth of his love washing over me. My own love for him was reinforced. So, in tandem, was my grief, and once back in the shelter of home I would give way to it. No matter there. Mum and Dad would assume, with every reason, that I was merely desolated by the funeral. They would not understand the truth. If they did, they would most certainly disapprove. I loved them dearly and, on their plane, they loved me dearly too, but there were some things they could not be allowed to know. The crown would sit openly on my desk as a gift from my friend; a surprising gift but, shorn of its background, in no way offensive. The rest of the treasures would disappear from sight in the jumble that was my bookshelf.
I have no idea how long I sat there before I felt enough under control to catch the bus home. I got off opposite the Co-op. No more shopping for the Prof, I thought inconsequentially, and tears trickled anew. But the stresses of the day were not yet over.
Standing outside Ty Capel was a removal van. Isaac came out of the house, spotted me fifty yards away, and shouted along the street.
“Tom! Tom! We’re leaving! Now! Tad’s needed in Ceredigion earlier than expected. We only heard a week ago, and I haven’t set eyes on you since. We’re almost ready to go.”
We were closer now. He saw the tears on my cheeks and misinterpreted them.
“Hey, it’s not that bad, you know. But I’ll miss you too. I’ve enjoyed being with you, Tom, watching the birds, talking about them, even if we haven’t agreed on … much else. I don’t suppose we’ll see each other again. But we can still write. I’ll send you our new address.”
He held out his hand, formally. I had grown up a lot in recent weeks, and I was ready now to let him go. But I could not let him go like that. Not him. Not my first, inaccessible, love. To his embarrassed astonishment I took him by the shoulders and kissed him on the lips. He was tall and vibrant and very much alive. Not small and shrivelled and dead, like the Prof. But I could only give him the same message.
“Bye, Isaac. Thanks. My love. And good luck. If you need it where you’re going.”
As he stood staring after me, I turned and went home, without looking back, clutching my precious bag.
Neither Mum nor Dad was yet in from work. From the haven of my room I glanced out of both the windows. Behind, a faint half-moon was rising above Carreg Ddu. In front, the Evans family was climbing into its ancient Cortina and the removal van was rolling away past the scruffy flower beds of the square. I opened the red-bound Rubáiyát at random.
Yon rising moon that looks for us again —
How oft hereafter will she wax and wane;
How oft hereafter rising look for us
Through this same garden — and for one in vain!
Today I had said a last farewell to two friends. One was young Calvin, lovely in body but incompatible in mind. Well-meaning but self-interested and self-righteous, imprisoned by his holier-than-thou dogma, incapable of giving love outside its walls. The future bore that out: he never even sent his address, and memory soon grew dim.
The other friend, however decrepit in body, had been lovely in mind — I dared not say in soul. Wise old Omar, free-thinking and tolerant and generous in his love. No, it was not Calvin who would be missing from my garden. It was Omar himself, the Prof. To him I would have written, every day, could mail have reached him. His memory stayed green.
*
And now, against all hope, he is more than mere memory. He is back again beside me, in the flesh.
He had foretold that I would find a new love, a love better than Isaac, a love easily recognised. For sixteen forlorn and lonely years I searched, and failed, and almost despaired. Only now, in this year of grace 2018, has his prophecy been fulfilled. I have found that better love, out of the blue, in a form beyond all expectation.
He did prove easy to recognise. Small of build, black of hair, eyebrows already heavy, eyes holding that unmistakable twinkle of penetrating amusement. Inquisitive and intelligent, lovable and loving. We matched. And now at last, as was promised over the Prof’s grave, we have our perfect consummation and bliss, both in body and soul.
In soul as well as body? Yes, in both. He is the spitting image of the Prof at fifteen. His name is also William, Wil the second, now united — reunited — to Tom the second. He was conceived — he asked his parents, and they could pin it down — on the 9th of August 2002, the very day the first Wil died. Just as I was conceived the very day the first Tom died.
Coincidence? Once, possibly. Twice, unimaginable.
There is only one alternative. Time was when I would have laughed to scorn the idea of reincarnation — how could it be possible, since we do not have souls?
But that premise is wrong. I know it, now. But I did not know it until the moment I recognised Wil the second, and in that moment understood how love can lie beyond the tomb.
The Prof, I now see, had known it long years before, from the moment he set eyes on Tom the second and uttered his cryptic greeting.
“Clouds of glory!” he had cried.
*
Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting:
The soul that rises with us, our life’s star,
Hath had elsewhere its setting,
And cometh from afar.
Not in entire forgetfulness,
And not in utter nakedness,
But trailing clouds of glory do we come
From God, who is our home.]]> <![CDATA[Drumming]]> https://funtailix.com/portal/showthread.php?tid=2356 Tue, 15 Jul 2025 18:26:52 +0000 WMASG]]> https://funtailix.com/portal/showthread.php?tid=2356 This is the second story in a series I hope to write about life on an island group in the south of the Caribbean, about 100km off the South American coast. I first wrote about this Island in The Storm Spirits. There are a couple more stories yet to come.
“Gottvordomman,” Kass screamed, grabbing his jungentassa, the palm frond beach bag that all island boys carried, as he left the house, slamming the door behind him so hard that the glass in one of the panes cracked, joining the other cracked panes. Not that it was Kass’s fault that the other panes had cracked, though now he could understand his brother and his similar exit from the house two or was it three years ago. He hoped that God did damn them or at least that interfering preacher.
He had calmed down a bit by time he reached the gate that led to the road. Not much, but a bit. At least he did not slam the gate, which was probably a good job, the old hinges would probably not take that sort of treatment. But he was still angry and needed to work off some of the emotion that he was feeling, so he started to jog down the steep road that ran down the side of his mother’s property, then turned left to follow its frontage. As he made the turn to follow the road down the hill to the town and the beach beyond he heard his sister calling him. For a moment he stopped and looked up to his left, at the house perched on the steep hillside. Mara, his sister stood on the balcony, she had clearly been waiting for him to make the turn, telling him to come back, at least for the night, this was not a night to be out, that they could sort everything out in the morning.
Kass found it amusing. For all that his mother and sister had accepted the teaching of the mission church and rejected the traditions of the island, they still believed that tonight the spirits could take your body. They may say that Vadan and its teachings was the work of the Devil, but they did not deny its power. Neither, if he was honest with himself, did Kass, for he was a child of the Island. He knew the tales of the Storm Spirits and those of Tatanana, the goddess who was the volcano. Tonight though was the night of the Baron, he who would call those spirits of the dead who had not passed beyond to join him and party with the living. It was certainly not a night to be out. Anybody with any sense would be safely ensconced behind doors, with a candle burning to Tatanana.
Of course those who were somewhat more adventurous might choose different options. Many would gather together, believing in safety in numbers, to party the night away, hoping that the only spirits they came in contact with were those in a bottle. Then there were those who were not spoken of, who left the safety of their homes and climbed the jungled slopes of the volcano to hidden clearings where, well nobody quite knew what, was rumoured to take place.
He reached the main road and stood for a moment. Looking out towards the sea he could see that the sun was just touching the horizon. There was no way he could make it down to Low Town and then to Williamstown before dark, he would be hard pushed to make it down to the beach. Only a stomerling, an idiot would try to cross the causeway between the Big Island and Home Island in the dark.
Inwardly he cursed himself for being so stupid, this had been building up for weeks now, why had he let it come to a head tonight, Dodenfeest, the Feast of the Dead. He could have walked out any time in the last three weeks, he had made his mind up that he would during the first week of the month. Just after his mother had first brought Brother Schmit over to preach to him about the evil of the island boys’ ways. The good pastor had learnt some Creole words that day that he would not find in the dictionary – not that anyone had got round to writing a dictionary for the island's Creole. Today the preacher had learnt even more, telling him that he had a choice, either accept the church or leave home, well Kass had made his choice.
Rather than taking the road down towards the causeway Kass cut across it and started down a steep path that went down to the sea, a good four hundred metres below. It was a difficult descent and not one to be attempted at speed, but manageable with a bit of care and it was a path Kass knew well. It led down to a small, almost hidden, bay with its beach of black sand. Island boys would gather there during the summer days to swim in its warm waters, safe in the knowledge that the reef that almost blocked its entrance protected them from the more dangerous large inhabitants of the Carib Seas. It was also a popular place for the inshore fishermen, whose shallow drafted canoes could just top the reef at high tide, for it was well protected from the storms that at times hit this part of the world. Of course those fishermen, now in their twenties and thirties had once been island boys and enjoyed the same games that the island boys played in and around the waters of the bay.
Not that there would be any fishermen there now, the recent storms and the coming of the hurricane season had moved the fishing to the far side of the Big Island. Nor would there be any of the island boys, for school was back now and the trek from the centres of population to this bay was longer than most could allow on a school day. Also they would not want to be out on this night, not after the sun had set.
Of course, there would be some of the older boys, boys of his age, who Kass knew would sneak out of their homes after dark, climbing through bedroom windows and up into the jungled slopes of Tatanana. They would be listening for the sounds that would lead them to those special places, to those secret rites and rituals which the servants of the Baron this night performed.
Although Kass had never left the house after sunset before on the Dodenfeest, he had often sat with his window open listening, hoping to hear the sounds of the hidden rites. He had never heard anything, nor had anyone he knew. Some said that no one followed the old ways now and that the Baron had no followers. Kass was not sure he wanted to test that speculation. He knew the stories of those who had wondered onto the jungle sloops of Tatanana on the night of the Dodenfeest and been found the next morning wandering, mindless or worse, exhausted, along the beach. Those who told the old tales said that the spirits called by the Baron could take over a man’s body on this night, and use it to party all night doing unspeakable acts in the conduct of the Dodenfeest, the Feast of the Dead.
One thing Kass was certain was that he might be out of the house this night but he certainly did not mean to sleep outside without cover. There was a fisherman’s shelter down at the bay. Not much, but it was a roof to keep off the rain and walls to keep out the wind. So what if there was no glass in the windows, there were shutters that closed over them. Most importantly there was a hearth where he could set a fire. It was a place a fisherman could laze in the shade of the overhung roof above the porch and watch their fish drying in the afternoon sun. It was where Kass intended to pass the night.
The sun was nearly set as he emerged from the thick shrubbery that edged the black sands. Kass sprinted across them to the top end of the beach were the shelter stood. The door was on the catch. He pulled the string and then pushed it open. The inside of the shelter was dark, the shutters being up and closed. He stepped in, leaving the door open so he could use the last of the day’s light he crossed the bare room to the hearth.
Something moved, a shape within the darkness of the room and, taking on the form of a boy, dashed towards the door. Kass reached out and grabbed for it, catching a wrist and pulling the boy into the light from the door. “Lemme go!” It shouted, pulling its arm violently from Kass’s grasp before shooting out of the door, into the growing darkness beyond. Kass stood for a moment, more in surprise than anything, the image of the boy’s face filling his mind. He could not have been more than fifteen or sixteen at the most, he had the tanned skin of one of the English who lived on the island, sun bleached blond hair with grey-blue eyes that were full of terror. The boy was scared and this night was no place for a scared boy to be out on his own, especially not one of the English boys, they knew not the ways of the island.
Kass left the shelter and looked around but there was no sign of the boy. Then in the final light of the setting sun he glimpsed a track of footprints leading up the beach to the jungled slopes of Tatanana. For a moment he thought of going after him but it was no use, soon the vestiges of twilight would fade from the sky. Once dark there was no way Kass would find him in the jungle. Tonight was not a night to be out after dark.
As the twilight faded Kass made his way back to the shelter. In the feeble fading light that made its way in through the door Kass managed to find his jungentassa and extract his lighter. As always there was dry kindling by the hearth and a pile of driftwood for the burning. Kass placed some kindling in the hearth and applied flame to it, then placed some of the smaller pieces of wood on top. Once the flame had taken he piled on more wood, then went and shut the shelter door.
The flickering flames of the fire cast a red glow throughout the small shelter. The hearth had never been intended for light or heat, it was there for when the fishermen had wanted to cook fish or boil water for cha. Kass wished he had a candle with him. He was not sure that the fire would burn all night. It was, however, the only source of flame he had in the room so it would have to do.
Carefully he knelt down before the hearth and in the fine ash in front of the fire he started to draw a shape. As he drew the five lines of the sigil of protection he chanted an invocation to Tatanana, the goddess of the volcano, the Mother of Fire. The words he chanted were little more than a jumble of sounds, for they were the remains of a language long gone, which no academic had recorded or even noted its passing. Kass knew not what they meant, for their meaning was lost soon after the first Dutch merchantmen had been marooned on the Home Island’s coast. However, he knew their purpose and the protection they drew from the Mother of Fire.
Given that the outside temperature was in the mid-twenties, the fire, small though it be, quickly heated the shelter to a temperature which was above being pleasant. Kass found himself sweating profusely and wishing he could open the door or the window shutters. That, though, was not an option this night.
He pulled his shirt off over his head, then pushed down his shorts and stepped out of them, to stand naked in the glow of the fire. He picked up the garments from the floor and draped them over one of the lines strung under the roof of the shelter. He pulled a rough towel out of his jungentassa to wipe the perspiration from his body. He had the firm taut body of an island boy, seventeen years of island life had formed him. Seventeen years that had taken him from crawling on the black sands to swimming in the seas, climbing for coconuts and running the steep paths of the mountain slopes. It was a body the Phidias would have been glad to use for a model when carving the youth of Athens on the Parthenon.
Kass knew he had a good body. He had seen the way that the men and other boys looked at him and knew that they liked what they saw. More than one had approached him with offers of more than friendship but Kass had not yet taken a lover. Though by the ways of the island he was old not to have done so. Most island boys had taken a partner from amongst the older teens or even from the younger men by time they had turned sixteen. Amongst the people of the island such relationships were, if not approved of, generally tolerated, for it was known that if hormone raged young males satisfied their lust amongst themselves they did not pressure the girls to oblige.
He reached into his jungentassa and pulled out a length of cloth, wrapping it around himself like a sarong. Before he got to work he put a couple more pieces of driftwood on the fire, then he emptied out the contents of his jungentassa. Laying them out carefully on the ground, then from the bottom of the bag he pulled out a thick wad of stiff folded cloth. A boy's jungentassa was his survival tool. Each boy made their own, gathering the palm fronds from the tree to weave into a strong bag. In the old days the fact that a boy could climb the palm to cut the fronds for his jungentassa was a sign he was old enough to leave the women’s world and join the men moving into the men’s lodge and joining their societies.
The missionaries had brought an end to the men’s lodges, though some of the societies still existed, those societies the missionaries approved of. It was said that other societies also still existed and they met up the slopes, in places the missionaries never went. Though the men’s lodges were no more, many a couple of young bachelors would share a hut, sometimes even three or four of them, living and working together until some girl put out a mat for one of them.
Not that Kass looked for any girl to be putting out a mat for him. He knew what he was and what he wanted. Kass wanted a youth like himself. Though that was not as easy as it might sound.
Unfolding the cloth, Kass laid it out on the floor. It was just over two metres in length. Along the ends of the cloth there was a heavily stitched seam into which a number of large eyelet holes had been punched. Kass unknotted and removed one of the rope handles from his jungentassa then, once he had untwisted the doubled rope, threaded it through the holes. He repeated the process with the other handle at the other end of the cloth. He pulled the ropes at each end and tied them off into loops using good secure knots. Knot tying was something all island boys learnt early on. Insecure knots could end up being painful. Once that was done he looped the rope at one end of the cloth over a large hook in one of the roof support posts, then repeated the process with the loop at the other end. Now the cloth hung as a hammock between the two support posts. One thing island boys learnt early on was never sleep on the ground. Not that there was anything particularly dangerous on the island but things like land crabs tended to come out at night and could give you a nasty nip.
Even if you were just lazing a couple of hours away in the afternoon listening to the surf, being off the ground was a good idea. Every island boy who had made his jungentassa had in it something he could use to form a hammock; he would often need it. Either to sleep in, safe above the ground, or spread out above them providing shade from the tropical sun.
Kass looked at the fire and estimated it would burn for a good couple of hours, so he set the alarm on his wristwatch for two hours, then heaved himself into the hammock. The heat in the shelter combined with the relief from the stress he had been under most of the day, caught up with him. The moment he lay back in the hammock he found himself feeling drowsy, watching the flickering shapes on the roof of the shelter from the firelight soon sent him to sleep.
Two hours later his watched bleeped the alarm for him to feed the fire. In the depth of his sleep Kass rolled within his hammock, half woke, and cancelled the alarm, before drifting back to sleep. The fire went out.
Kass opened his eyes, the moonlight reflected off the sea and in through the open door of the shelter. The drumm, da, da, drumm of a distant beat filled his head. He swung out of his hammock, his sarong falling to the floor as he did, and stepped towards the door. To close it? He did not know. Why was it open? Kass knew he had closed it and tied it shut. Kass knew it but it was open and before it a silver path shone across the black sands. Kass stepped through the door, he knew he shouldn’t but he had no choice, the drums demanded it.
Step by step the drums pulled him across the beach and into the jungle, they pulled him to a path he did not know, which led upwards through the thick vegetation of the mountain slopes. Though narrow the path was clearly well used, which puzzled Kass. He had roamed these slopes for years and had never come across the path. He could not work out why. There was not an inch of the west side of Tatanana that Kass would have said he did not know but now he found himself walking up a path that he did not know to a place he did not know.
The drumming got louder as the vegetation started to thin out. As it did Kass got the impression of others moving through the brush. Each seemed to be following their own path to wherever it was they were going. Kass was puzzled, this just did not make sense, there could not be that many paths leading up the slopes of Tatanana which he did not know about.
He wanted to turn, to run away, to be anywhere except where he was, but there was something, something he did not understand, that kept drawing him onwards, up the slope to the source of the drumming. As he moved through the vegetation he started to see figures and shapes ahead of him and the flickering of firelight. Hands reached out for him, pulling him forward, drawing him towards the flames and the sound of the drums.
Bodies pressed against him, pushing him forwards. As they did hands caressed him rubbing his body with thick greasy cream that seemed to soak into his very pores bringing his skin to life with sensations he had never known. He was no longer on the path but in a wide open area below high cliffs, that was filled with people, all of whom were swaying and stomping to the sound of the drums that came from the direction of the fire. There were no individuals here, just a mass of naked people, moving as a mass. Body against body, hands seeking and finding, touching and feeling, exploring and knowing.
Confusion and elation filled Kass. He had never experienced anything like this. Part of him was filled with terror, the other filled with excitement, as the bodies of the men and boys that surrounded him pushed in on him. He had not looked but somehow he knew that in this mass there were only males – males like himself.
A hand came up across his chest, pushing him on the shoulder, forcing him to turn. The face before him was that of a boy from his class at school. Their oiled bodies came together, pressed into each other by the press of bodies around them. Their eyes met, each acknowledging the lust that was rampant in the other, lips touched and hands took hold, then the press of bodies around them forced them apart as the stomping mass moved onwards in a circular motion around an unseen centre.
Suddenly the drumming stopped, the whole mass of bodies turned inward to look into the circle. Kass found himself looking in from behind a single line of bodies, more bodies pressed up against him from the behind. Suddenly he realised where he must be. Behind the level area around which they had been dancing soared steep cliffs. This must, Kass deduced, be the north side of the island. But there was no way he could have made it here from the beach where he had been but here he was.
Four flaming torches, set on high poles, cast their light into the cleared circle that the dancers surrounded. In the middle of it two men obscenely rubbed their hands and pressed their cocks against the body of a younger male who squirmed around, apparently sitting on the top of a flat topped rock in the centre of the circle. Each man in turn would step up onto the rock and place his penis against the youth’s face, grinding it into the face until the boy took it into his mouth. As he watched Kass experienced a shock of recognition, the boy on the rock was a senior from his school, only a few months older than Kass. What surprised Kass was that this was a island boy who had despised and rejected the ways of the island boys, yet here he was in the midst of an homoerotic orgy.
A single drum started with a low rumbling sound with no distinct beat but a constant swelling and diminishing of volume. The bodies around Kass started to sway to some rhythm that was not heard, just sensed. Kass felt a body press hard up against his back, a hand reaching round and taking hold of his manhood. His own hands reached out to touch and feel the bodies around him, finding and holding hard cock as he and those around him watched the scene at what Kass knew was an altar in the centre of the circle.
A deep groan escaped the lips of the youth as his body spasmed. His engorged penis throbbed visibly and shot forth his seed. Then with a long moan the boy collapsed, only prevented from falling by the two men on each side. They took hold of his body each placing a hand under his armpit and lifted him up. As his body was raised from the squatting position it was in, Kass observed that there was a stone phallus set on the rock, upon which the youth had been impaled.
As the two men half carried and half dragged the youth from the rock altar a gale of laughter erupted from beyond the circle. The far side of the circle opened to allow a passageway into the centre and the drumming resumed, this time to a separate beat. A beat to which those around the circle swayed and jolted, the press of their bodies not allowing the wild dancing that this rhythm demanded.
The laughter erupted once more from the darkness beyond the circle and then a laughing figure leaped through the open passageway into the circle of light, spinning and leaping madly to the beat of the drumming. Dressed only in a tail coat and top hat with a skull topped stick the white faced apparition leapt upon the altar. The drums stopped. There was total silence for a moment. Slowly the figure turned casting its glare around the circle of bodies, each member of which felt that it was looking directly at him and seeing into his soul. At that point Kass knew that this was the Baron, the Lord of the Dead.
The Baron reached down with his free hand and took hold of his member, stroking it in long languid strokes. Once more the drums started, Kass felt the bodies round him press in tighter in expectation. Turning the Baron raised his stick and pointed at the opening in the circle, then motioned for something to be brought in. Soon two men, their oiled naked bodies gleaming in the flickering light, appeared in the gap dragging a smaller figure between them. As they stepped into the circle Kass saw that the figure between them was the English boy he had seen earlier in the shelter. Even with the drumming and the murmuring of the bodies pressed together around the circle, Kass could hear or more correctly sense, the whimpering of the boy.
The two men who had been with the youth on the altar before now reappeared. Both carried knives as they walked forward towards the small figure. As they approached the two holding the boy moved apart, holding him tightly by his wrists so that stretched out between them. The two knife wielders stepped up close to him, on slightly in front of him the other behind the boy. A look of terror filled the boy’s face, the Baron laughed. The knives slashed and hands pulled, cutting and ripping the clothing off the boy. For a moment he was held there naked as the knife wielders stepped away. Then they returned having replaced their knives with small bowls into which they dipped their hands before applying them to the boy’s body in the most intimate fashion, oiling it up and making it shine in the flickering light.
The Baron laughed, throwing his stick high into the air with his right hand, leaping off the altar, then catching it with his left as he stepped forward towards the English boy. He stepped in close, rubbing his penis against the boy’s body and reaching forward to tweak his nipple. Then, stepping aside, the Baron pointed at the altar and the stone phallus sitting upright upon it. The men stepped in taking hold of the boy by his arms and legs and started to carry him forward. An inarticulate cry of terror rose from the boy.
A horrified cry of “NO” sounded in the mass of bodies around circle. Kass wondered where it could have come from until he realised it was his cry as he pushed those in front of him to the side and ran forward across the circle. He got to the altar just before the men arrived with the struggling boy. In a bound he was standing atop the altar grabbing the stone phallus by its head and swinging it like a club that he aimed at the man on the left of the boy. The man released the boy, bringing his arms up to defend himself from the blow as he ducked beneath the arc of the phallic club. The boy fell to the ground, his weight pulling down the other man, who Kass kicked in the head as he leapt down from the altar.
Kass grabbed the boy’s arm dragging him to his feet, then pulling him by his feet commanded him: “Run”. The boy needed no encouragement. He ran with Kass, through the gap in the crowd round the circle, following a path that neither could see but which Kass just knew was there. As they ran they heard the laughter of the Baron behind them and a howl of anger from the crowd of bodies round the circle.
Kass did not stop to check where they were running, all he knew was that they had to run. Suddenly he realised where he was and where they must go. “Follow me,” he told the boy, leading him up the steep slope of Tatanana, leading him towards the lava fields. Behind them the drumming took on a different beat. Within him Kass knew that beat was the beat of the hunt.
Pain filled Kass’s legs and he found he was labouring to get his breath but still he ran. Glancing to his side he saw the boy was just behind him. It was clear to Kass from what he saw the boy could not go on much further, but then neither could Kass. In front of him the moonlight caught the distant sea. Kass stopped sharply, turning to catch and stop the English boy running behind him. The force of the boy’s impact almost knocked Kass over, but he was prepared for it, picking the boy up and swinging him round to dissipate the energy in his forward momentum. They came to a standstill facing each other, Kass’s arms around the English boy.
“Why have we stopped?” the boy asked.
“Because there was no more land”, Kass replied, indicating with his head the cliff edge a few feet ahead of them.
“Shit!”
“It would have been if we had gone over,” Kass replied, carefully sticking to English and not falling into Creole. They could hear the drums drumming in the distance. In the light of the moon Kass saw the look of terror on the boy’s face. “Follow me but be careful, there is a nasty drop if you make a mistake.” He led the way along the edge of the cliff trying to find the fissure he knew was there. At the same time he puzzled as to how he came to be there as they were on the west side of the island, well away from where the rites had been and Kass was sure he had not been running that long or run that far. In fact Kass was certain that there was no way he could have run that far, he was not that good a runner. A short sprint he could manage but this was more like ten kilometres over rough ground, a lot of it in jungle. Then it hit Kass, he could not remember running through jungle but to have got here he must have done, unless they had run over the crater of Tatanana. Just as he was thinking that, he got to the fissure in the rock. It was about two metres wide and went inland from the cliff face a good thirty or forty metres. In the dark it looked deep but Kass knew it was only about three metres to the bottom and that would give access to a ledge along the cliff face. Carefully he lowered himself down into the fissure, making sure of his foothold in the rock face before helping the English boy to climb down.
“We have to get to the bottom,” he told the boy, “from there we can get to a ledge on the cliff face and then to a place where we will be safe.” In the moonlight he could just make out the boy nodding. He seemed scared to speak, letting himself be led down in to the dark of the fissure. As fast as he could Kass climbed down, guiding the boy each step of the way. Soon they were at the bottom and Kass led the way along the fissure to the cliff face, then out onto the ledge that ran along the cliff face, sloping down to the sea. They had to edge along the ledge with their backs to the cliff along the promontory, which then curved back on them, taking them around the headland, into the bay where Kass had gone for shelter.
Just after they had edged round the promontory an opening appeared in the cliff face. Kass guided the boy into it, taking him deep into what appeared to be a cave. A shaft of moonlight from the setting moon shone? into the space giving just about enough light for them to make each other out. “We should safe here,” Kass commented.
“Where are we?” the boy asked.
“In a lava pipe,” Kass answered, “I found this place years ago when I was exploring; don’t think anyone else knows about it.”
“I hope not,” the boy responded. Kass realised he did not know the boy’s name.
“So, I’m Kass,” he extended his hand, the boy shook it.
“I’m Luke,” he responded, suddenly giggling.
“What’s so funny?”
“We are Kass. We’re standing here stark naked with raging hardons politely shaking hands.” Kass looked down, he had been aware of his own state of arousal, it had started when he had held Luke whilst helping him down the fissure. He had not noticed Luke’s state, now that he looked it was quite evident.
“Look Luke, I don’t know how long it is going to be till dawn but we might at least try to get comfortable. I’ll only be a moment, just stay here and don’t move.” Kass moved off into the darkness of the pipe. There was a scuffling noise and a bit later Kass came back into the moonlight carrying a rolled up palm mat. “I used to come here a lot, to get away from things and be by myself, brought a few home comforts from time to time.” He rolled out the mat, rolled inside it were a couple of blankets. Kass sat down on them. “You might as well join me, you can’t stand till dawn and the lava is a bit uncomfortable to sit on.”
Luke sat down next to Kass and looked at him. “Why’re doing this?” he asked. “You were with them weren’t you?”
“Not really,” Kass replied, “yes I was there but I was not with them. It’s hard to explain.”
“Try it,” Luke instructed. Kass explained about being woken by the drumming and finding the door to the shelter open and being drawn by the sound of the drums. He explained about being captured by the dance and the sensuality of the bodies all around him, of being part of it but at the same time not quite being there and how all of a sudden he had broken free of the spell to come to Luke’s aid.
“I’m bloody glad you did, you know what they were going to do with me?”
“Yes,” Kass confirmed, “but how did you get there, you were down by the beach on the west of the island?”
“I don’t know,” Luke responded. “I was hiding in the hut on the beach when you came in and found me. That scared me, I thought you would take me back to dad, that dad had sent you to find me. I saw you speaking to him this afternoon.”
“You saw me speaking to your father?”
“Yes Luke, you were on the veranda of the big house at the top of the hill above High Town, my father was talking to you.”
“The only person I spoke to today was Brother Schmit or rather I listened to him lecture me for two hours.”
“Yes, that’s my father, he’s pastor at the mission church in High Town.”
“So Luke you ran off into the jungle then what?”
“It got dark and I got tired, I crept back to the hut hoping that maybe you had left but I could see through the cracks in the shutter that you were still there. I did not know what to do, I did not think it would be safe to sleep in the jungle and had been told not to sleep on the beach at night because of the crabs. So I lay down on the porch, I hoped I would wake before you in the morning so I could hide.
“Next thing I find myself being dragged by two men through the jungle and into that place. They were both laughing and saying how much the Baron would enjoy me. I didn’t know what they were going to do until I saw that thing on the stone.”
“It was big, wasn’t it?” Kass commented.
“Fucking massive, it would have split me in two.”
“You’ve never been fucked? No you’re English, you wouldn’t have been,” Kass responded.
“I’m American, not English.”
“Sorry Luke, anybody who is not an islander is English to the islanders, it just means foreign, even the big blacks who come down from Jamaica are English to us. So why were you out on the beach and sleeping out this night?”
“I had to get away, they were going to send me back to the States to one of those places.”
“What places?” Kass asked.
“Where they make you straight.”
“So you’re gay?”
“Yes,” Luke replied sharply, almost with a sob in his voice, “I’m the fucking faggot son of the pastor. Big laugh isn’t it. I want to have sex with men but was terrified of having that thing forced up my arse.” He began to shake. Kass reached out and pulled him against his body, cuddling him, giving him what comfort he could. Luke started to cry, first gentle sobs, then they got lounder until they were racking his body.
Kass held him as he cried. Gently stroking his back, drawing the boy to himself, making him understand that he was there for him. After a while the sobs died down. “Feeling better now?”
“Yes, but I’m still scared. What if those men find us? What am I going to do, I can’t go home but I’ve got nowhere else to go.”
“I know the problem,” Kass replied, “I’m in the same situation, I can’t go home either. My mother got your father over today to tell me that I had to give up my island ways and become a good member of the church or leave the house. I left.”
“So,” Luke commented, “we’re both in a mess.”
“Yes but at least we are together,” Kass replied, suddenly realising the import of those words. They were together, lying naked on the mat in the darkness of the lava pipe. It just felt so natural, as if it was meant to be.
“For now. What happens in the morning? They’ll be looking for us.”
“Those men won’t be, the Baron’s realm dies with sunrise, then Tatanana rules.”
“Who’s the Baron and how does Tatanana rule? I thought it was the volcano.”
“Luke, Tatanana is the name of the volcano but the volcano is named after the goddess who lives in it and she rules and protects the island. The Baron is the Lord of the Dead, this night is the Dodenfeest, the Feast of the Dead, and from sunset to sunrise it is the realm of the Baron. Those spirits that have not passed beyond the gates come back this night to be amongst the living and enjoy the pleasures of life.
“It is said that the spirits can take over the bodies of the living and enjoy pleasure through them this night. I think that is what happened to me.”
Luke looked up into Kass’s face, which the last vestiges of the setting moon lighted. “You’re free of the spirits now?”
“Yes, when you cried out something snapped and I knew I had to save you, that you were special.”
“You think I’m special?”
“Yes Luke. There was something about you when I saw you in the shelter. I wanted you to stay, I ran out after you, looking for you,” Kass replied.
“Nobody has ever wanted me. “
“Surely your parents did,” Kass commented.
“No, I was a mistake, an accident. I’m seventeen, my sister is thirty eight.”
“Seventeen, I thought …” Kass stated.
“You thought I was younger, everyone does, I’m small for my age. Anyway my mother thought she was past it when she got pregnant with me. I’m lucky they’re fundamentalist Christians, otherwise they would have had me aborted.” This shocked Kass, how could anybody not want Luke. He just knew that Luke was the most wonderful, most special person in the world. How he knew he had no idea, he just knew it.
“Luke I want you,” Kass stated. He caressed Luke’s hair drawing Luke to him. The boy reached up and placed his hand round the back of Kass’s neck pulling Kass down to him, their lips met. For what seemed like an eternity the two boys lay together, hands exploring each other’s bodies, mouths locked in what seemed like endless kissing. Slowly their bodies started to move in a common rhythm, each rubbing his engorged member against the body of the other. Their passion moved without haste to its own climax, both ejaculating together onto their bodies. As they slumped together in post coital bliss laughter emanated from the mouth of the pipe. Kass looked up and saw standing there, silhouetted against the light of the pre-dawn sky, the Baron, raising his stick, almost as if in salute. Kass rolled over onto Luke to protect him and fell out of the hammock.
He scrambled to his feet, shaking the sleep out of his head. What the hell had happened he wondered? Looking round he saw the door was still closed and the fastening rope still tied, a hint of daylight showing through the cracks. Kass made his way over to it, undid the rope and opened the door, stepping out onto the porch, only to trip over a sleeping prostrate form. He fell headfirst into the sand beyond the narrow porch.
“Kass?” a timid voice asked. Kass pushed himself up into a seating position and turned to face the shelter. There was Luke lying on the porch, clearly knocked awake by the impact of Kass tripping over him.
“Luke?”
“You know me, it wasn’t a dream.”
“Well,” Kass asked, “if it was a dream where are your clothes?”
Luke glanced down at himself and realised he was naked, then instinctively moved his hands to cover himself. Kass laughed, stood up and walked over to sit on the porch next to Luke. “It is a bit late for that I think, for if it was a dream how to you explain that?” He pointed to a love bite on Luke’s shoulder.
“Or that?” Luke laughed, pointing to a similar mark on Kass’s neck. “Kass, what’s happened? If it wasn’t a dream how come we're here?”
“I don’t know, but I think I know who can tell us. First though we need to get into some clothes.”
“I don’t know where mine are.” commented Luke.
“Probably somewhere up on the far side of the mountain,” Kass responded. “Don’t worry I have a solution.”
Two hours later the two boys were seated at the bar of Mama Betty’s Beach Café, Kass in his shirt and shorts, Luke in Kass’s sarong. The big woman was busy loading their plates with pancakes and stroop, the thick sugar syrup loved by the island boys, even though they objected saying they had nothing with which to pay. As she did so the boys recounted their story of the night that had passed.
“Ah,” Mama Betty commented, “I think you have been blessed by the Baron.”
“Blessed by the Baron,” Luke commented, “I thought he was the Lord of the Dead.”
“Lord of the Dead is but one of his aspects, but he is also Master of Debauchery and the Granter of Pleasure. More importantly he is the Giver of Life and I think he has given you two boys a life together.”
Just then a police car pulled up on the road outside. Corporal Van Hagen got out and walked across to the Café. Kass felt Luke tense up beside him and reached down and took hold of Luke’s hand.
“Godmornin Mama Bet,” the corporal said, nodding to the two boys at the bar.
“Godmornin corporal and what brings youw over from Home Island this time in the morning.”
“That English pastor up at High Town, he callin in telling 'is son gone missing; run away and we must find him.”
“An’ what dat to do with me?” Mama Betty asked.
“I thought youw may ‘ave seen ‘im.”
“An’ what youw be dinkin den, even a stomerling knows no English come by Low Town. Anyby from what I hear if the boy ‘as run from the mission it be good for ‘im.”
The corporal thought for a moment and nodded. “And there youw is’t right Mama Betty.” With that he turned, walked back to the car, got in it and drove off.
Luke sighed and almost collapsed into Kass, who quickly reached around him to support the boy. “He was looking straight at me, it was as if he did not see me.”
“Oh, he saw you Luke, but he was looking for an English boy and nu youw is en island jungen and de island it ken its own.” Luke looked at Kass puzzled.
“She said Luke that now you are an island boy, and the island looks after its own. You know you are going to have to learn the island Creole. ” Luke smiled, leaned over and kissed Kass.
“Wel,” Mama Betty said, “dat is a good start.”]]> This is the second story in a series I hope to write about life on an island group in the south of the Caribbean, about 100km off the South American coast. I first wrote about this Island in The Storm Spirits. There are a couple more stories yet to come.
“Gottvordomman,” Kass screamed, grabbing his jungentassa, the palm frond beach bag that all island boys carried, as he left the house, slamming the door behind him so hard that the glass in one of the panes cracked, joining the other cracked panes. Not that it was Kass’s fault that the other panes had cracked, though now he could understand his brother and his similar exit from the house two or was it three years ago. He hoped that God did damn them or at least that interfering preacher.
He had calmed down a bit by time he reached the gate that led to the road. Not much, but a bit. At least he did not slam the gate, which was probably a good job, the old hinges would probably not take that sort of treatment. But he was still angry and needed to work off some of the emotion that he was feeling, so he started to jog down the steep road that ran down the side of his mother’s property, then turned left to follow its frontage. As he made the turn to follow the road down the hill to the town and the beach beyond he heard his sister calling him. For a moment he stopped and looked up to his left, at the house perched on the steep hillside. Mara, his sister stood on the balcony, she had clearly been waiting for him to make the turn, telling him to come back, at least for the night, this was not a night to be out, that they could sort everything out in the morning.
Kass found it amusing. For all that his mother and sister had accepted the teaching of the mission church and rejected the traditions of the island, they still believed that tonight the spirits could take your body. They may say that Vadan and its teachings was the work of the Devil, but they did not deny its power. Neither, if he was honest with himself, did Kass, for he was a child of the Island. He knew the tales of the Storm Spirits and those of Tatanana, the goddess who was the volcano. Tonight though was the night of the Baron, he who would call those spirits of the dead who had not passed beyond to join him and party with the living. It was certainly not a night to be out. Anybody with any sense would be safely ensconced behind doors, with a candle burning to Tatanana.
Of course those who were somewhat more adventurous might choose different options. Many would gather together, believing in safety in numbers, to party the night away, hoping that the only spirits they came in contact with were those in a bottle. Then there were those who were not spoken of, who left the safety of their homes and climbed the jungled slopes of the volcano to hidden clearings where, well nobody quite knew what, was rumoured to take place.
He reached the main road and stood for a moment. Looking out towards the sea he could see that the sun was just touching the horizon. There was no way he could make it down to Low Town and then to Williamstown before dark, he would be hard pushed to make it down to the beach. Only a stomerling, an idiot would try to cross the causeway between the Big Island and Home Island in the dark.
Inwardly he cursed himself for being so stupid, this had been building up for weeks now, why had he let it come to a head tonight, Dodenfeest, the Feast of the Dead. He could have walked out any time in the last three weeks, he had made his mind up that he would during the first week of the month. Just after his mother had first brought Brother Schmit over to preach to him about the evil of the island boys’ ways. The good pastor had learnt some Creole words that day that he would not find in the dictionary – not that anyone had got round to writing a dictionary for the island's Creole. Today the preacher had learnt even more, telling him that he had a choice, either accept the church or leave home, well Kass had made his choice.
Rather than taking the road down towards the causeway Kass cut across it and started down a steep path that went down to the sea, a good four hundred metres below. It was a difficult descent and not one to be attempted at speed, but manageable with a bit of care and it was a path Kass knew well. It led down to a small, almost hidden, bay with its beach of black sand. Island boys would gather there during the summer days to swim in its warm waters, safe in the knowledge that the reef that almost blocked its entrance protected them from the more dangerous large inhabitants of the Carib Seas. It was also a popular place for the inshore fishermen, whose shallow drafted canoes could just top the reef at high tide, for it was well protected from the storms that at times hit this part of the world. Of course those fishermen, now in their twenties and thirties had once been island boys and enjoyed the same games that the island boys played in and around the waters of the bay.
Not that there would be any fishermen there now, the recent storms and the coming of the hurricane season had moved the fishing to the far side of the Big Island. Nor would there be any of the island boys, for school was back now and the trek from the centres of population to this bay was longer than most could allow on a school day. Also they would not want to be out on this night, not after the sun had set.
Of course, there would be some of the older boys, boys of his age, who Kass knew would sneak out of their homes after dark, climbing through bedroom windows and up into the jungled slopes of Tatanana. They would be listening for the sounds that would lead them to those special places, to those secret rites and rituals which the servants of the Baron this night performed.
Although Kass had never left the house after sunset before on the Dodenfeest, he had often sat with his window open listening, hoping to hear the sounds of the hidden rites. He had never heard anything, nor had anyone he knew. Some said that no one followed the old ways now and that the Baron had no followers. Kass was not sure he wanted to test that speculation. He knew the stories of those who had wondered onto the jungle sloops of Tatanana on the night of the Dodenfeest and been found the next morning wandering, mindless or worse, exhausted, along the beach. Those who told the old tales said that the spirits called by the Baron could take over a man’s body on this night, and use it to party all night doing unspeakable acts in the conduct of the Dodenfeest, the Feast of the Dead.
One thing Kass was certain was that he might be out of the house this night but he certainly did not mean to sleep outside without cover. There was a fisherman’s shelter down at the bay. Not much, but it was a roof to keep off the rain and walls to keep out the wind. So what if there was no glass in the windows, there were shutters that closed over them. Most importantly there was a hearth where he could set a fire. It was a place a fisherman could laze in the shade of the overhung roof above the porch and watch their fish drying in the afternoon sun. It was where Kass intended to pass the night.
The sun was nearly set as he emerged from the thick shrubbery that edged the black sands. Kass sprinted across them to the top end of the beach were the shelter stood. The door was on the catch. He pulled the string and then pushed it open. The inside of the shelter was dark, the shutters being up and closed. He stepped in, leaving the door open so he could use the last of the day’s light he crossed the bare room to the hearth.
Something moved, a shape within the darkness of the room and, taking on the form of a boy, dashed towards the door. Kass reached out and grabbed for it, catching a wrist and pulling the boy into the light from the door. “Lemme go!” It shouted, pulling its arm violently from Kass’s grasp before shooting out of the door, into the growing darkness beyond. Kass stood for a moment, more in surprise than anything, the image of the boy’s face filling his mind. He could not have been more than fifteen or sixteen at the most, he had the tanned skin of one of the English who lived on the island, sun bleached blond hair with grey-blue eyes that were full of terror. The boy was scared and this night was no place for a scared boy to be out on his own, especially not one of the English boys, they knew not the ways of the island.
Kass left the shelter and looked around but there was no sign of the boy. Then in the final light of the setting sun he glimpsed a track of footprints leading up the beach to the jungled slopes of Tatanana. For a moment he thought of going after him but it was no use, soon the vestiges of twilight would fade from the sky. Once dark there was no way Kass would find him in the jungle. Tonight was not a night to be out after dark.
As the twilight faded Kass made his way back to the shelter. In the feeble fading light that made its way in through the door Kass managed to find his jungentassa and extract his lighter. As always there was dry kindling by the hearth and a pile of driftwood for the burning. Kass placed some kindling in the hearth and applied flame to it, then placed some of the smaller pieces of wood on top. Once the flame had taken he piled on more wood, then went and shut the shelter door.
The flickering flames of the fire cast a red glow throughout the small shelter. The hearth had never been intended for light or heat, it was there for when the fishermen had wanted to cook fish or boil water for cha. Kass wished he had a candle with him. He was not sure that the fire would burn all night. It was, however, the only source of flame he had in the room so it would have to do.
Carefully he knelt down before the hearth and in the fine ash in front of the fire he started to draw a shape. As he drew the five lines of the sigil of protection he chanted an invocation to Tatanana, the goddess of the volcano, the Mother of Fire. The words he chanted were little more than a jumble of sounds, for they were the remains of a language long gone, which no academic had recorded or even noted its passing. Kass knew not what they meant, for their meaning was lost soon after the first Dutch merchantmen had been marooned on the Home Island’s coast. However, he knew their purpose and the protection they drew from the Mother of Fire.
Given that the outside temperature was in the mid-twenties, the fire, small though it be, quickly heated the shelter to a temperature which was above being pleasant. Kass found himself sweating profusely and wishing he could open the door or the window shutters. That, though, was not an option this night.
He pulled his shirt off over his head, then pushed down his shorts and stepped out of them, to stand naked in the glow of the fire. He picked up the garments from the floor and draped them over one of the lines strung under the roof of the shelter. He pulled a rough towel out of his jungentassa to wipe the perspiration from his body. He had the firm taut body of an island boy, seventeen years of island life had formed him. Seventeen years that had taken him from crawling on the black sands to swimming in the seas, climbing for coconuts and running the steep paths of the mountain slopes. It was a body the Phidias would have been glad to use for a model when carving the youth of Athens on the Parthenon.
Kass knew he had a good body. He had seen the way that the men and other boys looked at him and knew that they liked what they saw. More than one had approached him with offers of more than friendship but Kass had not yet taken a lover. Though by the ways of the island he was old not to have done so. Most island boys had taken a partner from amongst the older teens or even from the younger men by time they had turned sixteen. Amongst the people of the island such relationships were, if not approved of, generally tolerated, for it was known that if hormone raged young males satisfied their lust amongst themselves they did not pressure the girls to oblige.
He reached into his jungentassa and pulled out a length of cloth, wrapping it around himself like a sarong. Before he got to work he put a couple more pieces of driftwood on the fire, then he emptied out the contents of his jungentassa. Laying them out carefully on the ground, then from the bottom of the bag he pulled out a thick wad of stiff folded cloth. A boy's jungentassa was his survival tool. Each boy made their own, gathering the palm fronds from the tree to weave into a strong bag. In the old days the fact that a boy could climb the palm to cut the fronds for his jungentassa was a sign he was old enough to leave the women’s world and join the men moving into the men’s lodge and joining their societies.
The missionaries had brought an end to the men’s lodges, though some of the societies still existed, those societies the missionaries approved of. It was said that other societies also still existed and they met up the slopes, in places the missionaries never went. Though the men’s lodges were no more, many a couple of young bachelors would share a hut, sometimes even three or four of them, living and working together until some girl put out a mat for one of them.
Not that Kass looked for any girl to be putting out a mat for him. He knew what he was and what he wanted. Kass wanted a youth like himself. Though that was not as easy as it might sound.
Unfolding the cloth, Kass laid it out on the floor. It was just over two metres in length. Along the ends of the cloth there was a heavily stitched seam into which a number of large eyelet holes had been punched. Kass unknotted and removed one of the rope handles from his jungentassa then, once he had untwisted the doubled rope, threaded it through the holes. He repeated the process with the other handle at the other end of the cloth. He pulled the ropes at each end and tied them off into loops using good secure knots. Knot tying was something all island boys learnt early on. Insecure knots could end up being painful. Once that was done he looped the rope at one end of the cloth over a large hook in one of the roof support posts, then repeated the process with the loop at the other end. Now the cloth hung as a hammock between the two support posts. One thing island boys learnt early on was never sleep on the ground. Not that there was anything particularly dangerous on the island but things like land crabs tended to come out at night and could give you a nasty nip.
Even if you were just lazing a couple of hours away in the afternoon listening to the surf, being off the ground was a good idea. Every island boy who had made his jungentassa had in it something he could use to form a hammock; he would often need it. Either to sleep in, safe above the ground, or spread out above them providing shade from the tropical sun.
Kass looked at the fire and estimated it would burn for a good couple of hours, so he set the alarm on his wristwatch for two hours, then heaved himself into the hammock. The heat in the shelter combined with the relief from the stress he had been under most of the day, caught up with him. The moment he lay back in the hammock he found himself feeling drowsy, watching the flickering shapes on the roof of the shelter from the firelight soon sent him to sleep.
Two hours later his watched bleeped the alarm for him to feed the fire. In the depth of his sleep Kass rolled within his hammock, half woke, and cancelled the alarm, before drifting back to sleep. The fire went out.
Kass opened his eyes, the moonlight reflected off the sea and in through the open door of the shelter. The drumm, da, da, drumm of a distant beat filled his head. He swung out of his hammock, his sarong falling to the floor as he did, and stepped towards the door. To close it? He did not know. Why was it open? Kass knew he had closed it and tied it shut. Kass knew it but it was open and before it a silver path shone across the black sands. Kass stepped through the door, he knew he shouldn’t but he had no choice, the drums demanded it.
Step by step the drums pulled him across the beach and into the jungle, they pulled him to a path he did not know, which led upwards through the thick vegetation of the mountain slopes. Though narrow the path was clearly well used, which puzzled Kass. He had roamed these slopes for years and had never come across the path. He could not work out why. There was not an inch of the west side of Tatanana that Kass would have said he did not know but now he found himself walking up a path that he did not know to a place he did not know.
The drumming got louder as the vegetation started to thin out. As it did Kass got the impression of others moving through the brush. Each seemed to be following their own path to wherever it was they were going. Kass was puzzled, this just did not make sense, there could not be that many paths leading up the slopes of Tatanana which he did not know about.
He wanted to turn, to run away, to be anywhere except where he was, but there was something, something he did not understand, that kept drawing him onwards, up the slope to the source of the drumming. As he moved through the vegetation he started to see figures and shapes ahead of him and the flickering of firelight. Hands reached out for him, pulling him forward, drawing him towards the flames and the sound of the drums.
Bodies pressed against him, pushing him forwards. As they did hands caressed him rubbing his body with thick greasy cream that seemed to soak into his very pores bringing his skin to life with sensations he had never known. He was no longer on the path but in a wide open area below high cliffs, that was filled with people, all of whom were swaying and stomping to the sound of the drums that came from the direction of the fire. There were no individuals here, just a mass of naked people, moving as a mass. Body against body, hands seeking and finding, touching and feeling, exploring and knowing.
Confusion and elation filled Kass. He had never experienced anything like this. Part of him was filled with terror, the other filled with excitement, as the bodies of the men and boys that surrounded him pushed in on him. He had not looked but somehow he knew that in this mass there were only males – males like himself.
A hand came up across his chest, pushing him on the shoulder, forcing him to turn. The face before him was that of a boy from his class at school. Their oiled bodies came together, pressed into each other by the press of bodies around them. Their eyes met, each acknowledging the lust that was rampant in the other, lips touched and hands took hold, then the press of bodies around them forced them apart as the stomping mass moved onwards in a circular motion around an unseen centre.
Suddenly the drumming stopped, the whole mass of bodies turned inward to look into the circle. Kass found himself looking in from behind a single line of bodies, more bodies pressed up against him from the behind. Suddenly he realised where he must be. Behind the level area around which they had been dancing soared steep cliffs. This must, Kass deduced, be the north side of the island. But there was no way he could have made it here from the beach where he had been but here he was.
Four flaming torches, set on high poles, cast their light into the cleared circle that the dancers surrounded. In the middle of it two men obscenely rubbed their hands and pressed their cocks against the body of a younger male who squirmed around, apparently sitting on the top of a flat topped rock in the centre of the circle. Each man in turn would step up onto the rock and place his penis against the youth’s face, grinding it into the face until the boy took it into his mouth. As he watched Kass experienced a shock of recognition, the boy on the rock was a senior from his school, only a few months older than Kass. What surprised Kass was that this was a island boy who had despised and rejected the ways of the island boys, yet here he was in the midst of an homoerotic orgy.
A single drum started with a low rumbling sound with no distinct beat but a constant swelling and diminishing of volume. The bodies around Kass started to sway to some rhythm that was not heard, just sensed. Kass felt a body press hard up against his back, a hand reaching round and taking hold of his manhood. His own hands reached out to touch and feel the bodies around him, finding and holding hard cock as he and those around him watched the scene at what Kass knew was an altar in the centre of the circle.
A deep groan escaped the lips of the youth as his body spasmed. His engorged penis throbbed visibly and shot forth his seed. Then with a long moan the boy collapsed, only prevented from falling by the two men on each side. They took hold of his body each placing a hand under his armpit and lifted him up. As his body was raised from the squatting position it was in, Kass observed that there was a stone phallus set on the rock, upon which the youth had been impaled.
As the two men half carried and half dragged the youth from the rock altar a gale of laughter erupted from beyond the circle. The far side of the circle opened to allow a passageway into the centre and the drumming resumed, this time to a separate beat. A beat to which those around the circle swayed and jolted, the press of their bodies not allowing the wild dancing that this rhythm demanded.
The laughter erupted once more from the darkness beyond the circle and then a laughing figure leaped through the open passageway into the circle of light, spinning and leaping madly to the beat of the drumming. Dressed only in a tail coat and top hat with a skull topped stick the white faced apparition leapt upon the altar. The drums stopped. There was total silence for a moment. Slowly the figure turned casting its glare around the circle of bodies, each member of which felt that it was looking directly at him and seeing into his soul. At that point Kass knew that this was the Baron, the Lord of the Dead.
The Baron reached down with his free hand and took hold of his member, stroking it in long languid strokes. Once more the drums started, Kass felt the bodies round him press in tighter in expectation. Turning the Baron raised his stick and pointed at the opening in the circle, then motioned for something to be brought in. Soon two men, their oiled naked bodies gleaming in the flickering light, appeared in the gap dragging a smaller figure between them. As they stepped into the circle Kass saw that the figure between them was the English boy he had seen earlier in the shelter. Even with the drumming and the murmuring of the bodies pressed together around the circle, Kass could hear or more correctly sense, the whimpering of the boy.
The two men who had been with the youth on the altar before now reappeared. Both carried knives as they walked forward towards the small figure. As they approached the two holding the boy moved apart, holding him tightly by his wrists so that stretched out between them. The two knife wielders stepped up close to him, on slightly in front of him the other behind the boy. A look of terror filled the boy’s face, the Baron laughed. The knives slashed and hands pulled, cutting and ripping the clothing off the boy. For a moment he was held there naked as the knife wielders stepped away. Then they returned having replaced their knives with small bowls into which they dipped their hands before applying them to the boy’s body in the most intimate fashion, oiling it up and making it shine in the flickering light.
The Baron laughed, throwing his stick high into the air with his right hand, leaping off the altar, then catching it with his left as he stepped forward towards the English boy. He stepped in close, rubbing his penis against the boy’s body and reaching forward to tweak his nipple. Then, stepping aside, the Baron pointed at the altar and the stone phallus sitting upright upon it. The men stepped in taking hold of the boy by his arms and legs and started to carry him forward. An inarticulate cry of terror rose from the boy.
A horrified cry of “NO” sounded in the mass of bodies around circle. Kass wondered where it could have come from until he realised it was his cry as he pushed those in front of him to the side and ran forward across the circle. He got to the altar just before the men arrived with the struggling boy. In a bound he was standing atop the altar grabbing the stone phallus by its head and swinging it like a club that he aimed at the man on the left of the boy. The man released the boy, bringing his arms up to defend himself from the blow as he ducked beneath the arc of the phallic club. The boy fell to the ground, his weight pulling down the other man, who Kass kicked in the head as he leapt down from the altar.
Kass grabbed the boy’s arm dragging him to his feet, then pulling him by his feet commanded him: “Run”. The boy needed no encouragement. He ran with Kass, through the gap in the crowd round the circle, following a path that neither could see but which Kass just knew was there. As they ran they heard the laughter of the Baron behind them and a howl of anger from the crowd of bodies round the circle.
Kass did not stop to check where they were running, all he knew was that they had to run. Suddenly he realised where he was and where they must go. “Follow me,” he told the boy, leading him up the steep slope of Tatanana, leading him towards the lava fields. Behind them the drumming took on a different beat. Within him Kass knew that beat was the beat of the hunt.
Pain filled Kass’s legs and he found he was labouring to get his breath but still he ran. Glancing to his side he saw the boy was just behind him. It was clear to Kass from what he saw the boy could not go on much further, but then neither could Kass. In front of him the moonlight caught the distant sea. Kass stopped sharply, turning to catch and stop the English boy running behind him. The force of the boy’s impact almost knocked Kass over, but he was prepared for it, picking the boy up and swinging him round to dissipate the energy in his forward momentum. They came to a standstill facing each other, Kass’s arms around the English boy.
“Why have we stopped?” the boy asked.
“Because there was no more land”, Kass replied, indicating with his head the cliff edge a few feet ahead of them.
“Shit!”
“It would have been if we had gone over,” Kass replied, carefully sticking to English and not falling into Creole. They could hear the drums drumming in the distance. In the light of the moon Kass saw the look of terror on the boy’s face. “Follow me but be careful, there is a nasty drop if you make a mistake.” He led the way along the edge of the cliff trying to find the fissure he knew was there. At the same time he puzzled as to how he came to be there as they were on the west side of the island, well away from where the rites had been and Kass was sure he had not been running that long or run that far. In fact Kass was certain that there was no way he could have run that far, he was not that good a runner. A short sprint he could manage but this was more like ten kilometres over rough ground, a lot of it in jungle. Then it hit Kass, he could not remember running through jungle but to have got here he must have done, unless they had run over the crater of Tatanana. Just as he was thinking that, he got to the fissure in the rock. It was about two metres wide and went inland from the cliff face a good thirty or forty metres. In the dark it looked deep but Kass knew it was only about three metres to the bottom and that would give access to a ledge along the cliff face. Carefully he lowered himself down into the fissure, making sure of his foothold in the rock face before helping the English boy to climb down.
“We have to get to the bottom,” he told the boy, “from there we can get to a ledge on the cliff face and then to a place where we will be safe.” In the moonlight he could just make out the boy nodding. He seemed scared to speak, letting himself be led down in to the dark of the fissure. As fast as he could Kass climbed down, guiding the boy each step of the way. Soon they were at the bottom and Kass led the way along the fissure to the cliff face, then out onto the ledge that ran along the cliff face, sloping down to the sea. They had to edge along the ledge with their backs to the cliff along the promontory, which then curved back on them, taking them around the headland, into the bay where Kass had gone for shelter.
Just after they had edged round the promontory an opening appeared in the cliff face. Kass guided the boy into it, taking him deep into what appeared to be a cave. A shaft of moonlight from the setting moon shone? into the space giving just about enough light for them to make each other out. “We should safe here,” Kass commented.
“Where are we?” the boy asked.
“In a lava pipe,” Kass answered, “I found this place years ago when I was exploring; don’t think anyone else knows about it.”
“I hope not,” the boy responded. Kass realised he did not know the boy’s name.
“So, I’m Kass,” he extended his hand, the boy shook it.
“I’m Luke,” he responded, suddenly giggling.
“What’s so funny?”
“We are Kass. We’re standing here stark naked with raging hardons politely shaking hands.” Kass looked down, he had been aware of his own state of arousal, it had started when he had held Luke whilst helping him down the fissure. He had not noticed Luke’s state, now that he looked it was quite evident.
“Look Luke, I don’t know how long it is going to be till dawn but we might at least try to get comfortable. I’ll only be a moment, just stay here and don’t move.” Kass moved off into the darkness of the pipe. There was a scuffling noise and a bit later Kass came back into the moonlight carrying a rolled up palm mat. “I used to come here a lot, to get away from things and be by myself, brought a few home comforts from time to time.” He rolled out the mat, rolled inside it were a couple of blankets. Kass sat down on them. “You might as well join me, you can’t stand till dawn and the lava is a bit uncomfortable to sit on.”
Luke sat down next to Kass and looked at him. “Why’re doing this?” he asked. “You were with them weren’t you?”
“Not really,” Kass replied, “yes I was there but I was not with them. It’s hard to explain.”
“Try it,” Luke instructed. Kass explained about being woken by the drumming and finding the door to the shelter open and being drawn by the sound of the drums. He explained about being captured by the dance and the sensuality of the bodies all around him, of being part of it but at the same time not quite being there and how all of a sudden he had broken free of the spell to come to Luke’s aid.
“I’m bloody glad you did, you know what they were going to do with me?”
“Yes,” Kass confirmed, “but how did you get there, you were down by the beach on the west of the island?”
“I don’t know,” Luke responded. “I was hiding in the hut on the beach when you came in and found me. That scared me, I thought you would take me back to dad, that dad had sent you to find me. I saw you speaking to him this afternoon.”
“You saw me speaking to your father?”
“Yes Luke, you were on the veranda of the big house at the top of the hill above High Town, my father was talking to you.”
“The only person I spoke to today was Brother Schmit or rather I listened to him lecture me for two hours.”
“Yes, that’s my father, he’s pastor at the mission church in High Town.”
“So Luke you ran off into the jungle then what?”
“It got dark and I got tired, I crept back to the hut hoping that maybe you had left but I could see through the cracks in the shutter that you were still there. I did not know what to do, I did not think it would be safe to sleep in the jungle and had been told not to sleep on the beach at night because of the crabs. So I lay down on the porch, I hoped I would wake before you in the morning so I could hide.
“Next thing I find myself being dragged by two men through the jungle and into that place. They were both laughing and saying how much the Baron would enjoy me. I didn’t know what they were going to do until I saw that thing on the stone.”
“It was big, wasn’t it?” Kass commented.
“Fucking massive, it would have split me in two.”
“You’ve never been fucked? No you’re English, you wouldn’t have been,” Kass responded.
“I’m American, not English.”
“Sorry Luke, anybody who is not an islander is English to the islanders, it just means foreign, even the big blacks who come down from Jamaica are English to us. So why were you out on the beach and sleeping out this night?”
“I had to get away, they were going to send me back to the States to one of those places.”
“What places?” Kass asked.
“Where they make you straight.”
“So you’re gay?”
“Yes,” Luke replied sharply, almost with a sob in his voice, “I’m the fucking faggot son of the pastor. Big laugh isn’t it. I want to have sex with men but was terrified of having that thing forced up my arse.” He began to shake. Kass reached out and pulled him against his body, cuddling him, giving him what comfort he could. Luke started to cry, first gentle sobs, then they got lounder until they were racking his body.
Kass held him as he cried. Gently stroking his back, drawing the boy to himself, making him understand that he was there for him. After a while the sobs died down. “Feeling better now?”
“Yes, but I’m still scared. What if those men find us? What am I going to do, I can’t go home but I’ve got nowhere else to go.”
“I know the problem,” Kass replied, “I’m in the same situation, I can’t go home either. My mother got your father over today to tell me that I had to give up my island ways and become a good member of the church or leave the house. I left.”
“So,” Luke commented, “we’re both in a mess.”
“Yes but at least we are together,” Kass replied, suddenly realising the import of those words. They were together, lying naked on the mat in the darkness of the lava pipe. It just felt so natural, as if it was meant to be.
“For now. What happens in the morning? They’ll be looking for us.”
“Those men won’t be, the Baron’s realm dies with sunrise, then Tatanana rules.”
“Who’s the Baron and how does Tatanana rule? I thought it was the volcano.”
“Luke, Tatanana is the name of the volcano but the volcano is named after the goddess who lives in it and she rules and protects the island. The Baron is the Lord of the Dead, this night is the Dodenfeest, the Feast of the Dead, and from sunset to sunrise it is the realm of the Baron. Those spirits that have not passed beyond the gates come back this night to be amongst the living and enjoy the pleasures of life.
“It is said that the spirits can take over the bodies of the living and enjoy pleasure through them this night. I think that is what happened to me.”
Luke looked up into Kass’s face, which the last vestiges of the setting moon lighted. “You’re free of the spirits now?”
“Yes, when you cried out something snapped and I knew I had to save you, that you were special.”
“You think I’m special?”
“Yes Luke. There was something about you when I saw you in the shelter. I wanted you to stay, I ran out after you, looking for you,” Kass replied.
“Nobody has ever wanted me. “
“Surely your parents did,” Kass commented.
“No, I was a mistake, an accident. I’m seventeen, my sister is thirty eight.”
“Seventeen, I thought …” Kass stated.
“You thought I was younger, everyone does, I’m small for my age. Anyway my mother thought she was past it when she got pregnant with me. I’m lucky they’re fundamentalist Christians, otherwise they would have had me aborted.” This shocked Kass, how could anybody not want Luke. He just knew that Luke was the most wonderful, most special person in the world. How he knew he had no idea, he just knew it.
“Luke I want you,” Kass stated. He caressed Luke’s hair drawing Luke to him. The boy reached up and placed his hand round the back of Kass’s neck pulling Kass down to him, their lips met. For what seemed like an eternity the two boys lay together, hands exploring each other’s bodies, mouths locked in what seemed like endless kissing. Slowly their bodies started to move in a common rhythm, each rubbing his engorged member against the body of the other. Their passion moved without haste to its own climax, both ejaculating together onto their bodies. As they slumped together in post coital bliss laughter emanated from the mouth of the pipe. Kass looked up and saw standing there, silhouetted against the light of the pre-dawn sky, the Baron, raising his stick, almost as if in salute. Kass rolled over onto Luke to protect him and fell out of the hammock.
He scrambled to his feet, shaking the sleep out of his head. What the hell had happened he wondered? Looking round he saw the door was still closed and the fastening rope still tied, a hint of daylight showing through the cracks. Kass made his way over to it, undid the rope and opened the door, stepping out onto the porch, only to trip over a sleeping prostrate form. He fell headfirst into the sand beyond the narrow porch.
“Kass?” a timid voice asked. Kass pushed himself up into a seating position and turned to face the shelter. There was Luke lying on the porch, clearly knocked awake by the impact of Kass tripping over him.
“Luke?”
“You know me, it wasn’t a dream.”
“Well,” Kass asked, “if it was a dream where are your clothes?”
Luke glanced down at himself and realised he was naked, then instinctively moved his hands to cover himself. Kass laughed, stood up and walked over to sit on the porch next to Luke. “It is a bit late for that I think, for if it was a dream how to you explain that?” He pointed to a love bite on Luke’s shoulder.
“Or that?” Luke laughed, pointing to a similar mark on Kass’s neck. “Kass, what’s happened? If it wasn’t a dream how come we're here?”
“I don’t know, but I think I know who can tell us. First though we need to get into some clothes.”
“I don’t know where mine are.” commented Luke.
“Probably somewhere up on the far side of the mountain,” Kass responded. “Don’t worry I have a solution.”
Two hours later the two boys were seated at the bar of Mama Betty’s Beach Café, Kass in his shirt and shorts, Luke in Kass’s sarong. The big woman was busy loading their plates with pancakes and stroop, the thick sugar syrup loved by the island boys, even though they objected saying they had nothing with which to pay. As she did so the boys recounted their story of the night that had passed.
“Ah,” Mama Betty commented, “I think you have been blessed by the Baron.”
“Blessed by the Baron,” Luke commented, “I thought he was the Lord of the Dead.”
“Lord of the Dead is but one of his aspects, but he is also Master of Debauchery and the Granter of Pleasure. More importantly he is the Giver of Life and I think he has given you two boys a life together.”
Just then a police car pulled up on the road outside. Corporal Van Hagen got out and walked across to the Café. Kass felt Luke tense up beside him and reached down and took hold of Luke’s hand.
“Godmornin Mama Bet,” the corporal said, nodding to the two boys at the bar.
“Godmornin corporal and what brings youw over from Home Island this time in the morning.”
“That English pastor up at High Town, he callin in telling 'is son gone missing; run away and we must find him.”
“An’ what dat to do with me?” Mama Betty asked.
“I thought youw may ‘ave seen ‘im.”
“An’ what youw be dinkin den, even a stomerling knows no English come by Low Town. Anyby from what I hear if the boy ‘as run from the mission it be good for ‘im.”
The corporal thought for a moment and nodded. “And there youw is’t right Mama Betty.” With that he turned, walked back to the car, got in it and drove off.
Luke sighed and almost collapsed into Kass, who quickly reached around him to support the boy. “He was looking straight at me, it was as if he did not see me.”
“Oh, he saw you Luke, but he was looking for an English boy and nu youw is en island jungen and de island it ken its own.” Luke looked at Kass puzzled.
“She said Luke that now you are an island boy, and the island looks after its own. You know you are going to have to learn the island Creole. ” Luke smiled, leaned over and kissed Kass.
“Wel,” Mama Betty said, “dat is a good start.”]]> <![CDATA[The Storm Spirits]]> https://funtailix.com/portal/showthread.php?tid=2355 Tue, 15 Jul 2025 18:25:54 +0000 WMASG]]> https://funtailix.com/portal/showthread.php?tid=2355 This story was originally published on Nifty under the pen name Ing. Since then, in the light of comments I got, I have re-written it and I have also dropped the pen name Ing.

The storm had been building up for over a week as it made its way westwards across the Atlantic. Upon reaching the Caribbean it had done something unexpected. Instead of moving northwest and into the Gulf, it had turned south, towards the equator, something meteorologists will advise you is highly unlikely. They will say that the chances of an Atlantic storm taking that path are a million to one. As anyone who has read Prachett will know, the problem with million to one chances is that they tend to turn up two times out of three. Thus it was that late in August a storm that had just avoided becoming a hurricane hit the twin islands that formed the Republic of Cariba, a pair of islands that had originally been a Dutch colony until they were grabbed by the French who eventually lost them to the British. The latter, having got the islands due to the overenthusiasm of one of their captains, had promptly washed their hands of them and let them go their own way, although they did not get round to giving Cariba formal independence till nineteen sixty-five.

* * * * *

Si ran into the house slamming the door shut behind him, water dripping from his rain soaked clothes. He had thought he would have had more time, but the stormâ€™s rain front had caught him outside battening down the outhouses and making sure everything was secure for the blow. The storm was moving faster than expected, which was why he was in the house alone. His parents were over on the big island, his mother having gone to pick his father up from the airport, only to find that they could not get back. The high winds had closed the causeway.

Si looked down at the puddle of water that was developing around him. Realising the cause and not wishing to traipse water through the house, he kicked of his Nikes, dropped his shorts and as he stepped out of them attempted to pull the black cotton T-shirt off. The later resisted, now being wet and tight, clinging to the faintly defined musculature of his torso. After fighting it for a moment or two, it gave way, and the youth stepped forward naked into the utility room. A flash of sheet lightening illuminated his body and he caught sight of his reflection in the glass of the kitchen door, the reflection of a naked youth on the point of turning into a man.

He shook his head, his long black curls falling wildly on his shoulders. From the shelf by the tumble dryer he picked up a length of cotton cloth and wrapped it sarong-style around his waist. He then turned and started to turn the winch handle that would lower the storm shutters at the back of the house. The click of the lock catches had just announced they were in place when the phone rang. Si walked through the living room and picked up the receiver. It was his mother, checking that he was OK. He assured her he was and that he had got everything battened down, omitting to tell her that he had yet to drop the storm shutters at the front. Outside there was another flash of lighteningâ€”after which the line went deadâ€”then an almighty crash of thunder. The lights went out and a strange silence fell across the room as the power failed.

Si stood, dead receiver in hand, in the eldritch glow coming from the plasma screen of his computer. The built-in backup power would keep that running for nearly an hour before going into power-failure shutdown mode. The houseâ€™s backup generator would have kicked in long before then. Si tried to remember how long the delay was before it kicked in. Many islanders had generators because temporary interruptions were common on the island.

Somewhere outside a screeching cry sounded; Si shuddered.

He might be sixteen, nearly seventeen, and educated at one of the best schools in England, but deep down he was an island child and he had grown up with the legends. He knew the spirits that walked in the storm. Was there was a tap tap of a stick on the path outside; was it Blind Maggie walking? Searching for eyes to replace those she had lost? Si thought of the chemical lights in his desk and started across the room towards the computer. Two beams of light cut across the night sky outside. Si froze for a moment. A car on the mountain road in a storm? He considered running down to the gate to intercept it and get a lift into Williamstown. Just when he realised that he couldnâ€™t get there in time, a car horn sounded constantly for a few seconds, then went dead.

The lights came back onâ€”the standby generator had cut in. Si gasped at the sight of an island youth, naked but for a short cotton sarong wrapped around his waist, looking at him from his computer screen. Then he realised it was himself, that the WebCam was active. He decided he had better switch the computer off as a nearby lightening strike could cause a power surge. He walked across the room watching the image on the screen and realised just how much he looked like an island man, dressed as he was.

Another downpour of rain lashed at the windows. Si decided heâ€™d better drop the front storm shutters quickly and started towards the hallway. Just as he entered it the doorbell rang. Si looked along the hallway to the twin doors at the end. Caught in the glare of the security light was a young man, Creole by his looks, drenched to the skin in the soaking rain. Si moved to the end of the hall and into the inner veranda. He opened the inner door but kept the barred outer-mesh door shut.

â€œYes?â€

â€œIs jouw phone up man?â€

â€œNo, lineâ€™s downâ€

â€œShitzen, saw the lights, thought you had lineâ€.

Si shook hi head. â€œStandby gen.â€

â€œCars off, missed the turn at Widowâ€™s Bend, and caught the rut!â€ the man informed Si. Si noticed a thin trickle of blood running down the manâ€™s face from a cut on the forehead.

â€œJouw best come in. Luk like you need some aidâ€, Si stated, dropping into the island Creole tongue.

â€œJouw sure?â€ Si nodded, unlocked the gate and waved the young man in.

â€œBatter come through to the kitchen, me will fix dat cut.â€

The young man laughed. â€œItâ€™s botter, cum and kucken. Jij Creole bin nâ€™t bad for an Englishmanâ€.

â€œAm I so English?â€

â€œJa man, but you have the island lookâ€.

Simon smiled and started to lead the way down the hall.

â€œWhat â€™bout these?â€ the young man asked, indicating his dripping clothes.

â€œYes, weâ€™ll go by the utility,â€ Si responded turning round and leading the way down the inside veranda into the utility room.

â€œDrop them rags here. Iâ€™ll find you a robe or somethingâ€, Si stated throwing the young man a towel.

â€œHave you got another of those man?â€ he asked, indicating Siâ€™s sarong. Si nodded and turned to pick one off the shelf. When he turned back the man was naked, standing there towelling himself down. He smiled at Si.

â€œIâ€™m Filipâ€, he stated.

â€œI am Siâ€, stated Si, handing him the sarong and dropping the creol, somehow determined to keep to the English side of his personality.

â€œSi or Simon?â€ asked Filip, wrapping the short sarong round his waist, tying it off at the side, a gap leaving one upper leg and hip exposed, just like Siâ€™s. Si understood the question. His full name was Simon and that was the name he used at his posh boarding school in England, but here on the island he used Si. That was an island name. It was part of the dilemma he now faced. Did he return to England in September and do his â€œAâ€ levels or stay here on the island and become an islander?

The wind started to rise again, doors and gates rattling as if someone was trying them.

â€œLong fingered Pete!â€ exclaimed Filip. Si knew the island legends and nodded.

â€œI better drop the storm shutter,â€ he commented, turning to walk back onto the inner veranda. Filip followed him. Si went up to the handle set in the wall that operated the winch that would lower the shutter. He tried to turn it but it seemed stuck.

â€œHere let me help,â€ Filip stated. He stood behind the youth, putting his arms around him to take hold of the handle. Si became aware of the warmth of the manâ€™s body next to him. The touch of Filipâ€™s chest against his back, those arms surrounding him, helping him, a feeling of well-being having this man close suffused and confused him.

Back at his boarding school such feelings would have been a problem. Alright, he had felt them a couple of times, once with one of the sixth formers and once with the PE teacher who only stayed at the school for a year. Such feelings were not spoken about and considered something to be avoided. Here on the island though, Si knew things were different; this was just part of being an islander.

The heavy steel shutters rolled down into place, a clunking click of the locking ratchet promising the security of the house against the storm outside. Si released his hold on the winch handle and turned to face Filip, the manâ€™s arms still encircling him.

â€œThanks,â€ he murmured.

Filip smiled. Si reached up and touched the cut on Filipâ€™s forehead.

â€œItâ€™s stopped bleeding.â€

â€œIâ€™m a quick healer,â€ Filip replied.

â€œStill, we better clean it up.â€ Si led the way through to the kitchen, took down the first aid box and proceeded to clean the cut on Filipâ€™s forehead. Outside, the storm appeared to have quieted down. Si knew, though, that this was just a pause before the next storm front hit.

â€œHadnâ€™t you better tell your folks Iâ€™m here?â€

â€œNot pos, theyâ€™re on the Big Island. The causewayâ€™s closed.â€ Si stated. He realised that for the last few minutes Filip had not been speaking Creole.

â€œThen Maâ€™s stuck on the Big Island. No cause for me to rush down to Williamstown.â€

â€œYou better stay here for the blow, wonâ€™t be safe on the track,â€ replied Si. Instinctively he extended a hand to Filip, who took it, holding it in the way island men could, a combination of innocence and sensuality. Si led Filip through to the living room. Outside the blow had started up again. The temperature dropped surprisingly for the island.

Siâ€™s English father had insisted that the living room have a fireplace, an unusual feature for a house on a semi-tropical island. Now though, Si appreciated the feature. He placed a few logs in the hearth and quickly got them lit with the gas wand. The warm glow of the fire both lighted and warmed the room, dispelling the sudden chill of the storm outside.

Filip had seated himself on the settee by the fire, draping himself across the arm in a languid pose that asserted self-assurance and a sense of belonging wherever he was. Si moved over to the sideboard and poured a couple of glasses of the local coconut liquor. He handed a glass to Filip, then seated himself down next to the man. It seemed comfortable and right to be there next to Filip.

Outside, a piercing howl shattered the roar of the wind, and then another and another. Si shuddered, fear creeping in upon him. Filip reached out an arm and put it round Siâ€™s shoulders. Si looked at him and asked, â€œStorm Hounds?â€

Filip nodded. â€œYou know the legend?â€ he asked, exerting a gentle pressure that drew Si closer to him.

â€œYes, they are the Storm Queenâ€™s dogs.â€

â€œThatâ€™s what they say; in fact they are broken coconut husks. The wind blows through the cracks and creates a howl.â€ He flashed Si a smile. Si was reassured by the explanation and he snuggled up against Filip. The man ran his hand over the youthâ€™s chest, and as he did he smiled. Si looked up at Filip and returned the smile.

A rat-tat-tat of sticks against stone sounded outside.

â€œBlind Maggie seeking eyes?â€ Si asked.

â€œMaybe, more likely a reed thorn uprooted by the wind and rolling past.â€

Si thought Filipâ€™s answer made sense, but in some ways Blind Maggie was better.

Almost as if he sensed Siâ€™s thought, Filip continued, â€œBlind Maggie is important. She reminds us not to go out in the storm. All the debris blowing about, you could lose and eye.â€

Si nodded, it made sense. He communicated this to Filip.

â€œYouâ€™re a strange one. English boy wearing sarong, knowing legends, speaking lingo.â€ As Filip spoke, his accent once more softened to the subtle drawl of the Creole.

â€œNat zo English, mutter halp island,â€ Si replied. This though brought the question back into his mind. Should he go back to England and get his â€œAâ€ levels, then university and a career, or should he here? He needed to tell his father, when his parents got back, but he had not made up his mind.

A cackling laughter sounded in the darkness outside where the storm raged.

â€œI sâ€™pose thatâ€™s the wind in a split tree,â€ stated Si, leaning back and looking up at Filip.

â€œNa man, dat is one of them sisters, hunting for a man in the storm.â€

â€œSisters?â€

â€œYa. There be three of dem, the Storm Queenâ€™s daughters. They will strip the rags off any man out there,â€ Filip stated smiling, his hand gently rubbing Siâ€™s stomach.

â€œI pity anyone out alone in that,â€ the boy stated.

Filip looked at him. â€œIf heâ€™s alone. Ya, pity him, but the Stormwalker might look after him.â€

Si looked at Filip, remembering what he could of the legend, of the Storm Queenâ€™s son who protected those alone in the storm.

â€œIf I was alone, I would want to know him,â€ Si stated.

â€œWould you? You have to be island for him to come.â€

â€œI know man, but really, Iâ€™m island.â€

Filip looked down at the youth who was now stretched out along the settee, his head on Filipâ€™s lap. He leaned forward and kissed Si.

For a moment Si was confused, then elated. Not by the kiss, he had been expecting that, seeking it, but by his admission, he was island. This was an island thing.

* * * * *

Somewhere outside a screeching cry sounded; Si shuddered.

â€œYes?â€

â€œIs jouw phone up man?â€

â€œNo, lineâ€™s downâ€

â€œShitzen, saw the lights, thought you had lineâ€.

Si shook hi head. â€œStandby gen.â€

â€œJouw best come in. Luk like you need some aidâ€, Si stated, dropping into the island Creole tongue.

â€œJouw sure?â€ Si nodded, unlocked the gate and waved the young man in.

â€œBatter come through to the kitchen, me will fix dat cut.â€

The young man laughed. â€œItâ€™s botter, cum and kucken. Jij Creole bin nâ€™t bad for an Englishmanâ€.

â€œAm I so English?â€

â€œJa man, but you have the island lookâ€.

Simon smiled and started to lead the way down the hall.

â€œWhat â€™bout these?â€ the young man asked, indicating his dripping clothes.

â€œYes, weâ€™ll go by the utility,â€ Si responded turning round and leading the way down the inside veranda into the utility room.

â€œDrop them rags here. Iâ€™ll find you a robe or somethingâ€, Si stated throwing the young man a towel.

â€œIâ€™m Filipâ€, he stated.

â€œI am Siâ€, stated Si, handing him the sarong and dropping the creol, somehow determined to keep to the English side of his personality.

The wind started to rise again, doors and gates rattling as if someone was trying them.

â€œLong fingered Pete!â€ exclaimed Filip. Si knew the island legends and nodded.

â€œThanks,â€ he murmured.

Filip smiled. Si reached up and touched the cut on Filipâ€™s forehead.

â€œItâ€™s stopped bleeding.â€

â€œIâ€™m a quick healer,â€ Filip replied.

â€œHadnâ€™t you better tell your folks Iâ€™m here?â€

â€œNot pos, theyâ€™re on the Big Island. The causewayâ€™s closed.â€ Si stated. He realised that for the last few minutes Filip had not been speaking Creole.

â€œThen Maâ€™s stuck on the Big Island. No cause for me to rush down to Williamstown.â€

Filip nodded. â€œYou know the legend?â€ he asked, exerting a gentle pressure that drew Si closer to him.

â€œYes, they are the Storm Queenâ€™s dogs.â€

A rat-tat-tat of sticks against stone sounded outside.

â€œBlind Maggie seeking eyes?â€ Si asked.

â€œMaybe, more likely a reed thorn uprooted by the wind and rolling past.â€

Si thought Filipâ€™s answer made sense, but in some ways Blind Maggie was better.

Almost as if he sensed Siâ€™s thought, Filip continued, â€œBlind Maggie is important. She reminds us not to go out in the storm. All the debris blowing about, you could lose and eye.â€

Si nodded, it made sense. He communicated this to Filip.

â€œYouâ€™re a strange one. English boy wearing sarong, knowing legends, speaking lingo.â€ As Filip spoke, his accent once more softened to the subtle drawl of the Creole.

A cackling laughter sounded in the darkness outside where the storm raged.

â€œI sâ€™pose thatâ€™s the wind in a split tree,â€ stated Si, leaning back and looking up at Filip.

â€œNa man, dat is one of them sisters, hunting for a man in the storm.â€

â€œSisters?â€

â€œYa. There be three of dem, the Storm Queenâ€™s daughters. They will strip the rags off any man out there,â€ Filip stated smiling, his hand gently rubbing Siâ€™s stomach.

â€œI pity anyone out alone in that,â€ the boy stated.

Filip looked at him. â€œIf heâ€™s alone. Ya, pity him, but the Stormwalker might look after him.â€

Si looked at Filip, remembering what he could of the legend, of the Storm Queenâ€™s son who protected those alone in the storm.

â€œIf I was alone, I would want to know him,â€ Si stated.

â€œWould you? You have to be island for him to come.â€

â€œI know man, but really, Iâ€™m island.â€

Filip looked down at the youth who was now stretched out along the settee, his head on Filipâ€™s lap. He leaned forward and kissed Si.

For a moment Si was confused, then elated. Not by the kiss, he had been expecting that, seeking it, but by his admission, he was island. This was an island thing.

He brought his arms up and placed them round Filipâ€™s neck, drawing him down, pulling him into what was to happen. Filipâ€™s hand moved down, under Siâ€™s sarong to take hold of the youthâ€™s manhood. None of this was strange to Si. He had grown up on the island and played with the local boys on the beach. That, though, was different, that was a game in which he was always a bit of an outsider. This time he was being taken deeply in, becoming part of what it was to be island. He brought his hand down seeking Filipâ€™s body to touch it, to caress it. He wanted it; he wanted to be of the island.]]> <![CDATA[Memories Five]]> https://funtailix.com/portal/showthread.php?tid=2354 Tue, 15 Jul 2025 17:53:22 +0000 WMASG]]> https://funtailix.com/portal/showthread.php?tid=2354 It turned out that Ann was something at the Palace. Exactly what was not made clear. It was to be a couple of years before I found out that she worked in the press office. I never did find out which member of the royal family she was assigned to. In the twelve odd years that I was in contact with her she never said anything about the going-ons in the Palace. In that respect she was the soul of discretion.
In other matters she was the biggest gossip going and if there was any gossip going around in the London gay scene you could be sure Ann would know it. If she did not, then she would probably invent it.
One of the problems of being gay in the early seventies was that one could not, acceptably, take one's partner to one of the many social events which society deemed one should attend. You were expected to be accompanied by a member of the opposite sex. It was, therefore, incumbent on one to arrange a suitable partner to attend such events.
During our first meeting at the Gateway Club, Ann mentioned that she was expected to attend the opening of an exhibition by an up-and-coming young artist, who it turned out was related to her. The exhibition was taking place at an avant-garde gallery, which was only a few hundred yards from the advice centre where I volunteered a couple of times a week.
"Should be a good show," Diana, at whose table we were sitting, stated. "Probably will be but doubt if I will be able to go," Ann stated.
"Why not?" I asked.
"It's a black-tie affair. Do you know any gay boys who have a tuxedo?"
"Yes, I have," I replied. Of course, I had a tuxedo, I was a magician. At least part-time, when I not doing photography or selling my body. The later two were how I made a living, magic was very much a hobby, which sometimes generated a bit of an income, but never enough to cover the expenses.
Ann looked at me in disbelief. "Really?"
"Yes, he has," Blackie said. "I had to go and see him in a magic show a few weeks ago, he was wearing it."
"You do magic?" Diana asked. "I thought you were a photographer."
"Part-time photographer, part-time magician," I stated. I could have added full-time whore, but thought it best not to. "Whatever is paying." Blackie gave me a look when I said that. There were times I suspected she knew more about me than was good.
"What are you doing on Thursday?" Ann asked.
"Don't know, depends on what work comes in. I'm covering at the centre two to four," I informed her. Unless I had some photographic work on, I never got up till gone eleven, so normally never did any of the early shifts at the centre.I also preferred not to do the evening shifts, they made it difficult to meet up with potential clients in the pubs. The men in the clubs paid more but the pub guys were much more regular customers. Also, if you worked it right, you could pick up a customer in a pub in the early evening, service them and still get to one of the clubs by ten, where you could get picked up by one of the high rollers. Of course, you had to be careful in the pubs, there were often coppers around in plain clothes. You better make sure the punter approaches you, otherwise you could get done for soliciting.
"Good," Ann stated. "You can escort me to the opening. The reception starts at eight, so we should arrive about half past eight."
"Isn't that a bit early?" Diana asked.
"I'm a relative, darling, not a film star like you. I can't do fashionably late. If I'm late they proceed without me."
"Wish I could say the same," Diana stated.
"Anyway ah…. What's your name?"
It was at that point that Blackie got around to introducing us.
After that, arrangements were made for me to meet Ann on Thursday evening at seven forty-five. The agreed meeting place was Leicester Square tube station. Ann and I then got on to discussing magic, which it appeared was also an interest of hers. So much so that I agreed to meet up with her on Tuesday so we could visit the studio of Martin Breese, the magic dealer.
The Tuesday visit did not take place. Ann met me at lunch time as arranged but apologised that she had not been able to get the afternoon off, as had been planned. There was a bit of a brouhaha at the palace and all the press staff had been called in.
"What's going on?" I asked.
"I've no idea," Ann replied. "Though word is that Prince Phillip is on the war path, which is never a good sign."
We had lunch in Leicester Square and then Ann returned to the palace, and I went off to spend money I had not got.
On Thursday I was at the assigned meeting place at the agreed time. Ann arrived a few minutes later, looking gorgeous in a dark blue evening dress. She admitted to me later that it was (a) by Dior and (b) on loan to her from a minor member of the royal family.
I escorted her the few hundred yards from our meeting place to the gallery where the reception was being held. Ann had our invitation in her clutch bag. Actually, it was her invitation, I was merely along as her 'and companion'. As we approached the entrance to the gallery, she handed me the invitation, which I handed to the functionary at the door without looking at it. He took it, examined it, then handed it to the footman who stood inside the door, indicating at the same time that we could enter. As we did the footman announced our arrival. To be more precise, he announced Ann's arrival. Though I found out at that point that Ann was not Ann and that she had a title. I was, of course, announced as the companion.
Once inside and supplied with a glass of champagne, Ann informed me that Ann was actually the second of her middle names and the title was a courtesy one, she being the third daughter of a member of the British aristocracy. She also made it clear that further questions would not be appreciated.
Not that I really had chance to ask any further questions as a young man, who I presumed was the artist, due to the fact that he was not in formal evening wear, dashed across, grabbed hold of Ann, kissed her on both cheeks, before dragging her off to the other side of the gallery, leaving me standing by the buffet. A fact that I was not complaining about. Free food is free food, even if it is served in mouth-sized portions. I proceeded to graze.
"You must be a companion," a young man, also involved in consuming a sizeable portion of the buffet, stated.
"Yes," I replied, looking up from the plate of food I had managed to load up. I guessed he was in his early twenties, some three or four years older than me. Good looking in that rugged blond way.
"Same here. I'm David by the way," he replied, the drawl on the here emphasising his upper-class origins and education. I introduced myself.
David continued. "My cousin Rachel drags me along to these events." He made them sound awfully dull.
"You could always refuse," I pointed out.
"No way. Daddy's got the title, so it'll come to me. Rachel's daddy's got the dosh. Millions of it. He's my godfather. With a bit of luck, he'll remember me when he pops it. All I have to do is keep his only daughter happy.
"Who are you with?"
I told him, he laughed.
"What's so funny?" I asked.
"You're with HRH, she's my sister."
"HRH?"
"Yes, she was always ruling over us in the nursery. She rules over us even now. It's Ann who's fitted me up to escort Rachel around in the first place. Can't complain though. She gets me in places where the title never would and she picks up the bill."
"What happens when she marries?"
"That's not on the cards. She's not interested in cock unless it's on a bloody stallion. Not like me." The latter was said with a suggestive look that made his interests clear. I made my professional status clear to him and despite his indications of poverty, he was more than happy to accept my terms. We consumed our food with some gusto, then occupied one of the cubicles in the gallery's toilets for the next forty minutes or so. After which arrangements were made for me to meet him the following weekend for a somewhat more relaxed and lucrative, for me, session. My relationship with David was to last longer than my escorting duties for Ann.
When we did emerge from our sojourn in the bowels of the gallery, I found Ann deep in conversation with a grey-haired woman who, I estimated, was in her late fifties or early sixties.
"It's a truly remarkable and innovative collection," she was informing Ann. "So, different, so enlightened. The subtle use of colour and shade is…"
At that point she seemed to run out of words. Having looked around the gallery I could have provided a few: messy, sploggy, vomit-inducing daubs, all fit. However, I thought it best not to mention any of them.
Ann gave me a look, the type of look that said one thing. Get me out of here. I glanced at my watch; it was twenty to ten.
"Ann darling," I said, as I sidled up to the pair of them, "we do have a table booked for ten."
"Christ, sorry Aunt Jane, I forgot. I'll catch up with you next time I am down your way." With that, Ann grabbed my arm, and we made an exit.
"Your aunt?" I asked. "The artist's mother."
"My aunt yes, the artist's mother, no."
"Oh, I thought you said he was your cousin," I stated.
"He is, unfortunately," Ann responded. "Aunt Louise is his mother. She's got the sense never to be able to attend his exhibitions, always seems to be out of the country when they're on. That was Aunt Jane, my father's other sister. She is the one that discovered Peter's talent. Unfortunately, she has the funds to foster it."
"Why?" I asked.
"Well, she is part-owner of the gallery. She married young to a rich American. He died tragically young. Fortunately, he left her a fortune. Unfortunately, she's been spending it for the last forty years promoting young artists. The thing is the fortune is so big that it is earning more than she spends.
"Aunt Jane insists that Peter has a remarkable talent. All the up-and-coming young artists agree with her, because they want to exhibit in her gallery."
"Remarkable! I can understand, talent I find difficult to appreciate," I commented.
"I've found it remarkable difficult to appreciate, when it comes to Peter's art," Ann responded. "I've seen better stuff produced by five-year-olds."
"That's what is remarkable," I stated in defence of my position. "It's remarkable that somebody his age can actually paint worse than a five-year-old."
"Or a two-year-old," Ann responded. "Let's grab a pint before they bloody close."
That was the first time I escorted Ann to an event. Over the next couple of years, I was her regular escort when she needed a male to attend her. It was not a frequent activity on my part. Sometimes I could go weeks without hearing from Ann, other times I might find myself escorting her to three events in a week.
Even when circumstances were such that I found it advisable not to be in London, I would still get a phone call from Ann asking me to come down for the evening and escort her somewhere or other. Film premiers, first nights and orchestral performances seemed to make up the majority of our times out together, though I did accompany her to a couple of society weddings.
By this time, I had known Ann for about five years and had met a number of her family members. I had become so much of a fixture as Ann's escort to various functions that I was now often invited by name. It being presumed that if Ann was there, I would be her escort. This was particularly true of the Dowager Countess, who was either Ann's grandmother or her great aunt. I never quite established which but opted in the main for grandmother. The problem was everybody addressed her as My Lady. They also seemed to be in perpetual fear of her.
It was after I had met the Dowager Countess a couple of times that my name started to appear on invitations. Something which surprised me somewhat, to such an extent that I mentioned it at one point to the Dowager Countess as I returned to her bearing a plate loaded with edibles from the buffet which I had collected in accordance with her instructions.
"Of course, you're included on invitations," she stated with emphasis. "I need somebody intelligent to speak to. All this lot can talk about is horses and shooting."
"What makes you think I'm intelligent?" I asked.
"Anyone who can get here from the Black Country must be intelligent," she stated. "It's not easy. I know."
I looked at the Dowager Countess in surprise.
She smiled. "There's not much of an accent. If you did not know it, you would miss it. Elocution lessons?"
"Speech therapy for ten years," I replied.
"Just as good and quite effective," she commented. "I had elocution for four."
"Why?"
"Dis is bustin ain't it," she replied in a very low voice. I looked surprised.
"Moxley," she continued, back with a normal voice. "Got out at 14 in 1920, joined a variety dance troop, ended up at the Gaiety theatre. Met my first husband, an American millionaire. I was his third wife, I quickly found out why his first two had left him. He loved fast cars and fast women. We were on track for a divorce before we got off the Leviathan in New York. Fortunately, for me, his love of fast cars was too much for him. He had brought a Hispano Suize over with him on the Leviathan. Five days after we arrived, he crashed it, fatally. So, I came back to England sans husband but with a fortune.
"Unfortunately, for an 18-year-old girl, even one with a fortune, a husband was a necessity in those days. I was a rich widow without a husband and the Earl was an old title without an income. We got on very well. I gave him the required two sons and a daughter. I also turned a blind eye to his friendship with the coachman. On the whole, we had a perfect arrangement."
I laughed, the Dowager Countess joined in the laughter, then guided me to a quiet corner of the room.
"Now, tell me your story," she instructed.
I did. It seemed we had a lot in common. So much so that I was kept on the invitation list while she was alive. Even after I had stopped escorting Ann.
It was a society wedding which caused the problem. One of Ann's cousins, she seemed to have no end of them, was getting married on the Tuesday at a West End church. Unfortunately, Princess Anne was getting married the following day at Westminster Abbey. Ann, of course, had invitations to both. However, I was only required for the one. Not the one at Westminster Abbey.
By this time, I was back living in the Black Country trying to make a living flogging questionable antiques. My escorting of Ann, therefore, required that I went down to London. Fortunately, she covered the expenses. Unfortunately, there was a rail dispute on, and I arrived later than expected at the hotel where I was booked for two nights. Normally when I came down, I stayed at the Bedford on Southampton Row; this time, no doubt due to the royal wedding, no rooms were available at that establishment. I had though managed to get into a place not far away, which was supposed to be somewhat upmarket.
The thing was I had arranged to meet David at four for a bit of entertainment in my room at the hotel. Well, one has to earn what you can where you can and the trade in questionable antiques was not that good. There was a distinct lack of gullible American tourists in Wednesbury.
The combination of the train delay and an inexplicable shortage of taxis at Euston meant that was nearly four by time I got to the hotel. I was, therefore, somewhat annoyed to find, when I got to reception, that there was no room for me. Apparently, there had been a mix up over bookings. The desk clerk was very sorry, but there was nothing they could do. She did inform me that they had tried to find a room for me in the other hotels in the group, but there were none available.
That left me in a quandary. It was unlikely that I would be able to find a hotel room available, at least in my price range, in central London with the royal wedding the day after tomorrow. The only thing I could think of was going to stay with some friends of mine in St. John's Wood. I knew they would put me up, even at short notice, but I would be paying with my arse, and Benny would want it before accommodation was supplied, so I would not get to meet up with Ann as had been arranged. Then there was what to do with David. He would be arriving any minute.
I asked the reception clerk if I could make a phone call. The clerk looked a bit uncertain but lifted the phone and put it on the raised area of the reception desk by the signing-in book. She instructed me to dial 0 for the switchboard and then give them the number. An instruction I followed. There was a glass partition between the reception desk and what was no doubt the reception office, where a switchboard and operator were clearly visible. I noted the look of surprise on the operator's face when the number I had requested was answered, just before she connected me to the call. Once connected I gave the extension number of Ann's office and was put through. Ann answered with her full name.
"Ann darling, it's Nigel, there's a problem at my hotel," I proceeded to inform her. I had not noticed that David had entered the lobby and was now behind me. The switchboard operator had also come out of her office and was whispering to the receptionist. "It seems there is a confusion over my booking at they have not got a room for me."
"Tell HRH that I will be in the abbey on Wednesday," David said from behind me. I turned to check that it was David. I then passed the message onto Ann, also informing her that I would not be in the abbey on Wednesday. "Though I will see you at the reception later," I added, having been invited by the Dowager Countess to a reception she was giving in honour of the wedding at her London town house. I finished off by saying that I was not sure about dinner that evening, I would phone later, when I had sorted out accommodation.
Ann made some rather scathing remarks about the hotel where I had been booked. Once she had finished making her opinion known, loud enough that I think anyone with ten feet of the reception could have heard it, she hung up, after giving me the instruction to make it for dinner this evening.
I was just putting the phone down when a small rotund man in a black suit with grey waistcoat emerged from the back. Apparently, something must have been said to him. He introduced himself to me as the manager and apologised for the confusion over the room booking.
"We do not have any alternative rooms available at this hotel, we are fully booked. However, our sister hotel on Russell Square has a suite available."
I pointed out that I only needed a single room for two nights. The manager was very understanding. "Quite sir, I can assure you there will be no extra charge, after all, the error was on our part."
Well, in that case, who was I to refuse, especially as it meant moving up the road from a three-star to a four-star hotel. As we were walking the couple of hundred yards up the road, David started to giggle, then he burst out laughing.
"What's so funny?" I asked.
"They think you are having dinner with Princess Anne," he stated.
I looked at him puzzled.
"You gave the switchboard the number for them to get?" he asked.
"Yes."
"And how would they answer, you've dialled it enough."
"Buckingham Palace switchboard."
"Did they get the extension, or did you ask for it?" David inquired.
"I asked for it," I replied.
"And Ann answered it and you called her Ann, telling her there was a problem with your room booking and you might not make dinner."
I nodded.
"And I came in and told you to tell my sister that I would be in the Abbey on Wednesday."
"So, what?"
"How did I refer to my sister?" David asked.
"HRH, you always do," I pointed out. Then it hit me. HRH, Her Royal Highness, and I was on the phone to Buckingham Palace speaking to Ann. No wonder a room had suddenly become available.
I did make it to dinner with Ann that evening. A thoroughly fucked and sated David was with us. He also had to attend the family wedding the next day.
That was to be the last time I saw David for some years. He was by then somebody in the Foreign Office and was shortly after shipped off to serve in some diplomatic post overseas. The next time I saw him was at Ann's wedding, an event which somewhat surprised me given Ann's interest. David informed me that the bridegroom was a member of the European nobility who had a large fortune and little interest in the females of the species. As such Ann was a perfect partner for him. She would supply the required heir and the spare. As the title could descend in the female line it was not that important that a male child be delivered of the arrangement. He would supply Ann with a house in Mayfair where Ann's life partner could be her companion.
The only request on Ann, other than the supply of the required heir and spare, was that (a) physical intimacy should be avoided, it being agreed that the sperm would be passed between rooms with an device to facilitate its delivery to the required location, and (b) the Graf would prefer it if his wife was in a different country to where he was, except when it was strictly necessary for them to be together.
It is an arrangement which has seemed to work out pretty well. For the next forty or so years until the Graf's death, I would see pictures of the pair of them in various up market magazines.
The wedding itself was somewhat pleasant, the church in which it was being held being quite historic and having some interesting architectural features, the study of which passed the time during what seemed to be an interminably long service. I noticed the Dowager Countess, who I was seated next to, had had the good sense to bring a book along to read. Just as the couple had finished their vows, she turned and said to me, in a voice that echoed around the church, "I wonder which one is the bride."]]> It turned out that Ann was something at the Palace. Exactly what was not made clear. It was to be a couple of years before I found out that she worked in the press office. I never did find out which member of the royal family she was assigned to. In the twelve odd years that I was in contact with her she never said anything about the going-ons in the Palace. In that respect she was the soul of discretion.
In other matters she was the biggest gossip going and if there was any gossip going around in the London gay scene you could be sure Ann would know it. If she did not, then she would probably invent it.
One of the problems of being gay in the early seventies was that one could not, acceptably, take one's partner to one of the many social events which society deemed one should attend. You were expected to be accompanied by a member of the opposite sex. It was, therefore, incumbent on one to arrange a suitable partner to attend such events.
During our first meeting at the Gateway Club, Ann mentioned that she was expected to attend the opening of an exhibition by an up-and-coming young artist, who it turned out was related to her. The exhibition was taking place at an avant-garde gallery, which was only a few hundred yards from the advice centre where I volunteered a couple of times a week.
"Should be a good show," Diana, at whose table we were sitting, stated. "Probably will be but doubt if I will be able to go," Ann stated.
"Why not?" I asked.
"It's a black-tie affair. Do you know any gay boys who have a tuxedo?"
"Yes, I have," I replied. Of course, I had a tuxedo, I was a magician. At least part-time, when I not doing photography or selling my body. The later two were how I made a living, magic was very much a hobby, which sometimes generated a bit of an income, but never enough to cover the expenses.
Ann looked at me in disbelief. "Really?"
"Yes, he has," Blackie said. "I had to go and see him in a magic show a few weeks ago, he was wearing it."
"You do magic?" Diana asked. "I thought you were a photographer."
"Part-time photographer, part-time magician," I stated. I could have added full-time whore, but thought it best not to. "Whatever is paying." Blackie gave me a look when I said that. There were times I suspected she knew more about me than was good.
"What are you doing on Thursday?" Ann asked.
"Don't know, depends on what work comes in. I'm covering at the centre two to four," I informed her. Unless I had some photographic work on, I never got up till gone eleven, so normally never did any of the early shifts at the centre.I also preferred not to do the evening shifts, they made it difficult to meet up with potential clients in the pubs. The men in the clubs paid more but the pub guys were much more regular customers. Also, if you worked it right, you could pick up a customer in a pub in the early evening, service them and still get to one of the clubs by ten, where you could get picked up by one of the high rollers. Of course, you had to be careful in the pubs, there were often coppers around in plain clothes. You better make sure the punter approaches you, otherwise you could get done for soliciting.
"Good," Ann stated. "You can escort me to the opening. The reception starts at eight, so we should arrive about half past eight."
"Isn't that a bit early?" Diana asked.
"I'm a relative, darling, not a film star like you. I can't do fashionably late. If I'm late they proceed without me."
"Wish I could say the same," Diana stated.
"Anyway ah…. What's your name?"
It was at that point that Blackie got around to introducing us.
After that, arrangements were made for me to meet Ann on Thursday evening at seven forty-five. The agreed meeting place was Leicester Square tube station. Ann and I then got on to discussing magic, which it appeared was also an interest of hers. So much so that I agreed to meet up with her on Tuesday so we could visit the studio of Martin Breese, the magic dealer.
The Tuesday visit did not take place. Ann met me at lunch time as arranged but apologised that she had not been able to get the afternoon off, as had been planned. There was a bit of a brouhaha at the palace and all the press staff had been called in.
"What's going on?" I asked.
"I've no idea," Ann replied. "Though word is that Prince Phillip is on the war path, which is never a good sign."
We had lunch in Leicester Square and then Ann returned to the palace, and I went off to spend money I had not got.
On Thursday I was at the assigned meeting place at the agreed time. Ann arrived a few minutes later, looking gorgeous in a dark blue evening dress. She admitted to me later that it was (a) by Dior and (b) on loan to her from a minor member of the royal family.
I escorted her the few hundred yards from our meeting place to the gallery where the reception was being held. Ann had our invitation in her clutch bag. Actually, it was her invitation, I was merely along as her 'and companion'. As we approached the entrance to the gallery, she handed me the invitation, which I handed to the functionary at the door without looking at it. He took it, examined it, then handed it to the footman who stood inside the door, indicating at the same time that we could enter. As we did the footman announced our arrival. To be more precise, he announced Ann's arrival. Though I found out at that point that Ann was not Ann and that she had a title. I was, of course, announced as the companion.
Once inside and supplied with a glass of champagne, Ann informed me that Ann was actually the second of her middle names and the title was a courtesy one, she being the third daughter of a member of the British aristocracy. She also made it clear that further questions would not be appreciated.
Not that I really had chance to ask any further questions as a young man, who I presumed was the artist, due to the fact that he was not in formal evening wear, dashed across, grabbed hold of Ann, kissed her on both cheeks, before dragging her off to the other side of the gallery, leaving me standing by the buffet. A fact that I was not complaining about. Free food is free food, even if it is served in mouth-sized portions. I proceeded to graze.
"You must be a companion," a young man, also involved in consuming a sizeable portion of the buffet, stated.
"Yes," I replied, looking up from the plate of food I had managed to load up. I guessed he was in his early twenties, some three or four years older than me. Good looking in that rugged blond way.
"Same here. I'm David by the way," he replied, the drawl on the here emphasising his upper-class origins and education. I introduced myself.
David continued. "My cousin Rachel drags me along to these events." He made them sound awfully dull.
"You could always refuse," I pointed out.
"No way. Daddy's got the title, so it'll come to me. Rachel's daddy's got the dosh. Millions of it. He's my godfather. With a bit of luck, he'll remember me when he pops it. All I have to do is keep his only daughter happy.
"Who are you with?"
I told him, he laughed.
"What's so funny?" I asked.
"You're with HRH, she's my sister."
"HRH?"
"Yes, she was always ruling over us in the nursery. She rules over us even now. It's Ann who's fitted me up to escort Rachel around in the first place. Can't complain though. She gets me in places where the title never would and she picks up the bill."
"What happens when she marries?"
"That's not on the cards. She's not interested in cock unless it's on a bloody stallion. Not like me." The latter was said with a suggestive look that made his interests clear. I made my professional status clear to him and despite his indications of poverty, he was more than happy to accept my terms. We consumed our food with some gusto, then occupied one of the cubicles in the gallery's toilets for the next forty minutes or so. After which arrangements were made for me to meet him the following weekend for a somewhat more relaxed and lucrative, for me, session. My relationship with David was to last longer than my escorting duties for Ann.
When we did emerge from our sojourn in the bowels of the gallery, I found Ann deep in conversation with a grey-haired woman who, I estimated, was in her late fifties or early sixties.
"It's a truly remarkable and innovative collection," she was informing Ann. "So, different, so enlightened. The subtle use of colour and shade is…"
At that point she seemed to run out of words. Having looked around the gallery I could have provided a few: messy, sploggy, vomit-inducing daubs, all fit. However, I thought it best not to mention any of them.
Ann gave me a look, the type of look that said one thing. Get me out of here. I glanced at my watch; it was twenty to ten.
"Ann darling," I said, as I sidled up to the pair of them, "we do have a table booked for ten."
"Christ, sorry Aunt Jane, I forgot. I'll catch up with you next time I am down your way." With that, Ann grabbed my arm, and we made an exit.
"Your aunt?" I asked. "The artist's mother."
"My aunt yes, the artist's mother, no."
"Oh, I thought you said he was your cousin," I stated.
"He is, unfortunately," Ann responded. "Aunt Louise is his mother. She's got the sense never to be able to attend his exhibitions, always seems to be out of the country when they're on. That was Aunt Jane, my father's other sister. She is the one that discovered Peter's talent. Unfortunately, she has the funds to foster it."
"Why?" I asked.
"Well, she is part-owner of the gallery. She married young to a rich American. He died tragically young. Fortunately, he left her a fortune. Unfortunately, she's been spending it for the last forty years promoting young artists. The thing is the fortune is so big that it is earning more than she spends.
"Aunt Jane insists that Peter has a remarkable talent. All the up-and-coming young artists agree with her, because they want to exhibit in her gallery."
"Remarkable! I can understand, talent I find difficult to appreciate," I commented.
"I've found it remarkable difficult to appreciate, when it comes to Peter's art," Ann responded. "I've seen better stuff produced by five-year-olds."
"That's what is remarkable," I stated in defence of my position. "It's remarkable that somebody his age can actually paint worse than a five-year-old."
"Or a two-year-old," Ann responded. "Let's grab a pint before they bloody close."
That was the first time I escorted Ann to an event. Over the next couple of years, I was her regular escort when she needed a male to attend her. It was not a frequent activity on my part. Sometimes I could go weeks without hearing from Ann, other times I might find myself escorting her to three events in a week.
Even when circumstances were such that I found it advisable not to be in London, I would still get a phone call from Ann asking me to come down for the evening and escort her somewhere or other. Film premiers, first nights and orchestral performances seemed to make up the majority of our times out together, though I did accompany her to a couple of society weddings.
By this time, I had known Ann for about five years and had met a number of her family members. I had become so much of a fixture as Ann's escort to various functions that I was now often invited by name. It being presumed that if Ann was there, I would be her escort. This was particularly true of the Dowager Countess, who was either Ann's grandmother or her great aunt. I never quite established which but opted in the main for grandmother. The problem was everybody addressed her as My Lady. They also seemed to be in perpetual fear of her.
It was after I had met the Dowager Countess a couple of times that my name started to appear on invitations. Something which surprised me somewhat, to such an extent that I mentioned it at one point to the Dowager Countess as I returned to her bearing a plate loaded with edibles from the buffet which I had collected in accordance with her instructions.
"Of course, you're included on invitations," she stated with emphasis. "I need somebody intelligent to speak to. All this lot can talk about is horses and shooting."
"What makes you think I'm intelligent?" I asked.
"Anyone who can get here from the Black Country must be intelligent," she stated. "It's not easy. I know."
I looked at the Dowager Countess in surprise.
She smiled. "There's not much of an accent. If you did not know it, you would miss it. Elocution lessons?"
"Speech therapy for ten years," I replied.
"Just as good and quite effective," she commented. "I had elocution for four."
"Why?"
"Dis is bustin ain't it," she replied in a very low voice. I looked surprised.
"Moxley," she continued, back with a normal voice. "Got out at 14 in 1920, joined a variety dance troop, ended up at the Gaiety theatre. Met my first husband, an American millionaire. I was his third wife, I quickly found out why his first two had left him. He loved fast cars and fast women. We were on track for a divorce before we got off the Leviathan in New York. Fortunately, for me, his love of fast cars was too much for him. He had brought a Hispano Suize over with him on the Leviathan. Five days after we arrived, he crashed it, fatally. So, I came back to England sans husband but with a fortune.
"Unfortunately, for an 18-year-old girl, even one with a fortune, a husband was a necessity in those days. I was a rich widow without a husband and the Earl was an old title without an income. We got on very well. I gave him the required two sons and a daughter. I also turned a blind eye to his friendship with the coachman. On the whole, we had a perfect arrangement."
I laughed, the Dowager Countess joined in the laughter, then guided me to a quiet corner of the room.
"Now, tell me your story," she instructed.
I did. It seemed we had a lot in common. So much so that I was kept on the invitation list while she was alive. Even after I had stopped escorting Ann.
It was a society wedding which caused the problem. One of Ann's cousins, she seemed to have no end of them, was getting married on the Tuesday at a West End church. Unfortunately, Princess Anne was getting married the following day at Westminster Abbey. Ann, of course, had invitations to both. However, I was only required for the one. Not the one at Westminster Abbey.
By this time, I was back living in the Black Country trying to make a living flogging questionable antiques. My escorting of Ann, therefore, required that I went down to London. Fortunately, she covered the expenses. Unfortunately, there was a rail dispute on, and I arrived later than expected at the hotel where I was booked for two nights. Normally when I came down, I stayed at the Bedford on Southampton Row; this time, no doubt due to the royal wedding, no rooms were available at that establishment. I had though managed to get into a place not far away, which was supposed to be somewhat upmarket.
The thing was I had arranged to meet David at four for a bit of entertainment in my room at the hotel. Well, one has to earn what you can where you can and the trade in questionable antiques was not that good. There was a distinct lack of gullible American tourists in Wednesbury.
The combination of the train delay and an inexplicable shortage of taxis at Euston meant that was nearly four by time I got to the hotel. I was, therefore, somewhat annoyed to find, when I got to reception, that there was no room for me. Apparently, there had been a mix up over bookings. The desk clerk was very sorry, but there was nothing they could do. She did inform me that they had tried to find a room for me in the other hotels in the group, but there were none available.
That left me in a quandary. It was unlikely that I would be able to find a hotel room available, at least in my price range, in central London with the royal wedding the day after tomorrow. The only thing I could think of was going to stay with some friends of mine in St. John's Wood. I knew they would put me up, even at short notice, but I would be paying with my arse, and Benny would want it before accommodation was supplied, so I would not get to meet up with Ann as had been arranged. Then there was what to do with David. He would be arriving any minute.
I asked the reception clerk if I could make a phone call. The clerk looked a bit uncertain but lifted the phone and put it on the raised area of the reception desk by the signing-in book. She instructed me to dial 0 for the switchboard and then give them the number. An instruction I followed. There was a glass partition between the reception desk and what was no doubt the reception office, where a switchboard and operator were clearly visible. I noted the look of surprise on the operator's face when the number I had requested was answered, just before she connected me to the call. Once connected I gave the extension number of Ann's office and was put through. Ann answered with her full name.
"Ann darling, it's Nigel, there's a problem at my hotel," I proceeded to inform her. I had not noticed that David had entered the lobby and was now behind me. The switchboard operator had also come out of her office and was whispering to the receptionist. "It seems there is a confusion over my booking at they have not got a room for me."
"Tell HRH that I will be in the abbey on Wednesday," David said from behind me. I turned to check that it was David. I then passed the message onto Ann, also informing her that I would not be in the abbey on Wednesday. "Though I will see you at the reception later," I added, having been invited by the Dowager Countess to a reception she was giving in honour of the wedding at her London town house. I finished off by saying that I was not sure about dinner that evening, I would phone later, when I had sorted out accommodation.
Ann made some rather scathing remarks about the hotel where I had been booked. Once she had finished making her opinion known, loud enough that I think anyone with ten feet of the reception could have heard it, she hung up, after giving me the instruction to make it for dinner this evening.
I was just putting the phone down when a small rotund man in a black suit with grey waistcoat emerged from the back. Apparently, something must have been said to him. He introduced himself to me as the manager and apologised for the confusion over the room booking.
"We do not have any alternative rooms available at this hotel, we are fully booked. However, our sister hotel on Russell Square has a suite available."
I pointed out that I only needed a single room for two nights. The manager was very understanding. "Quite sir, I can assure you there will be no extra charge, after all, the error was on our part."
Well, in that case, who was I to refuse, especially as it meant moving up the road from a three-star to a four-star hotel. As we were walking the couple of hundred yards up the road, David started to giggle, then he burst out laughing.
"What's so funny?" I asked.
"They think you are having dinner with Princess Anne," he stated.
I looked at him puzzled.
"You gave the switchboard the number for them to get?" he asked.
"Yes."
"And how would they answer, you've dialled it enough."
"Buckingham Palace switchboard."
"Did they get the extension, or did you ask for it?" David inquired.
"I asked for it," I replied.
"And Ann answered it and you called her Ann, telling her there was a problem with your room booking and you might not make dinner."
I nodded.
"And I came in and told you to tell my sister that I would be in the Abbey on Wednesday."
"So, what?"
"How did I refer to my sister?" David asked.
"HRH, you always do," I pointed out. Then it hit me. HRH, Her Royal Highness, and I was on the phone to Buckingham Palace speaking to Ann. No wonder a room had suddenly become available.
I did make it to dinner with Ann that evening. A thoroughly fucked and sated David was with us. He also had to attend the family wedding the next day.
That was to be the last time I saw David for some years. He was by then somebody in the Foreign Office and was shortly after shipped off to serve in some diplomatic post overseas. The next time I saw him was at Ann's wedding, an event which somewhat surprised me given Ann's interest. David informed me that the bridegroom was a member of the European nobility who had a large fortune and little interest in the females of the species. As such Ann was a perfect partner for him. She would supply the required heir and the spare. As the title could descend in the female line it was not that important that a male child be delivered of the arrangement. He would supply Ann with a house in Mayfair where Ann's life partner could be her companion.
The only request on Ann, other than the supply of the required heir and spare, was that (a) physical intimacy should be avoided, it being agreed that the sperm would be passed between rooms with an device to facilitate its delivery to the required location, and (b) the Graf would prefer it if his wife was in a different country to where he was, except when it was strictly necessary for them to be together.
It is an arrangement which has seemed to work out pretty well. For the next forty or so years until the Graf's death, I would see pictures of the pair of them in various up market magazines.
The wedding itself was somewhat pleasant, the church in which it was being held being quite historic and having some interesting architectural features, the study of which passed the time during what seemed to be an interminably long service. I noticed the Dowager Countess, who I was seated next to, had had the good sense to bring a book along to read. Just as the couple had finished their vows, she turned and said to me, in a voice that echoed around the church, "I wonder which one is the bride."]]> <![CDATA[Mike’s Story]]> https://funtailix.com/portal/showthread.php?tid=2353 Tue, 15 Jul 2025 17:29:52 +0000 WMASG]]> https://funtailix.com/portal/showthread.php?tid=2353 “Of course, Mr Morris,” I did not tell him that I intended to hand out five of the bags to my visitors as soon as a visiting order could be arranged. I would have had a visit the following day at Albany, and the bags would have been handed out then, but somebody had the bright idea of transferring me to HMP Leicester for local release eight weeks before I was due to get out. “But I do need that one.” I indicated the smallest of the bags.
“Ok, we’ll sort your property card out in the morning.”
I nodded in agreement. Mr Morris and I went back some time. He was the first prison officer I met after my committal on remand; he was on reception duty when I arrived at the prison. Now he was a Senior Officer. In the eighteen months I had been on remand here he had been my Personal Officer so I had got to know him quite well. He had arranged for me to be Seg Cleaner, without doubt one of the cushiest jobs in the prison. That was a lifetime ago, though.
Actually it was only six and a half years, but it felt like a lifetime, and for all intents and purposes it may as well have been. Nothing was left of my old life; it had all been lost. The partner of over fifteen years, who said he would wait for me, managed to wait all of six months. I couldn’t I blame him; in truth I was surprised that he lasted that long. At least he stayed in touch, which is more than a lot of my friends did. The business that had taken me twenty years to build up lasted about as many months after my arrest; people supposedly acting in my best interests managed to fuck it up totally, and that fucked up my pension at the same time. So, here I was, a few months short of sixty, facing release and… nothing.
At least I managed to keep myself busy in prison. More important, I kept my mind active. The biggest threat in prison, especially if you were over forty, was shutting down; I most definitely avoided that. I played the prison game for all it was worth, taking advantage of every educational course that was available to me. Prisons like to show that they are educational and the more passes they can show the better, so the education department found it useful to have a number of high achievers sitting around doing degrees or post docs who they could call in to make up numbers on exams. In my five years down on the island I had taken both the numeracy competence and literacy competence exams about eight times.
I had also completed a degree and was in now my final semester of a post graduate diploma, which was why I was in something of a bad mood about being shipped out so far in advance of my release. There was no way I would be able to finish my assignments up at Leicester prison, where you were not allowed even a word processor, never mind a laptop, for course work. My first act once I got to the pad they were putting me in would be to write to my course supervisor explaining the situation and asking for an extension.
Exacerbating my bad mood was the realisation that I would be sharing a cell. After over five years of having a pad of my own, I was not looking forward to having a cellmate.
I grabbed the one bag of stuff that I really needed and hoisted it onto my shoulder. Mr Lynch, who I also knew from my remand period, took me over to the unit and showed me to a cell. He opened the door and told the lad lying on the left-hand bed that he had a new pad mate. Well, that was one good thing; the cell had beds rather than bunks. It was a bit cramped but at least it avoided having to scramble up into a bunk at night. There was a basic prison rule: whoever got in last took the top bunk. At my age that could be a problem.
Walking past Mr Lynch I dumped my bag and bedroll on the unoccupied bed. He asked me if I needed anything, so I told him I had to get some hot water, as I looked in my bag for my flask.
“Things ’ave changed a bit since you were ’ere last. You’ve got a kettle.” He pointed towards the bench by the side of the TV, then shut the cell door.
No matter how long you’ve been inside, there is something about that final clunk of the bolt as it shoots home that gets to you. I’ve spoken to lifers who have done twenty or thirty years and are looking at doing as long again, and they all say it still gets to them. It is almost as if the locks have been deliberately engineered to make that clunk as the bolt is shot, just to remind you of where you are and why.
Turning, I took a look at the lad lying on the other bed. He was wearing only boxers, allowing me a good look at his body, though it was not that much of a body but not too bad. One glance showed that he was a user and that the drugs had taken their toll on him.
Age-wise he could have been anywhere from twenty to forty, but I guessed about he was about thirty. It was difficult to assess ages inside. You’d come across lads who looked like they were in their mid-twenties and behaved like teenagers, only to find out that they were forty-five and had already served twenty years. Then there were the old lags you took for sixty and you found out they were thirty and only in the second year of a five-year stretch.
I held my gaze on my cellmate for a few moments. A look of apprehension, then fear, moved across his face. He pulled himself up, scrunching back against the low partition at the head of his bed that separated off the toilet area. He drew his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them, his eyes pleading to be left alone. It was a fear I had seen a lot in the previous six-odd years. The last thing I wanted was a pad mate who was terrified of me, and whose behaviour therefore might be unpredictable.
“Which is your locker?” I asked, there being two lockers in the cell, both at the end of my bed.
He indicated his, so I thanked him and started to unpack my stuff, leaving him to watch some drivel that was on the TV. It didn’t take me long to put everything away but by the time I was done I was sweating like a pig.
The cell was very hot. That was another design feature of the penal establishment: you either froze or you baked. If there was any heat at all in the cells it would be too much, otherwise they would be freezing. This prison was Victorian and there were two nine-inch cast iron heating pipes running through the rear of the cells. Ours must have been the first cell in the pipe run, getting the hot water direct from the boiler house. The result was that it felt like a sauna.
I stripped off to my boxers and sat on the bed to sort out my final bit of unpacking: teabags. The lad on the other bed was still scrunched up in his corner. When I asked if he would like a cup of tea he replied in the affirmative, so I filled the kettle and took a couple of teabags out of my stash. I always made sure that I had plenty of tea!
I asked my cellmate where his mug was; he pointed to a plastic one on the windowsill, so I got it, then made the tea. Another question, and he told me that he took milk and two sugars. No problem; I had lived in Germany long enough to get used to drinking tea without milk, and I had quickly got used to doing without sugar while I was in prison. As a result I had a stash of whiteners and sugars, which were always useful as trade items.
I handed the lad his tea and sat down on my bed. “I’m Mike, here for local release.”
As if it was local for me! Of the twenty years before my arrest I had probably spent three in this country, and most of that time had been down in London.
The lad told me his name was Steve, and he was on remand. I did not ask what for and did not want to know. The first thing you learned inside was don’t ask, don’t tell. Of course, no matter what you were in for it usually came out sooner or later; the screws were bound to let it slip if you hadn’t been outed by the press.
I glanced at my watch. Noting that it was nearly nine I asked Steve if it would be possible for me to watch Horizon. He asked which channel it was on and when I told him BBC2 he changed the channel and looked at me with a questioning expression.
“What?” I asked.
“Why didn’t you just take the controller and change channels?”
The question hit me like a ton of bricks. I would never have thought of doing something like that. I took a couple of seconds to think about it and then replied, “Because such action would be impolite.”
Steve looked at me with a blank expression on his face, as if I’d said something completely unfathomable.
The first few days with a new pad mate were always difficult. You had to work out what their boundaries were, and impose your own. After six years in the system I had become proficient at working it out, but Steve presented me with a problem; I had never come across anyone who was such a non-person. It was as if he just did not want to be noticed, being happy to curl up on his bed and keep out of the way. That is not how it works, however — at least not unless you totally want to be taken advantage off. I quickly got the impression that Steve was used to that.
That notion was confirmed at unlock the following morning. Just before the key was turned I heard a voice telling the screw to make sure that the new chap did his share of the cleaning. Not a problem; I like my cell to be clean, and that means cleaning it myself.
Steve was still in bed. I left him there, went to the sluice area and grabbed a mop and bucket, and a brush and dustpan. It was a good job I had been there before; at least I knew my way around.
When I got back to the cell Steve was out of bed. He gave me a puzzled look.
“Got anything under the bed?” I asked. He just nodded. “You better get it up on the bed before I sweep and mop. Then get out for a bit.” Steve smiled, pulled a couple of prop bags from under his bed and dumped them on top.
He turned to leave the cell but just before he did he turned back, “Mike, you’ll have to fill in your menu slip today, before lunch.”
I nodded to acknowledge that I had heard. Well, at least the boy could speak. After our exchange of names last night he had been totally silent and if I had not known better I might have assumed he was dumb. It didn’t take long to brush and mop out the cell. Well, how long does it take to mop a floor seven foot by twelve? Once finished, I took the cleaning stuff back to the sluice area.
When I got back to the common area Steve was standing by the pool table, and beckoned me over. A set of menus was laid out on the table and there was a pile of menu slips to be filled in. This was new, so I was grateful that Steve explained how things worked. I was even more grateful that he was speaking to me. It can be hell being stuck in a cell with somebody who won’t talk — or worse still, communicates in grunts. At least Steve appeared to have some command of the English language, unlike most of the younger inmates, and did not need to use fucking every third word.
I had just completed my menu selection for the week when the screw called out ‘behind your doors’. So, behind our doors we went. I noticed that Steve, like myself, was quick to get back in the cell. There are always some lads who hang around on the landing till the last possible moment, having to be ordered into their cells by the officer doing the lockup. I heard an officer shouting at somebody called Finnigan to get behind his door. A few moments later our door flap opened. The officer looked in, closed the flap and shot the bolt.
I got the kettle and started to fill it, asking Steve, who was lying on his bed, if he wanted tea or coffee. “Could I have a tea please? I don’t drink coffee.”
I made two teas and handed Steve his mug, then sat at my table and sorted out a text I needed to read for my course.
I had been in transit for three days and not had a chance to do any studying, which had been a pain. Although I was well ahead on things, one thing you learned in prison was to never assume that things would go the way you expect. There were too many ways things could go wrong, like some bloody security screw deciding, during a cell check, that the material I had for my course compromised security — just because he could not read the maths in the text book. That actually happened to me. It took eight weeks and the intervention of the Vice-Chancellor from the University I was studying with, to get that mess sorted out. Even then I don’t think anything would have been done had the Home Secretary not been a student at the same University and the Vice-Chancellor his tutor. From a couple of dropped hints I suspected that strings had been pulled behind the scenes — which resulted in the Governor not being very happy with the security screw.
Anyway, we were banged up and I had no idea how long for… but possibly till lunch. I decided I might as well get down and try to do some studying. It surprised me that Steve did not switch the TV on. Usually, that was the first thing the younger lads did when the bolt was shot. I glanced across at him and noticed he was reading — another surprise. Grateful of the chance to have some peace and quiet I turned to my studies.
About an hour later the flap was opened and a screw looked in, then the door was unlocked and opened. “Ramozis, education,” he stated. Steve got off his bed and got a folder out of the top of his cabinet. As he left he turned to me and said, “See you at lunch.”
The screw looked at me and glanced at his list. “What’s your name?”
“Richards, sir.” If you don’t know screws’ names you always call them sir or ma’am.
He checked the list again. “You’re not on my list. Are you doing any education?” I pointed to the textbook and papers on my table.
“What’s that?” he asked.
“Structural Integrity Part Two.”
He came into the cell and looked at my work, then shook his head. “Rather you than me, lad, I couldn’t make head nor tail of all those squiggles. Right, you’ll be banged up till lunch.” With that he stepped out of the cell and locked the door.
I breathed a sigh of relief. It is always difficult when screws realise that you are more intelligent than they are. Some can be bloody resentful about it, especially if you are trying to do something to make use of your intelligence. Others can be damn right supportive, seeing the fact that you are doing something to give yourself a chance to improve your life as a positive thing. A few will actually go out of their way to help you. There was one screw at my last prison who, during a period when the External Studies Tutor was off on long-term sick leave, took it upon himself to research stuff on the internet and print it out for those of us doing external studies. It must have cost him a fortune in paper and ink as there were fifteen of us doing university level studies, and we all had a lot of stuff that needed researching.
I spent the next couple of hours working my way through the examples in the workbook, and looking up references in the textbook. This section of the course was giving me some problems; I was finding it difficult to understand the examples because I could not conduct the recommended experiments. HMP Albany’s educational policy might have been advanced for the prison service, but there was no way they were going to let me have hydraulic jacks, metal bars and cement beams to play around with — and definitely not an angle grinder!
The door was unlocked about ten to twelve. Steve came in; he did not look happy.
“Not a good morning, I presume?”
He turned and looked at me, “No, it was bloody shit. Maths and I don’t understand any of it. And she’s given us a pile of homework to do for Monday.” He placed his folder down on his table and pulled out a number of question sheets. He sat down and studied them, with a look of absolute despair on his face.
“Come on, it can’t be that bad.”
“It is. I’ll end up getting them all wrong and everyone will know what an idiot I am. I always fuck things up.”
“Would it help if I went through them with you?”
He turned and looked at me. “Would you?”
“Of course, why not?”
“Most people just ignore me.”
I was starting to get the feeling that Steve did not have a very high opinion of himself. Low self-esteem was not good if you intended to survive in prison. You needed to have a degree of self-confidence, otherwise the system would beat you into the dust, which was exactly what it was supposed to do.
Twenty minutes later we were unlocked to collect our lunch, then locked up again for roll check. I knew that we had at least an hour and an half. There were shift changes and officer lunch breaks to get out of the way before they did roll check, so they would not be phoning the numbers in to security till at least one forty five, and somebody would have the count wrong so there would have to be a recount. The earliest we would be unlocked would be two. That being the case, I thought I might as well help Steve with his maths.
It turned out that it was not mathematics but arithmetic. One thing that really gets me annoyed is people calling arithmetic maths. It’s not. Mathematics is a language that is used to solve problems. Arithmetic is a system of calculating using numeric values. It’s fair to say that you can’t do maths unless you have some knowledge of arithmetic, but you do not need maths to do arithmetic. Actually, you do not need all that much arithmetic to do maths. Look at Albert Einstein; he had trouble adding up his shopping list.
Anyway Steve had some arithmetic to do and it was not too hard. In fact, it was fairly simple so long as you knew the rules to follow. That was the problem. It appeared that the teacher had assumed a level of knowledge that Steve just did not have. She had explained everything in terms of numerators and denominators, without checking to see if her class understood what she meant. After helping Steve I had a strong suspicion that quite a few of her class would not know what she meant. Unfortunately nobody had asked, which is not surprising.
Well, it’s fairly obvious if you think about it. It is easy for somebody like myself, at fifty nine, to stick up my hand in a tutorial group and ask what internal distortion resistance means. I could be pretty sure that most of the group would have the same question. However, for a thirty-year-old in a class with other thirty-year-olds, all of whom are trying to not look stupid, it is not so easy to ask a question.
Once I had explained the basics of vulgar fractions to Steve, everything started to make sense to him. He was able to get on and make his way through the worksheet he had been set without any problems, or at least nothing major. He did need a bit of help sorting out improper fractions, but not much.
Unlock took place at half past two and the call went out for library. I took the opportunity to go along and get some books, as I knew I would be in the prison for seven weeks. It was Friday and I was a bit worried that I had not been called over to reception to sort out my property. Amongst my things were books that I was planning to read, but if I did not get over to reception it would probably be Tuesday before my stuff could be sorted out. Monday was always a busy day in reception with committals from the weekend, so it was unlikely that they would call for me then.
As it was I need not have worried. Mr Morris came to the unit for me just after three and took me over to reception.
I told him that I had intended to pass out five of the bags on the planned visit down at Albany, and I would be doing that as soon as I could arrange for my friend Paul to visit me in Leicester. That made life a lot easier for him as he just listed all five as sealed property bags to be handed out. He sorted out my visiting orders and made sure that my outstanding orders from Albany were transferred. That meant I could get a visit arranged as soon as possible
The sixth bag caused problems, because a pile of stuff we were allowed at Albany, like the word processor, was not allowed in this prison. I could understand that as it was a local facility; prisoners were not expected to be there long, so there was no provision for graduate external studies — or any external studies for that matter. The only educational provision was for basic literacy and numeracy. So, a number of things that were quite important for me were not on the facilities list, like my drawing board and geometry set. I could manage without my word processor — I always wrote my papers out long hand in the first place anyway — but I did need my technical drawing equipment to do the diagrams that were required.
Most people on the outside don’t understand that prisons work only if inmates and staff co-operate with each other. Most of the time they do. There has to be a degree of give and take on each side. Most officers will ignore the odd infringement of a prison rule so long as it is not likely to cause a problem. At the same time prisoners will not insist that officers do everything by the book all of the time. There are times when it is in everybody’s interest to bend the rules slightly.
So it was with Mr Morris. He phoned the governor and explained that I had a quantity of educational material which was not on the facilities list but which I needed to complete my studies. I noticed that he did not say exactly what the materials were, and that the governor did not appear to ask. As it was, I agreed to give up some stuff I did not need and Mr Morris put some stuff through on my property card as having the governor’s permission.
That avoided my having to use the request and complaints procedure, which would have involved an appeal to the Area Manager, then the Home Office, and probably a Judicial Review — all of which probably would not have got me anywhere, but would have caused an awful amount of paperwork for the prison staff.
I didn’t complain, and the staff didn’t look too closely at what I had; a satisfactory arrangement all round.
Mr Morris escorted me back to the unit, which appeared completely deserted, with no staff and no prisoners in sight. When Mr Morris unlocked my cell it was empty so I presumed Steve had gone to education or exercise.
On the way over to the unit Mr Morris had asked me about the studies I was doing and said that he was thinking of doing Open University. I had just completed a Cert Maths with the Open University, so showed him my some of my course work. He remarked that it did not seem to be too difficult. I told him it wasn’t, provided you kept up with the course work and the prescribed reading.
With that Mr Morris left, locking me in the cell. Being on my own I got my radio out of my prop bag and tuned into Classic FM. It was nice to be able to listen to some music and not have to have headphones on, which is the norm in a shared cell. I got down to sorting out my property and putting stuff in my locker, or in my prop bag under the bed. Then I put the kettle on to boil. Just then there was quite a bit of noise on the landing and I guessed that the staff and prisoners had returned. Once again I heard a screw shouting at Finnigan to stop chatting and get by his door.
The cell door opened to let Steve in and shut behind him. I picked up the headphones to plug them in, but Steve asked me to leave the radio on. He also asked me what the music was. It was Kilar’s Exodus.
“I like it; seems familiar,” he commented.
“Have you seen Schindler’s List?”
“No, is it from that?”
“No it’s not, but it was used as the music for the trailer.”
Steve confirmed he had seen that, which led to a conversation about the film. I was amazed to find that he had no understanding of the Holocaust; he thought it was just an incident where a pile of Jews were shot. I sat down on my bed and started to tell him the whole story: how not only Jews, but disabled people, religious dissenters, homosexuals, Slavs, Ukrainians and others were put to death, and that the Jews made up just part of the eleven million plus people killed.
It was during that conversation that I started to see another side to Steve. Clearly, he was not well educated; in fact, if anything his education was sadly lacking because he did not seem to have even a basic understanding of events in modern history. On the other hand, he was no idiot. Once he began to understand what we were talking about he asked some very pertinent and quite pointed questions… like why did the Dutch, Belgians and French allow the trains taking the prisoners to the camps to run? I told him there was no easy and simple answer to that. You needed to have lived in those countries at the time to even begin to understand.
From that point on things changed. I had not really paid much attention to Steve before but after that day I found that there was something more between us than one would normally expect in pad mates. Let’s be honest, most of the prisoners I came across there were morons, if that is not insulting morons.
The following Saturday and Sunday we were on lockdown most of the time due to staff shortages. A lot of inmates got worked up over lockdowns, but they never really bothered me. Having my studies and being able to get lost in a book kept me occupied. Being in a lockdown with a pad mate, especially one you don’t know well, can be a pain, though, and I must admit I was a bit worried when the unit manager came around just after Friday evening roll check to tell us there would be a lockdown over the weekend.
As it turned out the time we were confined to our cell was, if anything, quite helpful.
I spent hours talking to Steve and listening to what he had to say. In those two days he opened up to me in a way I don’t think he had to anybody before. He was, as I had guessed, addicted to heroin, although at that time he was on methadone as a substitute. Arguably that was worse, because it is harder to break an addiction to methadone than it is one to heroin. Why, oh why, does our government have a fix on not appearing to reward the addict? It would be a lot easier, simpler and cheaper if they followed the Swiss model and supplied addicts with heroin under clinically controlled conditions. I suppose it is too much to expect a government to act sensibly.
Anyway, it seems that Steve had been an addict for a long time and had been on the methadone programme for the previous couple of years, although he had relapsed a couple of times when he had missed appointments to get methadone scripts. The good news was that he had managed to get down to ten millilitres a day. He was about to move onto five millilitres a day, the final step before going clean, when he was arrested. The bad news was that he was back up to sixty millilitres. Apparently the prison service automatically put addicts on that dose when they arrived and did very little to reduce it.
I had never used drugs. Oh, I used cannabis once (all that did was trigger a migraine), and at a party somebody decided to drop some acid into my drink (which had no effect on me), but that was the extent of my drug use. As a result I was not au fait with the drug regime in prison.
Steve told me that there was a detox unit in the prison but that you could only get into it once you were sentenced… and there you hit one of the classical catch 22 situations that seem to abound in organisations like the prison service. The detox programme took three months, so you could only be admitted if you had at least three months left to serve. That meant you had to be sentenced to at least six months. If you received a sentence under four years you would be automatically released at the half-way point; a sentence over four years meant you would be released at the two-thirds point, although in both cases you would be on licence and subject to supervision once you got out till the end of your licence period. At least that was the case if you were sentenced to twelve months or more. Anything less and God help you, you were on your own. No licence, no supervision and no help with housing or jobs..
The problem was that the prison is a local and as such it did not hold people with sentences of more than one year. Given that any time spent on remand was set against your sentence, the chances were that once sentenced you would either have too little time left to serve to go into the detox unit, or your sentence would be such that you were immediately moved off to one of the training prisons. The result was that most of the time there was only a handful of prisoners who qualified for detox so half the unit’s cells were empty. Well, they were not empty, but they were not being used for detox.
The fact that Steve was a user should have put me right off him. I had had a couple of bad experiences with addicts and after that I had avoided anyone I even suspected might be a user. With Steve, though, somehow it did not make any difference. By time that weekend was over I knew quite a lot about him; although there was a lot I disliked about what he had done with his life, nevertheless I found myself liking him.
On the Monday morning Steve went off to education, and shortly after that Mr Lee, another officer I knew from my time on remand, came and took me to induction, or as he described it, “a fucking waste of time”. However, it was necessary to go through the motions and tick off the boxes on the check list.
One of those was education assessment, which was fun. The first question I was asked by the girl who was conducting the assessment — anybody under fifty looks young to me but she actually was a girl; I doubt if she was more than nineteen and I suspected she was on work placement from college — was how old was I when I left school?
I responded that I was fourteen.
She looked at me and remarked, “That means you’ve got no GCSEs then.”
I acknowledged that fact, because GCSEs did not exist when I was at school. Without asking any further questions she proposed that I should do Basic Literacy on Monday and Wednesday mornings and Basic Numeracy on Tuesday and Friday mornings. Thursday I would have IT skills.
In response to that I told her that I did not have time to do those as it would interfere with my studies.
She looked at me with an apparent attempt to assert her authority. “And what studies are those?”
“Postgraduate diploma in Material Engineering,” I responded. If she had bothered to look at my prison file she would have found that information in there.
“But you have to have a degree to do that,” she stated somewhat pointedly.
“I have three; five if you count degree equivalents,” I responded, enjoying the look of bafflement that passed over her face.
“How?” she exclaimed, as she opened my file and started to look through it.
“I went back to college in my twenties, and studied law and accountancy. I hold a BLaw and I have my Charted Accountant qualifications, which are recognised as first degree equivalents. I then got into information technology and wrote a couple of books, and did a Master’s degree in Computer Science. They admitted me to the Master’s course on the basis of my books. Whilst I was in Albany I did a Batchelor of Engineering and now I am doing a postgrad in Material Engineering. I hope to do a full Masters once I’m out, but it is not possible whilst inside.”
“You’re wasting my time!” was her response.
“No, you wasted your time by not reading my file before you started the interview.”
The problem with a lot of civilian staff in prisons was that they had a stereotypical image of what a prisoner was like. Probably ninety percent of the time they were correct; but the odd ten percent would catch them out — and it often caught them out badly.
After my comment she got up and left the interview room. Mr Lee returned. “You seem to have upset our Ms Simmonds.”
I nodded.
“What happened?”
“She had not read the file.”
“Typical, the more qualified they are the less likely they are to do the groundwork.”
“She’s qualified?” I asked.
“Oh yes, child genius, got into Oxford at sixteen and got her degree at nineteen, did a Master’s in Education last year… for all of which she knows nothing. Anyway, better get you over to the Health Centre, then we can get you back to the unit.”
The Health Centre visit was quick. The doctor knew me from my period on remand and he had made a point of reading my file. It took him about ten seconds to review and sign off on my meds. Then it was back to the unit.
Steve arrived back from education about half an hour after I got back, and immediately asked if I could help him with his worksheets. It was all fairly simple stuff and once I had explained it to him he quickly did the worksheet that he had to hand in at his next literacy class. However, a suspicion was starting to form in my mind.
Life dropped into a routine. Steve would go off to education in the morning; I would sit at my table and study. About quarter to twelve Steve would return and I would spend the next half to three quarters of an hour going over his worksheets with him. In the afternoon we would be unlocked at about two thirty for exercise, except on Fridays when we were unlocked at quarter to two so we could go to the library. Often in the evening we would lie on our beds and talk, or I would be writing letters with the radio on. Steve seemed to prefer the radio to TV and would often ask if he could borrow my radio and headphones if I wanted to watch a programme on TV.
Just before Christmas some stationery I had ordered whilst at Albany finally caught up with me. I had ordered it two days before I had been transferred out. Of course, it had arrived at Albany after I left and then had to follow me through the prison system.
With an ample supply of stationery on hand I decided to check out my suspicion about Steve. Whilst he was out at education I wrote a series of letters in different sizes on some white A4 card. Basically, I was constructing my own version of a Snellen chart — that set of letters of diminishing sizes you are asked to read when you go for an eye test.
Once lunch was over, I handed Steve one of the sheets and asked him to tell me what the letters were. He read them with no problem.
Then I put a card up in front of the TV and asked him to read that. He went to move closer to it, but I told him to stay where he was — about eight feet away from the chart. Steve started to tear up and said he could not read it. He started to cry. I went and gave him a hug and told him not to be upset. “You just need to see the optician.”
Unfortunately seeing an optician in prison was easier said than done. Mostly they had one who would attend periodically: if you were lucky, once a month; if you were unlucky, once a quarter. However, there was a way to short circuit the system, if you knew how.
When we were unlocked for exercise I approached Mr Roberts, another of the Senior Officers I knew from my time on remand, although he had not been an SO then. I asked if I could have a confidential word with him later. He agreed.
As we were returning from exercise Mr Roberts called out that he wanted to see me in the interview room. I went there and took a seat to wait for him.
A few minutes later, after doing lockup, Mr Roberts came in. “All right, Richards, what is it?”
“It’s Ramozis, Mr Roberts. I am a bit concerned about him.”
“Oh, what’s up?”
“He is getting very depressed over problems he’s having in education. In fact, I think he might do something stupid if it is not sorted out soon.” I sat back in my chair letting that sink in.
“Oh, shit!”
I had played the at risk card and that had got his attention. I could give him a way to deal with it, but first he had to ask for my help.
“Right, Richards, what’s the problem?”
I quickly explained that Steve was very short-sighted and could not read the whiteboard in education. Mr Roberts asked why he was not wearing glasses and I told him I believed he had lost them at the time of his arrest. I went on to say that he had put in an application to see the optician when he had arrived at the prison but nothing had happened. I was fairly certain that both those statements were false, but the number of applications that got mislaid in prison was beyond belief so nobody was going to be able to check up.
Once appraised of this information Mr Roberts said he would deal with the issue, and returned me to my cell.
I told Steve what I had done, and that, when asked, he should say that he had glasses on the outside but had not been wearing them when he was arrested. He was also to say that he had applied to see the optician the first week he was on remand. I assured him that Mr Roberts would sort something out.
One thing that always worried prison officers was having somebody who was likely to self-harm. They would go out of their way avoid any such problems, so I fully expected something to be sorted out quickly. I was not prepared for just how quickly!
About half an hour after I returned to the cell one of the Health Centre officers unlocked us and told Steve he had an appointment. I don’t know whether that was one of the days when the optician was in and they pushed Steve onto the list, or if they had called the optician in, but in just over an hour he was back in the cell with the news that he was getting glasses.
Somebody must have pulled something somewhere, for the following week, on Christmas Eve to be exact, Steve’s glasses arrived. In the intervening week I had managed to find out that he had never had his eyes tested.
The eye test incident brought about a change in my interaction with Steve. I had put my arm around him and given him a hug when he was crying. For anyone who hasn’t been in prison let me tell you that was a big no-no. Physical contact with other inmates was kept strictly to a minimum — and I mean a minimum — unless, of course, you were fucking their brains out. That is mostly the straights, though; most gay prisoners avoid that type of relationship.
However, the physical contact seemed to have broken a barrier on both sides. After that I found that if I was sitting at my table, drawing a diagram to explain something to Steve, when he looked over my shoulder to follow what I was doing he would often place a hand on my shoulder. I found myself doing the same when I was looking over his shoulder at the worksheets he was doing. Something seemed to be drawing us together, although I could not see what.
One thing was quite clear: Steve was not my type. For a start, I was nearly twenty eight years older than he was. More important, he did not have the intellectual capacity that I needed in my companions. I’m not saying Steve was stupid; in fact I had begun to think he was far from that, but there was no way he was up to my level. As far as I was concerned Steve was definitely not relationship material. There was also the minor matter of his being straight.
Strangely, though, having Steve around just seemed natural. Not in the way you got used to having a pad mate around; this was something more. He seemed to sense when I was stuck on something in my studies, and getting tense. He would get up and make some tea, forcing me to break from whatever was causing the problem.
Then came the day when I was having a particularly nasty time trying to calculate tension and compression forces on a structure; forces which I was sure could never have existed in reality but dreamed up as some fiendish plot by the author of the text book to give you the worse possible calculations to do. I had been stuck on it for a couple of hours and my neck and shoulders were really starting to ache. Steve came up behind me and placed his hands on my shoulders and his thumbs on the back of my neck, and started to massage me. After about twenty minutes I was really relaxed.
“Where did you learn that?” I asked.
“Oh, I worked in a sports place when I first left school. I learnt it there; they said I should train as a therapeutic masseur.”
“Did you?”
“No, it was about then that I started using. The moment they found out I was fired.”
That got us talking about his future.
I knew Steve liked to exercise — he went to the gym whenever there was a session available. That did not seem very often for our unit, but when there was one Steve went. Overall, although somewhat on the thin side, he did not have a bad body. It wasn’t one of the heavily-muscled body-building types you see a lot in prison, but there was clear defined muscle there. Steve quite liked exercise, and seemed to know a lot about it, so the obvious work for him would be in a gym or similar facility. That would require him to be registered on the Register of Exercise Professionals, and neither of us knew what that required. I told him I would look it up when I got out and send him the information.
There, I had done it; I had committed myself to staying in touch with Steve once I got out… a total breach of everything I had said I would do, or planned to do, once I was out. My idea had been to put prison behind me and forget about it as soon as possible. Clearly that was not going to be the case.
Christmas Day fell on a Thursday, so the previous Friday was our last chance to go to the library for some three weeks. As a result we were allowed to take out six books rather than the normal four. I had already taken out a couple of books which I knew were going to be fairly heavy reading, so I knew I had enough to last me over the Christmas period. I also knew I had a couple of books coming in from an online supplier ordered for me by my ex-partner in Holland. So, not needing any extra reading material I grabbed a book on IQ tests. I thought it might come in useful over the Christmas-New Year period.
It did. There were staff shortages again and we were banged up for most of Christmas Day and all of Boxing Day. We were given half an hour’s exercise on Christmas Day, as well as a half hour association during which we could make phone calls. Boxing Day was bang up all day. It was not a problem for me, and as it turned out, not really one for Steve either.
On Christmas day I got him to have a go at some of the IQ tests. The results confirmed what I had suspected: his IQ appeared to be above average. He was not a genius, but he was well up at the top end of the normal range. He touched on above-normal in a couple of the tests.
Once I had the results I tried to explain to Steve why he scored above-average on the tests but did so badly in class. I pointed out that surviving on the streets, as he had done for a number of years, took intelligence. A stupid person would not last very long; you had to have street smarts. IQ is not a measure of how clever you are; rather it is an indication of your potential.
The fact that he had an above-average IQ — and that I had been able to show him that — gave Steve much-needed confidence. We had talked about his future a few times but he had always been very negative about it. Whenever I had suggested that he should look at doing a course or getting some training his response had been that he was too stupid for that. With the IQ tests, I had shown him that he was not too stupid at all, and he began to realise that classes or training might be a real possibility.
In the week between Christmas and New Year there were no education classes, so Steve was in the cell all morning. As I had done everything I could on my studies, at least until I got out, I spent the time going through all his worksheets with him. I was pleasantly surprised at how much he was able to pick up once it was explained to him in a way he understood.
Education was open as usual after New Year, so Steve was back in class each morning. He had tests on the Monday and Tuesday and the following Thursday he came back to the cell with a big smile on his face. He had not only passed the tests, but had obtained a Level 2 Diploma in both Literacy and Numeracy. That evening we broke open one of my reserve bars of chocolate to celebrate, and to say goodbye, because I was to be released the following day.
My actual discharge date fell on the Sunday, but as the prison service does not release inmates over the weekend, I would be let out on the Friday. Steve had been aware of this since I arrived in the cell; it was one of the first things I had told him. I do not think it really sank in, however, until I started to pack up my stuff.
I was rather surprised the next morning when just after seven a screw came and banged on the door, telling me to get ready because someone would be coming for me in ten minutes. Normally, if you are being released in advance of your nominal date they leave it till the afternoon to let you out. Fortunately I was already up and ready; Steve was still in bed. He got out and came over to give me a massive hug, telling me I was the best pad mate he had ever had — and he had known a few, having spent at least a couple of months each year inside for petty offences.
I assured him that I would keep in touch. Seeing a look in his eyes that reminded me of a puppy who knew he was about to be abandoned, I reiterated that I would write to him as soon as I got to the hostel where they were putting me, just a few hundred yards from the prison.
The officer came back and unlocked, telling me that I needed to get over to reception pronto as there was a gate pickup for me at eight. This had me puzzled as the hostel was within walking distance of the prison. Even if I was going to be escorted there I would not have expected to be picked up.
Once I was processed through reception — where a wheeled suitcase I had ordered was waiting for me (fortunately the five bags of property had all been handed out on visits) — and the gatehouse, I found my Offender Manager waiting for me outside.
The unexpected pickup was quickly explained when he told me that there had been a fire at the hostel so they had to find temporary accommodation for me at another one some sixty miles away. I was not very happy, but there was not much I could do about it. A condition of my licence was that, until the licence period was completed, I had to reside at approved premises — which essentially meant a probation hostel.
It took an hour and a half to get to my new place of residence. I must admit that once I got there I was pleasantly surprised. It was a purpose-built hostel that had only recently opened. Every room was single-occupancy and each had an en suite shower attached.
My Offender Manager introduced me to the hostel staff, then left, saying he would see me the following Monday. The hostel staff set about telling me the way the hostel worked and all the rules and regulations. One annoying thing was the curfew; you had to be in the hostel from ten at night until seven thirty in the morning. That on its own wasn’t too bad, but if you were not working you had to attend a morning meeting in the hostel from nine to nine thirty and afternoon constructive activity sessions from two thirty to four.
The staff were displeased that I had a word processor, because computers were not allowed in the hostel. I pointed out that it was not a computer. Whilst they were trying to sort out something about this, which involved phone calls to the head of probation services, I went off into town to get some supplies. Specifically I needed writing paper, pen, ink, envelopes and postage stamps. I had promised Steve I would write to him, and it was important to me that I made sure he got a letter from me the following day.
Whilst I was up town I also got myself some new underwear, a couple of shirts and a mobile phone.
I phoned my mother to let her know what had happened and where I was. It was too far for her to get up to see me, and there were no direct buses from the village she lived in, anyway, so we agreed that we would not meet up until I was moved back to the original hostel in Leicester. I had been assured that it would be a matter of two to three weeks at the most. I was fairly certain that would be the case as I had been placed in a hostel across the county boundary. My home probation service would be paying the host one a higher rate for my placement there, so they had an incentive to get me back to Leicester quickly.
When I got back to the hostel I was pleased to find that the hostel staff had decided — by which they meant they were told — that my word processor was permitted. That was a relief; although my writing was fairly fine I hated writing letters by hand; it could be very painful due to my arthritis, so I preferred to avoid it. Drafting assignments in fits and starts is one thing; sitting down and writing a letter by hand in one go is another.
Using my word processor I quickly knocked out a letter to Steve, telling him what had happened and where I was. I also gave him my phone number, and sent him a five pound note so he could get some phone credit.
After that I had to join the other residents of the hostel for our afternoon session of purposeful activity. I am sorry but if you can find any purpose in sitting around a table taking part in an ‘odd one out’ quiz for over an hour, you are a better man than I am I must admit that I could not resist winding up the woman running it. When you’re asked which is the odd one out — London, Paris, New York or Rome? — it is perfectly correct to offer Paris on the grounds that it is the only one of those cities not to have experienced a Great Fire. I know she expected New York on the grounds that it was not a capital, but I submit that my answer was equally valid. She was even more upset when I was able to give her the dates.
Actually I was being a little disingenuous because Paris actually suffered a number of major fires — including one in the 14th century and the Opera Fire of 1916 which were especially serious — but none of these were called Great Fires.
For some reason the purposeful activity session ended a lot earlier than planned, and I was able to get out to the post box and post Steve’s letter well before the last post. I used a first class stamp, so expected that Steve would receive it the next day, Saturday. Just to be on the safe side I enclosed a stamped addressed envelope with my address on it for him so he could write back to me.
The weekend was somewhat depressing. I was in a town I did not know, with very little I could do. One thing that I had looked forward to in Leicester was visiting the university libraries — there were two universities there, but the place I ended up in had none. Worse, its town library made the book section of an Oxfam shop look comprehensive.
There was also something else — something I had not experienced for a long, long time. It was feeling an emptiness, a sense that something was missing. To be more precise, it was someone. Steve was not there… and that left a hole that I had not expected.
Somehow, in the eight weeks that I had shared the cell with him, he had wormed his way into my life. It was only after my release that I discovered he was there. When I went to make a cup of tea I automatically looked for his mug, then realised it was sixty miles away.
I tried my best that weekend to shake off the feeling that something was missing, but nothing worked — I always seemed to end up thinking about Steve.
On the Sunday afternoon I went to a free concert in a local church. It was given by a local brass band, which I thought would be fairly safe. One thing Steve and I had not discussed — or even listened to — was brass band music. I am not that much of a fan, but the only other option was to sit in my hostel room and listen to Gardener’s Question Time, then some serialization of a book I had never heard of, on the radio. The brass band seemed the better choice.
Actually it was very good, which is often the case with bands from the northern industrial and mining towns. I was impressed with the whole programme, but especially the band’s arrangement of Widor’s Toccata, a jazzier and more sympathetic arrangement than the usual brass band transcription.
The finale, though, was my undoing. They played a series of pieces by Johann Strauss Snr, ending up with the Radetzky March. That piece brought back a very recent memory, and before I knew it I was in tears.
New Year’s Day had been another lockdown because of staffing levels, so there had been no morning association. Just before lunch I asked Steve if he minded my having the TV on as there was a concert I would like to watch. He had no objections so I switched on BBC 2 for the New Year Concert from the Golden Hall of Musikverein in Vienna. The opening shots were a montage of scenes in Vienna and Steve said it looked beautiful. I told him it was. That got us talking about my time living and working in Europe and the places I had visited. Steve said he would really like to go somewhere like that; I suggested that maybe one day I could take him.
The Musikverein New Year Concert always ends with the Radetzky March. The moment the brass band began to play it I remembered that conversation. Suddenly, I realised how much I wanted to take Steve to Vienna — and also to Paris, Berlin, Copenhagen and Oslo. I wanted to go back to the world I knew and I wanted Steve to be there with me.
The next few days were hectic, as I tried to sort things out. Among other tasks, I had to register with the local police and the Job Centre.
The latter pointed out to me that I was overqualified for all of the jobs they had on their books and I would probably have to reduce my expectations. The young lady was trying to be helpful, but actually the last thing I wanted was a job. I had worked out a plan for a nice little business, and just had to decide on a way to get it started. One thing was certain — it was not going to be possible from my present location; I would have to wait till I got back to Leicester. I realised I also needed to be back there for Steve.
Unfortunately it did not look as if that would happen in the near future. The news my Offender Manager gave me at our meeting on the Monday was not good. The damage to the hostel was more extensive than had first been thought. It had been found that, rather than a clean-up and paint job, there was a need for some structural work, and it would be at least four weeks before I could be moved back to Leicester.
One good thing that came out of that meeting was that it was accepted that my studies amounted to a purposeful activity, so I did not have to attend those stupid afternoon sessions.
On Wednesday I received a letter from Steve, telling me how he was, and how surprised he was to get my letter — because most people dropped him the moment they could. He said he missed me, and our talks. I didn’t know about his missing me, but I was certainly missing him. In a postscript at the bottom of the letter he thanked me for the fiver and said he had applied for my number to be put on his phone list.
That night I sat down and wrote back to him, telling him what I had been doing since my last letter, and about my plans for starting a business. I also mentioned, as something of an aside, that I missed him.
The following evening my phone rang, showing a number I did not recognise. It was the prison, phoning to tell me that Steve had applied to have my number on his phone list. Was I prepared to accept calls from him? Yes I was!
It was Saturday before he phoned. He said he was writing another letter to me. He told me that he had a plea and directions hearing at the Crown Court on Friday 1st February. It would be a bit hard because of my curfew, but if I got an exemption from the morning meeting I should be able to get to Leicester in time for his hearing.
As it turned out, it was not hard to get out of the morning meeting; in fact the Janet, the duty manager, seemed glad to give me permission to miss it — probably something to do with all the awkward questions I kept asking.
Steve’s letter arrived on the Tuesday. Most of it was chat about the prison, including complaints about his new pad mate, a body builder lifer who apparently hogged the TV and was hitting on Steve. That did not surprise me; it was surprising how many very butch, macho prisoners wanted sex from their cellmates, especially when the cellmate was weak and vulnerable.
One line in the letter really hit me. He wrote, ‘Thank you for taking an interest in me, nobody has done that before’.
The question was what was my interest in Steve? I was finding it hard to define. Sexual? I would not have minded having sex with Steve, but that was not my main interest. He was not very sexually attractive for me, and in any case, so far as I was concerned, Steve was straight — although, from a few things he had said, I gathered that he had engaged in gay sex when it was a question of surviving or getting heroin. No… the thing about Steve was that he filled a hole in my life. The problem was I could not define what that hole was.
I posted another letter off to him on the Wednesday, telling him I had sorted out things at the hostel and would be at his court hearing on the first. Once at the court I would be able to make an application to see him. I was hopeful that there would not be any problems.
Naturally, I had not told the probation staff that I was going into Leicester to see Steve, but I had not lied to them either. What I had said was that I needed to go into Leicester to meet my mother (which was true), to sort out my bank account (also true), and to deal with some legal issues and file court papers (again, totally true). It just happened that the County Court, where I had to file the papers, was in the same building as the Crown Court where Steve’s hearing would be held.
Friday the first of February came round faster than I expected. I woke early that morning — well before six thirty, which is what I had set my alarm for — and full of excitement in anticipation of seeing Steve again, even if it was behind a sheet of glass.
I took a quick shower, dressed, and went down to the dining room to get some breakfast. One of the night duty staff was just laying out the breakfast things. It was a fellow I had not seen before.
“You’re a bit early aren’t you?”
“Need to be. I have to catch the seven forty five bus, and it is ten minutes from here to the bus stop.”
He turned and looked at me.
“The seven forty five is the Derby bus; there is no way you can catch that and get back for nine.”
“I’m not attending the meeting this morning.” The moment I spoke I saw there was a problem.
“Are you working?”
“No, I have to go to Leicester today. I arranged to be exempt from the meeting this morning.”
“Well,” he said, “there is nothing in the log book, or the diary, so you’d better wait till the one of the managers gets in. You can sort it out with them.”
That would really fuck things up, The managers did not come in till half past eight, and then there was handover which would take half an hour. If I had to wait until then there was no way I could get the bus into Derby in time to catch the train to Leicester to be there when court started. I told him that I could not wait that long because I would miss my appointment, and moved to leave the dining room, with the intention of going to my room and getting my stuff.
Before I got to the door he shouted at me, “You are on hostel detention from now!”
Hostel detention meant you could not leave the building; you could not even go outside to the yard for a smoke. To do so would be an automatic breach of licence which meant recall to prison. All I could do was to wait around for someone to come in and sort the mess out. It seemed an awful long wait.
Fortunately, the first person to arrive was Janet, the assistant manager who had made the arrangements with me. Even better, she got in early, arriving just before a quarter past eight.
She had hardly got through the door when I approached her. Before I could start to explain the situation she asked why I was still there. “Shouldn’t you be on the bus to Derby?”
I told her what had happened.
“What!” she exclaimed, “Mike, only a manager or assistant manager can place you on hostel detention, and only after a second warning about something! It is in the diary, I know I wrote it there. Come to the office.”
I followed her to the office. The staff member who had placed me on detention was at the duty officer’s desk when she entered. “What’s this about there being nothing in the diary about Richards being exempt from the morning meeting?”
“There is nothing in the diary for today, except for Malcolm having to go to the hospital.”
Janet looked at him and let out a sigh. “That was last week.”
She walked around the desk and looked at the diary. “You’ve got it open at last Friday!”
Turning to me she continued, “Mike, get your stuff. I’ll drive you down to the supermarket. With a bit of luck we can get there before the eight fifteen has completed its run around the town.”
I ran up to my room, grabbed my coat and bag and was back down before Janet had finished putting her coat back on. From the look on the duty officer’s face I reckoned she had given him a tongue lashing.
The supermarket was situated at one end of the town’s bypass. It wasn’t far from the hostel, at least not by car. Fortunately for me the bus took a long route through a housing estate before joining the bypass at its other end. Janet got me there about a minute before the bus arrived.
On the way she had apologised for the action of the duty officer, explaining that he was not staff but a temporary cover they had got in from an agency. She also assured me that the hostel detention would not go into my file. Thinking about it later on the bus going to Derby, I realised that in this they were protecting themselves. With no entry in my file there would be no record of it, so it would be hard for me to sue them over an unlawful detention.
It was nine-fifteen when I got into Derby, and I had to dash across town to get to the railway station. There was no way I could make it in time to get the last train that would get me to Leicester before ten. Worse still, when I got to the station the departures screen showed the nine forty one from Sheffield going to Leicester, Market Harborough, and all stations to London, as being twenty minutes late. I checked to see if the nine twenty one was also running late. It had been, but only by ten minutes and I had just missed it.
The train was more like forty minutes late when it eventually arrived, and there was a further delay before it left Derby. It was just after eleven when I finally got into Leicester.
I literally ran from the station to the Crown Courts, and was held up yet again by the queue waiting to go through security. At last, I managed to make my way to the Crown Court area and asked which court Steve’s hearing was listed for. The hearing was over, but they told me that it was likely that he still in the building; if I went down to the visitor area I would probably be able to see him.
The custodial officer on duty when I got there was very helpful, asking me who it was that I wanted to see. I gave him the name and he went to check on Steve’s status. It was only about two minutes before he came back and informed me that Steve had been discharged.
“Discharged?”
“Yes, sir, apparently the prosecution advised the court that they would not be offering any evidence on the main charge. He pleaded guilty to two minor offences, and the sentence for those was less than time served, so he was released. About twenty minutes ago.”
I must have looked a bit faint or something because he became rather concerned and asked if I would like to sit down.
No, I did not want to sit down; all I wanted to do was get out of there and start looking for Steve. I hoped there would be a message on my phone, which I had to hand in to security at the entrance.
I made my way back there, retrieved my phone, and checked it for messages. There was one from my mother telling me that, given the weather, she did not think it wise to travel into Leicester. I agreed, especially as I was in no mood to have a nice afternoon tea with her.
The weak winter sun had finally given up any attempts to break through the clouds by time I left the courts. It was a dull and dank day with that fine drizzle that keeps trying to turn to snow but does not quite make it.
My plan to go to the university libraries was forgotten, although I did manage to get into my bank and sort out my account. There was a lot more money there than I expected; it seemed that Mattius, my ex-partner, had transferred two thousand Euros to me the day I was released. That reminded me that I needed to give him my new contact details.
For just over four hours I walked around Leicester, trying to visit all the places that Steve had mentioned during our talks, in the hope that I might just find him. It was a fruitless search. Eventually, just after four, I gave up and got the train back to Derby.
It is difficult to express how I felt. There was an emptiness and a sense of loss that… well, I simply could not describe how I felt. It was a totally new feeling for me and I did not recognise it.
That night I slept badly; in fact, I don’t think I actually slept at all; I just lay in bed feeling empty. I could not get Steve out of my mind, and the idea of not hearing from him or seeing him was just too much for me. Eventually I gave up trying to sleep. I got up, showered and dressed, and sat in my room listening to Classic FM.
Over the next few days I consoled myself with the thought that Steve had my telephone number and address. He could get in touch with me, and I expected that he would. Every day I eagerly awaited a letter or a call from him. There was nothing, however, and the feeling of emptiness grew.
By the Thursday when my Offender Manager came over to see me I was really down, and I think he got a bit worried about my mental state. He did have some good news for me, though. The building work at the Leicester hostel had been finished and they would be moving people back in as soon as the painting was done. He planned to move me the following week.
Saturday came and I had a chance to go back to Leicester and look around to see if I could find Steve. Of course, I had to obtain permission to go, but I had good reasons. Mattius, my ex, was driving over from Holland with his new partner to return a lot of my stuff that had been sitting in his garage for more than six years. He had arranged to put it into storage in Leicester, so that I would have easy access to it.
I thought that seeing Mattius with someone else would be strange. We had been together for fifteen years before my arrest, and at the time there was no reason to suppose that we would not be together for the foreseeable future. I had actually planned to liquidate my interests in the UK and buy a house in Holland where we could live together. Even after I was arrested, Mattius said he would wait for me. That did not work out, however; six months later he had met somebody else. I really could not blame him, although that relationship had not lasted very long. Later, he had met Jon and, when I was released from prison they had been together for four years.
Mattius had remained a friend throughout my whole time in prison. He had written to me regularly, and set up a virtual phone number in the UK so I could phone him without the high costs of an international call from a prison phone, which could be crippling. I had not known, though, that each month he had made a deposit into a savings account so there would be some money for me when I got out.
I had been lucky. Although most of my friends in England had dropped me the moment I was arrested, my Dutch and German friends had stood by me and supported me. But then, as Mattius had pointed out, if I had been in Holland or Germany I would not have been arrested — and they also knew the truth about what had happened.
I arrived in Leicester a few minutes after nine, which gave me a good four hours to spend looking for Steve before I had to meet Mattius and Jon. They had travelled over via the Channel tunnel the night before and were staying at a hotel down by Folkestone. It was a good two and a half to three hour drive from there, and as they would not be leaving till about ten, we had arranged to meet up at one.
My search for Steve was another fruitless one. If anything, I was more down than I had been all week when I finally met Mattius and Jon.
All the time I was inside, even after I knew that he was in a new relationship, I had held onto the idea that once I was out Mattius and I would get back together. When he arrived at our meeting place, a bar close by Leicester station, we hugged each other and then he introduced me to Jon. In that moment I realised that there was no chance of our getting back together, not because the relationship between Mattius and Jon was so obvious and so strong, but because I wanted something different — something that I had felt with Steve. I finally realised that what I wanted was to be with Steve.
We sat and had a light meal and a drink. Over the meal Mattius interrogated me about how things had gone since I was released. He did a fine job of it, as could be expected. I had taught him how to interview I.T. system users to find out what they wanted, and I had been one of the best solution architects in Europe. I had passed on my skills to Mattius.
“You know something, Mike…” he said, leaning back from the table and looking directly at me.
“What?”
“You’re in love.”
“I’m what?”
“In love. I don’t think you have ever been in love before, or had anyone in love with you. I hero-worshipped you and you responded and it worked for us, but it was not love. I don’t think you were in love with Mark, either.”
Mark had been my previous partner, and that relationship had ended about the time I met Mattius.
“I know Mark had a bloody big crush on you, but a crush is not love. For once, Mike, I think you have fallen in love, and it is hurting.”
I nodded.
“Well, you either have to find this Steve and sort something out, or you have to get over it. Either way, I don’t think it is going to be easy.”
He was damned right; it wasn’t easy. Once he had made me consider it, I had to admit that I was in love with Steve. The problem was, there was no Steve around to love. Without him life was going to be hell.
During the whole of the first week of February I hoped that Steve might phone me or send me a letter, but neither happened. After my meeting with Mattius I knew that I needed Steve and that I had to find him. The problem was I had no idea how to go about it. I could not even be sure that he was still in Leicester — his home town had been Derby and he had spoken about living in Nottingham.
The one thing I did know was that Steve did not have anywhere to go when he got out; he was homeless. I knew he had experienced periods of homelessness before, because he had talked about it a number of times and about how he survived on the streets. I just prayed that he had managed to get into one of the hostels for the homeless; the weather had been far from good.
On the Monday, immediately after the morning meeting, I went down to the local library and consulted the telephone book, looking for homeless hostels in Leicester, Derby or Nottingham. Once I had made a list I started to phone around them asking if Steve Ramozis was resident there.
A few informed me that they had nobody of that name in residence. One, in Leicester, told me he had been there for a couple of nights but had not been in since Friday. That told me that Steve was probably still in Leicester. Unfortunately, most of the hostels would not give out information pertaining to residents. I could understand the reason for that, but it was not very helpful.
Tuesday was a total disaster. I had to get a ten thousand word paper finished for my course. It was due on Friday, but I was getting nowhere with it. I found it impossible to keep my mind on the subject, because I kept wondering where Steve was.
Then, to cap it all, the ink cartridge on my word processor ran out. I was sure I had another, but could I find it? No way. I traipsed around town for the better part of an hour and a half trying to find a printer supply shop that stocked the cartridge I needed. That proved to be a total waste of time. It turned out that my cartridge was so out of date that it could only be obtained from specialist mail order suppliers. In the end I bought a computer magazine, looked through the advertisements for cartridge suppliers, and phoned them to see if they stocked the one I needed. I was quickly eating through my phone credit, which meant another trip into town to buy a prepayment voucher. Things were just not going my way.
In the end I phoned my supervisor at the university and explained that I was having problems getting the ink cartridge and he gave me an extension on my submission date. Actually he was quite helpful, saying that, given I had only just been released he imagined I had my hands full, so would give me an extra four weeks. I only needed one, but I was not going to turn down four.
When I got back to the hostel there was a message waiting for me from my Offender Manager. He would be over on Thursday for our weekly meeting, and would then transfer me to the hostel in Leicester. That was a relief; at least I would be back in the city where I hoped Steve was living. Actually knowing that helped me a lot. I calmed down and got a good sleep that night, and the following day I was able to sit down and work on my paper. I also managed to order the cartridge for my word processor. I even remembered to put the Leicester address on the order form.
Thursday morning my Offender Manager arrived and we had our weekly meeting. Really it was a waste of time, but it had to be done so the box could be ticked.
That finished, we went into the office so that I could go through the leaving process. The amount of paperwork that had to be filled in just to leave a hostel was unbelievable. I was in the middle of going through it all when my phone rang. It was my mother wanting to know what time I would be in Leicester. I told her I did not know but that I would call when I got there. I had just finished the call when Janet asked me to sign another pile of papers. Fortunately that was the last lot and once they were signed I was free to go.
I found my Offender Manager in the car park, talking on his phone. He indicated that I should get into the car as he walked about the car park.
“Sorry,” he said as he climbed into the driver’s seat, “there’s a bit of a flap going on. I need to pop into the office and then go to the West Indian Social Centre before I can take you to the hostel.”
I nodded; it was too much to expect things to run as planned. Although it had only taken an hour and a half to drive up from Leicester, it took the better part of three to drive back. There was a major jam on the M1 — I think at one point it actually took an hour to travel one mile. I suggested it might be better to leave the M1 and go across country, but apparently when they were transferring an offender they had to pre-book their route and then stick to it.
It had gone two by time we got to the probation offices in Leicester. My Offender Manager left me in the car whilst he went in and picked up some papers. We drove through back streets to the West Indian Centre, where I waited in the car for another ten minutes.
Finally, we started off for the hostel where I was to be accommodated. We were in a one way system, and where I would have expected to turn left to the main road we had to go right. That meant we passed a large new multi-storey building with the words “Dawn Centre” standing out down one wall. My Offender Manager mentioned that it was the location of the health service I would have to use.
The name Dawn Centre rang a bell with me. It was not on the list of the hostels I had compiled, but then if it was fairly new it probably would not be. I wracked my brains trying to remember where I knew it from, then recalled that a couple of nights before my release Steve had mentioned it, telling me that he used it as a postal address when he was on the streets in Leicester. It was a new homeless hostel and was very hard to get into.
At my new hostel and my Offender Manager handed me over to a case worker assigned to me from the hostel team, who would guide me through the registration process. That took over an hour and it was past four before everything was done and I was able to go to the room that had been allocated to me. Unfortunately it was a shared room, and I was not too happy about that.
I remembered I needed to phone my mother to let her know I had arrived and found I did not have my phone with me. For a moment I panicked, wondering where I could have lost it, but a moment’s thought made it clear. When Janet had handed me the last pile of papers to sign, I had put the phone down on the table. I must have left it there.
My Case Worker was still in the office when I got down to it, so I explained what I thought had happened. She phoned the other hostel and confirmed that I had left the phone on the table. They would post it to me but I would have to pay for the postage and they would not send the phone until they received the postage money. I agreed; there wasn’t much choice, but it left me without a phone and I needed one.
Unfortunately, the new hostel had imposed a five o’clock curfew on me, which they did for everyone who was not working. There was not enough time to get up town and back before sign-in. One of the reasons for the curfew was to make sure you were in the hostel for the evening meal. Once that was over it would be too late to get to a phone shop to get a new mobile. I did manage to phone mother using a pay phone in the hostel, and we agreed to meet on the Saturday.
That night I lay in bed, half listening to my roommate who was jabbering away telling me of all the burglaries he had committed over the year. He was certainly keen to portray himself as the hard man. I was not listening, having put my responses on automatic, which injected the appropriate ‘mm hmm’ or ‘aha’ when required. I was thinking about Steve. I was fairly certain that he would get a letter if I wrote to him at the Dawn Centre, but what could I say?
I got up the next morning, showered and made the first entry of the day in my journal. It was Friday the fourteenth of February, Valentine’s Day. Oh! That was the answer to my question; I knew what I could send to Steve. The first thing I did when I got up town was to get a new pay as you go phone. I went into a card shop and got a floral gift tube, some wrapping paper and a card. Finally, I bought a red rose from the market.
Back at the hostel I put the phone on charge and then set about preparing the gift I planned to send to Steve. I made a note of my new phone number and attached it to the stem of the rose, along with the card, then placed the rose in the tube and wrapped it up. I had three quarters of an hour before my lunchtime curfew kicked in — just enough time to get to the Dawn Centre and back.
I handed the package in at their reception. The young man looked at the label and told me that Steve had gone out about half an hour before. He said he would make sure that Steve got the package as soon as he arrived back.
That was useful information. It meant that Steve was actually staying at the Centre. I returned to my hostel, signed in and went through for lunch. I wasn’t in much of a mood to eat, though; I was worried about what Steve would do when he got the rose. I mentally kicked myself. Steve was not gay; how could I have been so stupid as to send him a rose on Valentine’s Day? It was a blatant announcement of something I was certain Steve was not ready to deal with.
After lunch I went up to my room and lay on my bed, listening to the news, and wondering what would happen. The afternoon seemed to drag. I expected a call from Steve any moment, but waited in vain. At five I went down to sign in and get dinner, after which I returned to my room.
It had just turned six when my phone rang. I grabbed it off my bedside table and pressed the answer button. “Steve?”
“How did you know it was me?”
“Only just got this phone. You’re the only person I have given the number to.”
We chatted for a couple of minutes until Steve said his money was running low. I suggested we meet up on New Walk; he agreed, so we ended the call and I got ready to go out.
There was no sign of Steve when I got there but just after I had sat on the bench where we had agreed to meet I saw him walking towards me. Seeing him confirmed to me exactly how much I wanted him in my life.
We sat on the bench talking for nearly three quarters of an hour. Steve did most of the talking; I listened and made the odd reassuring comment. He told me he was back using heroin. He described what he had to do to fund his habit. It was not nice, but it was something I just had to accept. If Steve was going to be part of my life I had to deal with it.
The alarm on my watch sounded, warning me that I had fifteen minutes to get back before curfew.
Steve walked back with me, promising me that he would get onto the methadone programme as soon as he could. Now he knew I was there for him he had a reason to sort himself out.
We walked down the road until we stood on the pavement opposite my hostel. I turned to Steve and have him a hug. He pulled me into an even tighter hug, turned his head to me and placed his lips against mine. We kissed for what seemed like an eternity before we broke apart.
Steve looked into my eyes. “I love you, Mike.”
“And I love you.”
“You know I’m a fucking mess.”
“I know, Steve, but we can work on sorting it out. You’ve got me now.”
“That’s all I need.” He turned and started to walk away, then looked over his shoulder and shouted, “Happy Valentine’s.”
* * * * *
That was six years ago. Those six years have not been easy; in fact they have probably been the hardest six years in my life — harder even than being in prison. There were times when I could have cheerfully murdered Steve, like when he stole my camera kit to pay for methadone because he had missed his appointment at the drug clinic. It was not so much the fact that he stole it that annoyed me, but that he only got a hundred and ten pounds for something worth over two thousand.
At one point we actually broke up and did not see each other for over a year. I even got involved in another relationship but that did not work out. John, my new partner complained when I called him Steve. I couldn’t blame him.
Although Steve and I had not seen each other we had kept in touch, and when I got a text asking me to meet him, I was there immediately. We were back together within about five days, determined to do something about Steve’s drug use. I managed to raise the three thousand pounds that was needed for Steve to go into private detox. More important, I managed to get a charity to fund him to go on a rehabilitation programme. It meant we were apart for four months but it was worth it; Steve has now been clean for two years.
Of course my big fear was that once he was clean he would no longer be dependent on me and I wondered whether that would change his feelings for me. It was a risk I had to take, though. Getting Steve clean was more important that having him with me. As it turned out, if anything, it made Steve’s feelings for me stronger.
During the rehabilitation he spent a lot of time in psychotherapy, going over his reasons for turning to drugs. One cause that was identified was his rejection of his own homosexuality. Once he accepted that the final barrier between us was gone.
After he got out of rehabilitation Steve went on a course at a local college and qualified as an exercise professional. He also obtained a qualification in therapeutic massage. He now works at the local sports centre, where he has been for the past six months.
We spent Christmas in Holland with Mattius and Jon, who wanted to meet Steve. I think Mattius still feels a bit proprietary towards me and wanted to approve my new partner. After that we drove to Vienna, with stopovers in Stuttgart and Munich to visit friends I had not seen for years.
It is now New Year’s Day and we are in Vienna. Steve is sitting at the breakfast table looking out across the city through the double doors that open on to the balcony of our hotel room. Shortly we will listen to the New Year’s Day concert from the Musikverein. Of course, we do not have tickets. That would have been almost impossible to arrange, even for me, but we are in Vienna. We will be back here for Valentine’s Day, the two of us… Steve and me.
Glossary
Association — A period when prisoners are allowed out of their cells to associate with each other or make phone calls.
Bang up — A period during which prisoners are locked in their cells.
Banged up — To be locked in your cell.
Licence — A period of supervision of an offender after their release from prison. A person on licence can be recalled to prison to serve the rest of their sentence at any time during their licence period. Until 2014 licence only applied to prisoners serving more than 12 months.
Local prison — A prison that takes in remand and short-term prisoners from the surrounding area and holds transitional prisoners for short periods.
Local release — In the UK the practice is, whenever possible, to move prisoners prior to their release to an establishment close to the probation area where they will be released. This avoids the necessity of Offender Managers having to travel long distances to make arrangements with prisoners and the provision of travel warrants for released prisoners to travel home. The term local can be misleading as the prison service seems to think that “local” means within fifty miles.
Lockdown — A state within a prison where all prisoners are locked in their cells. If there is any requirement to let prisoners out of their cells, for example to collect their lunch, this is done a few prisoners at a time.
Offender manager — A member of the probation service who has responsibility for the supervision of an offender who has been released on licence.
Pad — originally one's cell in prison, now general usage to mean the place you live in.
Property card / prop card — A record on which all property owned by the prisoner is listed. This includes property held by the prisoner, property that is stored at the prison for the prisoner, and a record of property that has been sent for long term storage in a warehouse.
Reception — The area of a prison dedicated to the processing of prisoners arriving at the prison or departing from it.
Rollcheck — A count done by prison officers of the number of prisoners in a unit or on a wing at a specific point in time, and the checking of this count against the list of prisoners who should be in the unit or on the wing. (See also the numbers.)
Screw — prison slang for a prison officer, which comes from the days of the treadmill when an officer would be in charge of tightening the screw to make the working of the treadmill harder.
The numbers — The count of the prisoners held in each unit or wing of a prison, phoned into security at roll check and checked against the total number of prisoners who should be in the prison.
Training prison — A prison which holds convicted prisoners on sentences of over twelve months, intended to provide training and rehabilitation for the prisoners.]]> “Of course, Mr Morris,” I did not tell him that I intended to hand out five of the bags to my visitors as soon as a visiting order could be arranged. I would have had a visit the following day at Albany, and the bags would have been handed out then, but somebody had the bright idea of transferring me to HMP Leicester for local release eight weeks before I was due to get out. “But I do need that one.” I indicated the smallest of the bags.
“Ok, we’ll sort your property card out in the morning.”
I nodded in agreement. Mr Morris and I went back some time. He was the first prison officer I met after my committal on remand; he was on reception duty when I arrived at the prison. Now he was a Senior Officer. In the eighteen months I had been on remand here he had been my Personal Officer so I had got to know him quite well. He had arranged for me to be Seg Cleaner, without doubt one of the cushiest jobs in the prison. That was a lifetime ago, though.
Actually it was only six and a half years, but it felt like a lifetime, and for all intents and purposes it may as well have been. Nothing was left of my old life; it had all been lost. The partner of over fifteen years, who said he would wait for me, managed to wait all of six months. I couldn’t I blame him; in truth I was surprised that he lasted that long. At least he stayed in touch, which is more than a lot of my friends did. The business that had taken me twenty years to build up lasted about as many months after my arrest; people supposedly acting in my best interests managed to fuck it up totally, and that fucked up my pension at the same time. So, here I was, a few months short of sixty, facing release and… nothing.
At least I managed to keep myself busy in prison. More important, I kept my mind active. The biggest threat in prison, especially if you were over forty, was shutting down; I most definitely avoided that. I played the prison game for all it was worth, taking advantage of every educational course that was available to me. Prisons like to show that they are educational and the more passes they can show the better, so the education department found it useful to have a number of high achievers sitting around doing degrees or post docs who they could call in to make up numbers on exams. In my five years down on the island I had taken both the numeracy competence and literacy competence exams about eight times.
I had also completed a degree and was in now my final semester of a post graduate diploma, which was why I was in something of a bad mood about being shipped out so far in advance of my release. There was no way I would be able to finish my assignments up at Leicester prison, where you were not allowed even a word processor, never mind a laptop, for course work. My first act once I got to the pad they were putting me in would be to write to my course supervisor explaining the situation and asking for an extension.
Exacerbating my bad mood was the realisation that I would be sharing a cell. After over five years of having a pad of my own, I was not looking forward to having a cellmate.
I grabbed the one bag of stuff that I really needed and hoisted it onto my shoulder. Mr Lynch, who I also knew from my remand period, took me over to the unit and showed me to a cell. He opened the door and told the lad lying on the left-hand bed that he had a new pad mate. Well, that was one good thing; the cell had beds rather than bunks. It was a bit cramped but at least it avoided having to scramble up into a bunk at night. There was a basic prison rule: whoever got in last took the top bunk. At my age that could be a problem.
Walking past Mr Lynch I dumped my bag and bedroll on the unoccupied bed. He asked me if I needed anything, so I told him I had to get some hot water, as I looked in my bag for my flask.
“Things ’ave changed a bit since you were ’ere last. You’ve got a kettle.” He pointed towards the bench by the side of the TV, then shut the cell door.
No matter how long you’ve been inside, there is something about that final clunk of the bolt as it shoots home that gets to you. I’ve spoken to lifers who have done twenty or thirty years and are looking at doing as long again, and they all say it still gets to them. It is almost as if the locks have been deliberately engineered to make that clunk as the bolt is shot, just to remind you of where you are and why.
Turning, I took a look at the lad lying on the other bed. He was wearing only boxers, allowing me a good look at his body, though it was not that much of a body but not too bad. One glance showed that he was a user and that the drugs had taken their toll on him.
Age-wise he could have been anywhere from twenty to forty, but I guessed about he was about thirty. It was difficult to assess ages inside. You’d come across lads who looked like they were in their mid-twenties and behaved like teenagers, only to find out that they were forty-five and had already served twenty years. Then there were the old lags you took for sixty and you found out they were thirty and only in the second year of a five-year stretch.
I held my gaze on my cellmate for a few moments. A look of apprehension, then fear, moved across his face. He pulled himself up, scrunching back against the low partition at the head of his bed that separated off the toilet area. He drew his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them, his eyes pleading to be left alone. It was a fear I had seen a lot in the previous six-odd years. The last thing I wanted was a pad mate who was terrified of me, and whose behaviour therefore might be unpredictable.
“Which is your locker?” I asked, there being two lockers in the cell, both at the end of my bed.
He indicated his, so I thanked him and started to unpack my stuff, leaving him to watch some drivel that was on the TV. It didn’t take me long to put everything away but by the time I was done I was sweating like a pig.
The cell was very hot. That was another design feature of the penal establishment: you either froze or you baked. If there was any heat at all in the cells it would be too much, otherwise they would be freezing. This prison was Victorian and there were two nine-inch cast iron heating pipes running through the rear of the cells. Ours must have been the first cell in the pipe run, getting the hot water direct from the boiler house. The result was that it felt like a sauna.
I stripped off to my boxers and sat on the bed to sort out my final bit of unpacking: teabags. The lad on the other bed was still scrunched up in his corner. When I asked if he would like a cup of tea he replied in the affirmative, so I filled the kettle and took a couple of teabags out of my stash. I always made sure that I had plenty of tea!
I asked my cellmate where his mug was; he pointed to a plastic one on the windowsill, so I got it, then made the tea. Another question, and he told me that he took milk and two sugars. No problem; I had lived in Germany long enough to get used to drinking tea without milk, and I had quickly got used to doing without sugar while I was in prison. As a result I had a stash of whiteners and sugars, which were always useful as trade items.
I handed the lad his tea and sat down on my bed. “I’m Mike, here for local release.”
As if it was local for me! Of the twenty years before my arrest I had probably spent three in this country, and most of that time had been down in London.
The lad told me his name was Steve, and he was on remand. I did not ask what for and did not want to know. The first thing you learned inside was don’t ask, don’t tell. Of course, no matter what you were in for it usually came out sooner or later; the screws were bound to let it slip if you hadn’t been outed by the press.
I glanced at my watch. Noting that it was nearly nine I asked Steve if it would be possible for me to watch Horizon. He asked which channel it was on and when I told him BBC2 he changed the channel and looked at me with a questioning expression.
“What?” I asked.
“Why didn’t you just take the controller and change channels?”
The question hit me like a ton of bricks. I would never have thought of doing something like that. I took a couple of seconds to think about it and then replied, “Because such action would be impolite.”
Steve looked at me with a blank expression on his face, as if I’d said something completely unfathomable.
The first few days with a new pad mate were always difficult. You had to work out what their boundaries were, and impose your own. After six years in the system I had become proficient at working it out, but Steve presented me with a problem; I had never come across anyone who was such a non-person. It was as if he just did not want to be noticed, being happy to curl up on his bed and keep out of the way. That is not how it works, however — at least not unless you totally want to be taken advantage off. I quickly got the impression that Steve was used to that.
That notion was confirmed at unlock the following morning. Just before the key was turned I heard a voice telling the screw to make sure that the new chap did his share of the cleaning. Not a problem; I like my cell to be clean, and that means cleaning it myself.
Steve was still in bed. I left him there, went to the sluice area and grabbed a mop and bucket, and a brush and dustpan. It was a good job I had been there before; at least I knew my way around.
When I got back to the cell Steve was out of bed. He gave me a puzzled look.
“Got anything under the bed?” I asked. He just nodded. “You better get it up on the bed before I sweep and mop. Then get out for a bit.” Steve smiled, pulled a couple of prop bags from under his bed and dumped them on top.
He turned to leave the cell but just before he did he turned back, “Mike, you’ll have to fill in your menu slip today, before lunch.”
I nodded to acknowledge that I had heard. Well, at least the boy could speak. After our exchange of names last night he had been totally silent and if I had not known better I might have assumed he was dumb. It didn’t take long to brush and mop out the cell. Well, how long does it take to mop a floor seven foot by twelve? Once finished, I took the cleaning stuff back to the sluice area.
When I got back to the common area Steve was standing by the pool table, and beckoned me over. A set of menus was laid out on the table and there was a pile of menu slips to be filled in. This was new, so I was grateful that Steve explained how things worked. I was even more grateful that he was speaking to me. It can be hell being stuck in a cell with somebody who won’t talk — or worse still, communicates in grunts. At least Steve appeared to have some command of the English language, unlike most of the younger inmates, and did not need to use fucking every third word.
I had just completed my menu selection for the week when the screw called out ‘behind your doors’. So, behind our doors we went. I noticed that Steve, like myself, was quick to get back in the cell. There are always some lads who hang around on the landing till the last possible moment, having to be ordered into their cells by the officer doing the lockup. I heard an officer shouting at somebody called Finnigan to get behind his door. A few moments later our door flap opened. The officer looked in, closed the flap and shot the bolt.
I got the kettle and started to fill it, asking Steve, who was lying on his bed, if he wanted tea or coffee. “Could I have a tea please? I don’t drink coffee.”
I made two teas and handed Steve his mug, then sat at my table and sorted out a text I needed to read for my course.
I had been in transit for three days and not had a chance to do any studying, which had been a pain. Although I was well ahead on things, one thing you learned in prison was to never assume that things would go the way you expect. There were too many ways things could go wrong, like some bloody security screw deciding, during a cell check, that the material I had for my course compromised security — just because he could not read the maths in the text book. That actually happened to me. It took eight weeks and the intervention of the Vice-Chancellor from the University I was studying with, to get that mess sorted out. Even then I don’t think anything would have been done had the Home Secretary not been a student at the same University and the Vice-Chancellor his tutor. From a couple of dropped hints I suspected that strings had been pulled behind the scenes — which resulted in the Governor not being very happy with the security screw.
Anyway, we were banged up and I had no idea how long for… but possibly till lunch. I decided I might as well get down and try to do some studying. It surprised me that Steve did not switch the TV on. Usually, that was the first thing the younger lads did when the bolt was shot. I glanced across at him and noticed he was reading — another surprise. Grateful of the chance to have some peace and quiet I turned to my studies.
About an hour later the flap was opened and a screw looked in, then the door was unlocked and opened. “Ramozis, education,” he stated. Steve got off his bed and got a folder out of the top of his cabinet. As he left he turned to me and said, “See you at lunch.”
The screw looked at me and glanced at his list. “What’s your name?”
“Richards, sir.” If you don’t know screws’ names you always call them sir or ma’am.
He checked the list again. “You’re not on my list. Are you doing any education?” I pointed to the textbook and papers on my table.
“What’s that?” he asked.
“Structural Integrity Part Two.”
He came into the cell and looked at my work, then shook his head. “Rather you than me, lad, I couldn’t make head nor tail of all those squiggles. Right, you’ll be banged up till lunch.” With that he stepped out of the cell and locked the door.
I breathed a sigh of relief. It is always difficult when screws realise that you are more intelligent than they are. Some can be bloody resentful about it, especially if you are trying to do something to make use of your intelligence. Others can be damn right supportive, seeing the fact that you are doing something to give yourself a chance to improve your life as a positive thing. A few will actually go out of their way to help you. There was one screw at my last prison who, during a period when the External Studies Tutor was off on long-term sick leave, took it upon himself to research stuff on the internet and print it out for those of us doing external studies. It must have cost him a fortune in paper and ink as there were fifteen of us doing university level studies, and we all had a lot of stuff that needed researching.
I spent the next couple of hours working my way through the examples in the workbook, and looking up references in the textbook. This section of the course was giving me some problems; I was finding it difficult to understand the examples because I could not conduct the recommended experiments. HMP Albany’s educational policy might have been advanced for the prison service, but there was no way they were going to let me have hydraulic jacks, metal bars and cement beams to play around with — and definitely not an angle grinder!
The door was unlocked about ten to twelve. Steve came in; he did not look happy.
“Not a good morning, I presume?”
He turned and looked at me, “No, it was bloody shit. Maths and I don’t understand any of it. And she’s given us a pile of homework to do for Monday.” He placed his folder down on his table and pulled out a number of question sheets. He sat down and studied them, with a look of absolute despair on his face.
“Come on, it can’t be that bad.”
“It is. I’ll end up getting them all wrong and everyone will know what an idiot I am. I always fuck things up.”
“Would it help if I went through them with you?”
He turned and looked at me. “Would you?”
“Of course, why not?”
“Most people just ignore me.”
I was starting to get the feeling that Steve did not have a very high opinion of himself. Low self-esteem was not good if you intended to survive in prison. You needed to have a degree of self-confidence, otherwise the system would beat you into the dust, which was exactly what it was supposed to do.
Twenty minutes later we were unlocked to collect our lunch, then locked up again for roll check. I knew that we had at least an hour and an half. There were shift changes and officer lunch breaks to get out of the way before they did roll check, so they would not be phoning the numbers in to security till at least one forty five, and somebody would have the count wrong so there would have to be a recount. The earliest we would be unlocked would be two. That being the case, I thought I might as well help Steve with his maths.
It turned out that it was not mathematics but arithmetic. One thing that really gets me annoyed is people calling arithmetic maths. It’s not. Mathematics is a language that is used to solve problems. Arithmetic is a system of calculating using numeric values. It’s fair to say that you can’t do maths unless you have some knowledge of arithmetic, but you do not need maths to do arithmetic. Actually, you do not need all that much arithmetic to do maths. Look at Albert Einstein; he had trouble adding up his shopping list.
Anyway Steve had some arithmetic to do and it was not too hard. In fact, it was fairly simple so long as you knew the rules to follow. That was the problem. It appeared that the teacher had assumed a level of knowledge that Steve just did not have. She had explained everything in terms of numerators and denominators, without checking to see if her class understood what she meant. After helping Steve I had a strong suspicion that quite a few of her class would not know what she meant. Unfortunately nobody had asked, which is not surprising.
Well, it’s fairly obvious if you think about it. It is easy for somebody like myself, at fifty nine, to stick up my hand in a tutorial group and ask what internal distortion resistance means. I could be pretty sure that most of the group would have the same question. However, for a thirty-year-old in a class with other thirty-year-olds, all of whom are trying to not look stupid, it is not so easy to ask a question.
Once I had explained the basics of vulgar fractions to Steve, everything started to make sense to him. He was able to get on and make his way through the worksheet he had been set without any problems, or at least nothing major. He did need a bit of help sorting out improper fractions, but not much.
Unlock took place at half past two and the call went out for library. I took the opportunity to go along and get some books, as I knew I would be in the prison for seven weeks. It was Friday and I was a bit worried that I had not been called over to reception to sort out my property. Amongst my things were books that I was planning to read, but if I did not get over to reception it would probably be Tuesday before my stuff could be sorted out. Monday was always a busy day in reception with committals from the weekend, so it was unlikely that they would call for me then.
As it was I need not have worried. Mr Morris came to the unit for me just after three and took me over to reception.
I told him that I had intended to pass out five of the bags on the planned visit down at Albany, and I would be doing that as soon as I could arrange for my friend Paul to visit me in Leicester. That made life a lot easier for him as he just listed all five as sealed property bags to be handed out. He sorted out my visiting orders and made sure that my outstanding orders from Albany were transferred. That meant I could get a visit arranged as soon as possible
The sixth bag caused problems, because a pile of stuff we were allowed at Albany, like the word processor, was not allowed in this prison. I could understand that as it was a local facility; prisoners were not expected to be there long, so there was no provision for graduate external studies — or any external studies for that matter. The only educational provision was for basic literacy and numeracy. So, a number of things that were quite important for me were not on the facilities list, like my drawing board and geometry set. I could manage without my word processor — I always wrote my papers out long hand in the first place anyway — but I did need my technical drawing equipment to do the diagrams that were required.
Most people on the outside don’t understand that prisons work only if inmates and staff co-operate with each other. Most of the time they do. There has to be a degree of give and take on each side. Most officers will ignore the odd infringement of a prison rule so long as it is not likely to cause a problem. At the same time prisoners will not insist that officers do everything by the book all of the time. There are times when it is in everybody’s interest to bend the rules slightly.
So it was with Mr Morris. He phoned the governor and explained that I had a quantity of educational material which was not on the facilities list but which I needed to complete my studies. I noticed that he did not say exactly what the materials were, and that the governor did not appear to ask. As it was, I agreed to give up some stuff I did not need and Mr Morris put some stuff through on my property card as having the governor’s permission.
That avoided my having to use the request and complaints procedure, which would have involved an appeal to the Area Manager, then the Home Office, and probably a Judicial Review — all of which probably would not have got me anywhere, but would have caused an awful amount of paperwork for the prison staff.
I didn’t complain, and the staff didn’t look too closely at what I had; a satisfactory arrangement all round.
Mr Morris escorted me back to the unit, which appeared completely deserted, with no staff and no prisoners in sight. When Mr Morris unlocked my cell it was empty so I presumed Steve had gone to education or exercise.
On the way over to the unit Mr Morris had asked me about the studies I was doing and said that he was thinking of doing Open University. I had just completed a Cert Maths with the Open University, so showed him my some of my course work. He remarked that it did not seem to be too difficult. I told him it wasn’t, provided you kept up with the course work and the prescribed reading.
With that Mr Morris left, locking me in the cell. Being on my own I got my radio out of my prop bag and tuned into Classic FM. It was nice to be able to listen to some music and not have to have headphones on, which is the norm in a shared cell. I got down to sorting out my property and putting stuff in my locker, or in my prop bag under the bed. Then I put the kettle on to boil. Just then there was quite a bit of noise on the landing and I guessed that the staff and prisoners had returned. Once again I heard a screw shouting at Finnigan to stop chatting and get by his door.
The cell door opened to let Steve in and shut behind him. I picked up the headphones to plug them in, but Steve asked me to leave the radio on. He also asked me what the music was. It was Kilar’s Exodus.
“I like it; seems familiar,” he commented.
“Have you seen Schindler’s List?”
“No, is it from that?”
“No it’s not, but it was used as the music for the trailer.”
Steve confirmed he had seen that, which led to a conversation about the film. I was amazed to find that he had no understanding of the Holocaust; he thought it was just an incident where a pile of Jews were shot. I sat down on my bed and started to tell him the whole story: how not only Jews, but disabled people, religious dissenters, homosexuals, Slavs, Ukrainians and others were put to death, and that the Jews made up just part of the eleven million plus people killed.
It was during that conversation that I started to see another side to Steve. Clearly, he was not well educated; in fact, if anything his education was sadly lacking because he did not seem to have even a basic understanding of events in modern history. On the other hand, he was no idiot. Once he began to understand what we were talking about he asked some very pertinent and quite pointed questions… like why did the Dutch, Belgians and French allow the trains taking the prisoners to the camps to run? I told him there was no easy and simple answer to that. You needed to have lived in those countries at the time to even begin to understand.
From that point on things changed. I had not really paid much attention to Steve before but after that day I found that there was something more between us than one would normally expect in pad mates. Let’s be honest, most of the prisoners I came across there were morons, if that is not insulting morons.
The following Saturday and Sunday we were on lockdown most of the time due to staff shortages. A lot of inmates got worked up over lockdowns, but they never really bothered me. Having my studies and being able to get lost in a book kept me occupied. Being in a lockdown with a pad mate, especially one you don’t know well, can be a pain, though, and I must admit I was a bit worried when the unit manager came around just after Friday evening roll check to tell us there would be a lockdown over the weekend.
As it turned out the time we were confined to our cell was, if anything, quite helpful.
I spent hours talking to Steve and listening to what he had to say. In those two days he opened up to me in a way I don’t think he had to anybody before. He was, as I had guessed, addicted to heroin, although at that time he was on methadone as a substitute. Arguably that was worse, because it is harder to break an addiction to methadone than it is one to heroin. Why, oh why, does our government have a fix on not appearing to reward the addict? It would be a lot easier, simpler and cheaper if they followed the Swiss model and supplied addicts with heroin under clinically controlled conditions. I suppose it is too much to expect a government to act sensibly.
Anyway, it seems that Steve had been an addict for a long time and had been on the methadone programme for the previous couple of years, although he had relapsed a couple of times when he had missed appointments to get methadone scripts. The good news was that he had managed to get down to ten millilitres a day. He was about to move onto five millilitres a day, the final step before going clean, when he was arrested. The bad news was that he was back up to sixty millilitres. Apparently the prison service automatically put addicts on that dose when they arrived and did very little to reduce it.
I had never used drugs. Oh, I used cannabis once (all that did was trigger a migraine), and at a party somebody decided to drop some acid into my drink (which had no effect on me), but that was the extent of my drug use. As a result I was not au fait with the drug regime in prison.
Steve told me that there was a detox unit in the prison but that you could only get into it once you were sentenced… and there you hit one of the classical catch 22 situations that seem to abound in organisations like the prison service. The detox programme took three months, so you could only be admitted if you had at least three months left to serve. That meant you had to be sentenced to at least six months. If you received a sentence under four years you would be automatically released at the half-way point; a sentence over four years meant you would be released at the two-thirds point, although in both cases you would be on licence and subject to supervision once you got out till the end of your licence period. At least that was the case if you were sentenced to twelve months or more. Anything less and God help you, you were on your own. No licence, no supervision and no help with housing or jobs..
The problem was that the prison is a local and as such it did not hold people with sentences of more than one year. Given that any time spent on remand was set against your sentence, the chances were that once sentenced you would either have too little time left to serve to go into the detox unit, or your sentence would be such that you were immediately moved off to one of the training prisons. The result was that most of the time there was only a handful of prisoners who qualified for detox so half the unit’s cells were empty. Well, they were not empty, but they were not being used for detox.
The fact that Steve was a user should have put me right off him. I had had a couple of bad experiences with addicts and after that I had avoided anyone I even suspected might be a user. With Steve, though, somehow it did not make any difference. By time that weekend was over I knew quite a lot about him; although there was a lot I disliked about what he had done with his life, nevertheless I found myself liking him.
On the Monday morning Steve went off to education, and shortly after that Mr Lee, another officer I knew from my time on remand, came and took me to induction, or as he described it, “a fucking waste of time”. However, it was necessary to go through the motions and tick off the boxes on the check list.
One of those was education assessment, which was fun. The first question I was asked by the girl who was conducting the assessment — anybody under fifty looks young to me but she actually was a girl; I doubt if she was more than nineteen and I suspected she was on work placement from college — was how old was I when I left school?
I responded that I was fourteen.
She looked at me and remarked, “That means you’ve got no GCSEs then.”
I acknowledged that fact, because GCSEs did not exist when I was at school. Without asking any further questions she proposed that I should do Basic Literacy on Monday and Wednesday mornings and Basic Numeracy on Tuesday and Friday mornings. Thursday I would have IT skills.
In response to that I told her that I did not have time to do those as it would interfere with my studies.
She looked at me with an apparent attempt to assert her authority. “And what studies are those?”
“Postgraduate diploma in Material Engineering,” I responded. If she had bothered to look at my prison file she would have found that information in there.
“But you have to have a degree to do that,” she stated somewhat pointedly.
“I have three; five if you count degree equivalents,” I responded, enjoying the look of bafflement that passed over her face.
“How?” she exclaimed, as she opened my file and started to look through it.
“I went back to college in my twenties, and studied law and accountancy. I hold a BLaw and I have my Charted Accountant qualifications, which are recognised as first degree equivalents. I then got into information technology and wrote a couple of books, and did a Master’s degree in Computer Science. They admitted me to the Master’s course on the basis of my books. Whilst I was in Albany I did a Batchelor of Engineering and now I am doing a postgrad in Material Engineering. I hope to do a full Masters once I’m out, but it is not possible whilst inside.”
“You’re wasting my time!” was her response.
“No, you wasted your time by not reading my file before you started the interview.”
The problem with a lot of civilian staff in prisons was that they had a stereotypical image of what a prisoner was like. Probably ninety percent of the time they were correct; but the odd ten percent would catch them out — and it often caught them out badly.
After my comment she got up and left the interview room. Mr Lee returned. “You seem to have upset our Ms Simmonds.”
I nodded.
“What happened?”
“She had not read the file.”
“Typical, the more qualified they are the less likely they are to do the groundwork.”
“She’s qualified?” I asked.
“Oh yes, child genius, got into Oxford at sixteen and got her degree at nineteen, did a Master’s in Education last year… for all of which she knows nothing. Anyway, better get you over to the Health Centre, then we can get you back to the unit.”
The Health Centre visit was quick. The doctor knew me from my period on remand and he had made a point of reading my file. It took him about ten seconds to review and sign off on my meds. Then it was back to the unit.
Steve arrived back from education about half an hour after I got back, and immediately asked if I could help him with his worksheets. It was all fairly simple stuff and once I had explained it to him he quickly did the worksheet that he had to hand in at his next literacy class. However, a suspicion was starting to form in my mind.
Life dropped into a routine. Steve would go off to education in the morning; I would sit at my table and study. About quarter to twelve Steve would return and I would spend the next half to three quarters of an hour going over his worksheets with him. In the afternoon we would be unlocked at about two thirty for exercise, except on Fridays when we were unlocked at quarter to two so we could go to the library. Often in the evening we would lie on our beds and talk, or I would be writing letters with the radio on. Steve seemed to prefer the radio to TV and would often ask if he could borrow my radio and headphones if I wanted to watch a programme on TV.
Just before Christmas some stationery I had ordered whilst at Albany finally caught up with me. I had ordered it two days before I had been transferred out. Of course, it had arrived at Albany after I left and then had to follow me through the prison system.
With an ample supply of stationery on hand I decided to check out my suspicion about Steve. Whilst he was out at education I wrote a series of letters in different sizes on some white A4 card. Basically, I was constructing my own version of a Snellen chart — that set of letters of diminishing sizes you are asked to read when you go for an eye test.
Once lunch was over, I handed Steve one of the sheets and asked him to tell me what the letters were. He read them with no problem.
Then I put a card up in front of the TV and asked him to read that. He went to move closer to it, but I told him to stay where he was — about eight feet away from the chart. Steve started to tear up and said he could not read it. He started to cry. I went and gave him a hug and told him not to be upset. “You just need to see the optician.”
Unfortunately seeing an optician in prison was easier said than done. Mostly they had one who would attend periodically: if you were lucky, once a month; if you were unlucky, once a quarter. However, there was a way to short circuit the system, if you knew how.
When we were unlocked for exercise I approached Mr Roberts, another of the Senior Officers I knew from my time on remand, although he had not been an SO then. I asked if I could have a confidential word with him later. He agreed.
As we were returning from exercise Mr Roberts called out that he wanted to see me in the interview room. I went there and took a seat to wait for him.
A few minutes later, after doing lockup, Mr Roberts came in. “All right, Richards, what is it?”
“It’s Ramozis, Mr Roberts. I am a bit concerned about him.”
“Oh, what’s up?”
“He is getting very depressed over problems he’s having in education. In fact, I think he might do something stupid if it is not sorted out soon.” I sat back in my chair letting that sink in.
“Oh, shit!”
I had played the at risk card and that had got his attention. I could give him a way to deal with it, but first he had to ask for my help.
“Right, Richards, what’s the problem?”
I quickly explained that Steve was very short-sighted and could not read the whiteboard in education. Mr Roberts asked why he was not wearing glasses and I told him I believed he had lost them at the time of his arrest. I went on to say that he had put in an application to see the optician when he had arrived at the prison but nothing had happened. I was fairly certain that both those statements were false, but the number of applications that got mislaid in prison was beyond belief so nobody was going to be able to check up.
Once appraised of this information Mr Roberts said he would deal with the issue, and returned me to my cell.
I told Steve what I had done, and that, when asked, he should say that he had glasses on the outside but had not been wearing them when he was arrested. He was also to say that he had applied to see the optician the first week he was on remand. I assured him that Mr Roberts would sort something out.
One thing that always worried prison officers was having somebody who was likely to self-harm. They would go out of their way avoid any such problems, so I fully expected something to be sorted out quickly. I was not prepared for just how quickly!
About half an hour after I returned to the cell one of the Health Centre officers unlocked us and told Steve he had an appointment. I don’t know whether that was one of the days when the optician was in and they pushed Steve onto the list, or if they had called the optician in, but in just over an hour he was back in the cell with the news that he was getting glasses.
Somebody must have pulled something somewhere, for the following week, on Christmas Eve to be exact, Steve’s glasses arrived. In the intervening week I had managed to find out that he had never had his eyes tested.
The eye test incident brought about a change in my interaction with Steve. I had put my arm around him and given him a hug when he was crying. For anyone who hasn’t been in prison let me tell you that was a big no-no. Physical contact with other inmates was kept strictly to a minimum — and I mean a minimum — unless, of course, you were fucking their brains out. That is mostly the straights, though; most gay prisoners avoid that type of relationship.
However, the physical contact seemed to have broken a barrier on both sides. After that I found that if I was sitting at my table, drawing a diagram to explain something to Steve, when he looked over my shoulder to follow what I was doing he would often place a hand on my shoulder. I found myself doing the same when I was looking over his shoulder at the worksheets he was doing. Something seemed to be drawing us together, although I could not see what.
One thing was quite clear: Steve was not my type. For a start, I was nearly twenty eight years older than he was. More important, he did not have the intellectual capacity that I needed in my companions. I’m not saying Steve was stupid; in fact I had begun to think he was far from that, but there was no way he was up to my level. As far as I was concerned Steve was definitely not relationship material. There was also the minor matter of his being straight.
Strangely, though, having Steve around just seemed natural. Not in the way you got used to having a pad mate around; this was something more. He seemed to sense when I was stuck on something in my studies, and getting tense. He would get up and make some tea, forcing me to break from whatever was causing the problem.
Then came the day when I was having a particularly nasty time trying to calculate tension and compression forces on a structure; forces which I was sure could never have existed in reality but dreamed up as some fiendish plot by the author of the text book to give you the worse possible calculations to do. I had been stuck on it for a couple of hours and my neck and shoulders were really starting to ache. Steve came up behind me and placed his hands on my shoulders and his thumbs on the back of my neck, and started to massage me. After about twenty minutes I was really relaxed.
“Where did you learn that?” I asked.
“Oh, I worked in a sports place when I first left school. I learnt it there; they said I should train as a therapeutic masseur.”
“Did you?”
“No, it was about then that I started using. The moment they found out I was fired.”
That got us talking about his future.
I knew Steve liked to exercise — he went to the gym whenever there was a session available. That did not seem very often for our unit, but when there was one Steve went. Overall, although somewhat on the thin side, he did not have a bad body. It wasn’t one of the heavily-muscled body-building types you see a lot in prison, but there was clear defined muscle there. Steve quite liked exercise, and seemed to know a lot about it, so the obvious work for him would be in a gym or similar facility. That would require him to be registered on the Register of Exercise Professionals, and neither of us knew what that required. I told him I would look it up when I got out and send him the information.
There, I had done it; I had committed myself to staying in touch with Steve once I got out… a total breach of everything I had said I would do, or planned to do, once I was out. My idea had been to put prison behind me and forget about it as soon as possible. Clearly that was not going to be the case.
Christmas Day fell on a Thursday, so the previous Friday was our last chance to go to the library for some three weeks. As a result we were allowed to take out six books rather than the normal four. I had already taken out a couple of books which I knew were going to be fairly heavy reading, so I knew I had enough to last me over the Christmas period. I also knew I had a couple of books coming in from an online supplier ordered for me by my ex-partner in Holland. So, not needing any extra reading material I grabbed a book on IQ tests. I thought it might come in useful over the Christmas-New Year period.
It did. There were staff shortages again and we were banged up for most of Christmas Day and all of Boxing Day. We were given half an hour’s exercise on Christmas Day, as well as a half hour association during which we could make phone calls. Boxing Day was bang up all day. It was not a problem for me, and as it turned out, not really one for Steve either.
On Christmas day I got him to have a go at some of the IQ tests. The results confirmed what I had suspected: his IQ appeared to be above average. He was not a genius, but he was well up at the top end of the normal range. He touched on above-normal in a couple of the tests.
Once I had the results I tried to explain to Steve why he scored above-average on the tests but did so badly in class. I pointed out that surviving on the streets, as he had done for a number of years, took intelligence. A stupid person would not last very long; you had to have street smarts. IQ is not a measure of how clever you are; rather it is an indication of your potential.
The fact that he had an above-average IQ — and that I had been able to show him that — gave Steve much-needed confidence. We had talked about his future a few times but he had always been very negative about it. Whenever I had suggested that he should look at doing a course or getting some training his response had been that he was too stupid for that. With the IQ tests, I had shown him that he was not too stupid at all, and he began to realise that classes or training might be a real possibility.
In the week between Christmas and New Year there were no education classes, so Steve was in the cell all morning. As I had done everything I could on my studies, at least until I got out, I spent the time going through all his worksheets with him. I was pleasantly surprised at how much he was able to pick up once it was explained to him in a way he understood.
Education was open as usual after New Year, so Steve was back in class each morning. He had tests on the Monday and Tuesday and the following Thursday he came back to the cell with a big smile on his face. He had not only passed the tests, but had obtained a Level 2 Diploma in both Literacy and Numeracy. That evening we broke open one of my reserve bars of chocolate to celebrate, and to say goodbye, because I was to be released the following day.
My actual discharge date fell on the Sunday, but as the prison service does not release inmates over the weekend, I would be let out on the Friday. Steve had been aware of this since I arrived in the cell; it was one of the first things I had told him. I do not think it really sank in, however, until I started to pack up my stuff.
I was rather surprised the next morning when just after seven a screw came and banged on the door, telling me to get ready because someone would be coming for me in ten minutes. Normally, if you are being released in advance of your nominal date they leave it till the afternoon to let you out. Fortunately I was already up and ready; Steve was still in bed. He got out and came over to give me a massive hug, telling me I was the best pad mate he had ever had — and he had known a few, having spent at least a couple of months each year inside for petty offences.
I assured him that I would keep in touch. Seeing a look in his eyes that reminded me of a puppy who knew he was about to be abandoned, I reiterated that I would write to him as soon as I got to the hostel where they were putting me, just a few hundred yards from the prison.
The officer came back and unlocked, telling me that I needed to get over to reception pronto as there was a gate pickup for me at eight. This had me puzzled as the hostel was within walking distance of the prison. Even if I was going to be escorted there I would not have expected to be picked up.
Once I was processed through reception — where a wheeled suitcase I had ordered was waiting for me (fortunately the five bags of property had all been handed out on visits) — and the gatehouse, I found my Offender Manager waiting for me outside.
The unexpected pickup was quickly explained when he told me that there had been a fire at the hostel so they had to find temporary accommodation for me at another one some sixty miles away. I was not very happy, but there was not much I could do about it. A condition of my licence was that, until the licence period was completed, I had to reside at approved premises — which essentially meant a probation hostel.
It took an hour and a half to get to my new place of residence. I must admit that once I got there I was pleasantly surprised. It was a purpose-built hostel that had only recently opened. Every room was single-occupancy and each had an en suite shower attached.
My Offender Manager introduced me to the hostel staff, then left, saying he would see me the following Monday. The hostel staff set about telling me the way the hostel worked and all the rules and regulations. One annoying thing was the curfew; you had to be in the hostel from ten at night until seven thirty in the morning. That on its own wasn’t too bad, but if you were not working you had to attend a morning meeting in the hostel from nine to nine thirty and afternoon constructive activity sessions from two thirty to four.
The staff were displeased that I had a word processor, because computers were not allowed in the hostel. I pointed out that it was not a computer. Whilst they were trying to sort out something about this, which involved phone calls to the head of probation services, I went off into town to get some supplies. Specifically I needed writing paper, pen, ink, envelopes and postage stamps. I had promised Steve I would write to him, and it was important to me that I made sure he got a letter from me the following day.
Whilst I was up town I also got myself some new underwear, a couple of shirts and a mobile phone.
I phoned my mother to let her know what had happened and where I was. It was too far for her to get up to see me, and there were no direct buses from the village she lived in, anyway, so we agreed that we would not meet up until I was moved back to the original hostel in Leicester. I had been assured that it would be a matter of two to three weeks at the most. I was fairly certain that would be the case as I had been placed in a hostel across the county boundary. My home probation service would be paying the host one a higher rate for my placement there, so they had an incentive to get me back to Leicester quickly.
When I got back to the hostel I was pleased to find that the hostel staff had decided — by which they meant they were told — that my word processor was permitted. That was a relief; although my writing was fairly fine I hated writing letters by hand; it could be very painful due to my arthritis, so I preferred to avoid it. Drafting assignments in fits and starts is one thing; sitting down and writing a letter by hand in one go is another.
Using my word processor I quickly knocked out a letter to Steve, telling him what had happened and where I was. I also gave him my phone number, and sent him a five pound note so he could get some phone credit.
After that I had to join the other residents of the hostel for our afternoon session of purposeful activity. I am sorry but if you can find any purpose in sitting around a table taking part in an ‘odd one out’ quiz for over an hour, you are a better man than I am I must admit that I could not resist winding up the woman running it. When you’re asked which is the odd one out — London, Paris, New York or Rome? — it is perfectly correct to offer Paris on the grounds that it is the only one of those cities not to have experienced a Great Fire. I know she expected New York on the grounds that it was not a capital, but I submit that my answer was equally valid. She was even more upset when I was able to give her the dates.
Actually I was being a little disingenuous because Paris actually suffered a number of major fires — including one in the 14th century and the Opera Fire of 1916 which were especially serious — but none of these were called Great Fires.
For some reason the purposeful activity session ended a lot earlier than planned, and I was able to get out to the post box and post Steve’s letter well before the last post. I used a first class stamp, so expected that Steve would receive it the next day, Saturday. Just to be on the safe side I enclosed a stamped addressed envelope with my address on it for him so he could write back to me.
The weekend was somewhat depressing. I was in a town I did not know, with very little I could do. One thing that I had looked forward to in Leicester was visiting the university libraries — there were two universities there, but the place I ended up in had none. Worse, its town library made the book section of an Oxfam shop look comprehensive.
There was also something else — something I had not experienced for a long, long time. It was feeling an emptiness, a sense that something was missing. To be more precise, it was someone. Steve was not there… and that left a hole that I had not expected.
Somehow, in the eight weeks that I had shared the cell with him, he had wormed his way into my life. It was only after my release that I discovered he was there. When I went to make a cup of tea I automatically looked for his mug, then realised it was sixty miles away.
I tried my best that weekend to shake off the feeling that something was missing, but nothing worked — I always seemed to end up thinking about Steve.
On the Sunday afternoon I went to a free concert in a local church. It was given by a local brass band, which I thought would be fairly safe. One thing Steve and I had not discussed — or even listened to — was brass band music. I am not that much of a fan, but the only other option was to sit in my hostel room and listen to Gardener’s Question Time, then some serialization of a book I had never heard of, on the radio. The brass band seemed the better choice.
Actually it was very good, which is often the case with bands from the northern industrial and mining towns. I was impressed with the whole programme, but especially the band’s arrangement of Widor’s Toccata, a jazzier and more sympathetic arrangement than the usual brass band transcription.
The finale, though, was my undoing. They played a series of pieces by Johann Strauss Snr, ending up with the Radetzky March. That piece brought back a very recent memory, and before I knew it I was in tears.
New Year’s Day had been another lockdown because of staffing levels, so there had been no morning association. Just before lunch I asked Steve if he minded my having the TV on as there was a concert I would like to watch. He had no objections so I switched on BBC 2 for the New Year Concert from the Golden Hall of Musikverein in Vienna. The opening shots were a montage of scenes in Vienna and Steve said it looked beautiful. I told him it was. That got us talking about my time living and working in Europe and the places I had visited. Steve said he would really like to go somewhere like that; I suggested that maybe one day I could take him.
The Musikverein New Year Concert always ends with the Radetzky March. The moment the brass band began to play it I remembered that conversation. Suddenly, I realised how much I wanted to take Steve to Vienna — and also to Paris, Berlin, Copenhagen and Oslo. I wanted to go back to the world I knew and I wanted Steve to be there with me.
The next few days were hectic, as I tried to sort things out. Among other tasks, I had to register with the local police and the Job Centre.
The latter pointed out to me that I was overqualified for all of the jobs they had on their books and I would probably have to reduce my expectations. The young lady was trying to be helpful, but actually the last thing I wanted was a job. I had worked out a plan for a nice little business, and just had to decide on a way to get it started. One thing was certain — it was not going to be possible from my present location; I would have to wait till I got back to Leicester. I realised I also needed to be back there for Steve.
Unfortunately it did not look as if that would happen in the near future. The news my Offender Manager gave me at our meeting on the Monday was not good. The damage to the hostel was more extensive than had first been thought. It had been found that, rather than a clean-up and paint job, there was a need for some structural work, and it would be at least four weeks before I could be moved back to Leicester.
One good thing that came out of that meeting was that it was accepted that my studies amounted to a purposeful activity, so I did not have to attend those stupid afternoon sessions.
On Wednesday I received a letter from Steve, telling me how he was, and how surprised he was to get my letter — because most people dropped him the moment they could. He said he missed me, and our talks. I didn’t know about his missing me, but I was certainly missing him. In a postscript at the bottom of the letter he thanked me for the fiver and said he had applied for my number to be put on his phone list.
That night I sat down and wrote back to him, telling him what I had been doing since my last letter, and about my plans for starting a business. I also mentioned, as something of an aside, that I missed him.
The following evening my phone rang, showing a number I did not recognise. It was the prison, phoning to tell me that Steve had applied to have my number on his phone list. Was I prepared to accept calls from him? Yes I was!
It was Saturday before he phoned. He said he was writing another letter to me. He told me that he had a plea and directions hearing at the Crown Court on Friday 1st February. It would be a bit hard because of my curfew, but if I got an exemption from the morning meeting I should be able to get to Leicester in time for his hearing.
As it turned out, it was not hard to get out of the morning meeting; in fact the Janet, the duty manager, seemed glad to give me permission to miss it — probably something to do with all the awkward questions I kept asking.
Steve’s letter arrived on the Tuesday. Most of it was chat about the prison, including complaints about his new pad mate, a body builder lifer who apparently hogged the TV and was hitting on Steve. That did not surprise me; it was surprising how many very butch, macho prisoners wanted sex from their cellmates, especially when the cellmate was weak and vulnerable.
One line in the letter really hit me. He wrote, ‘Thank you for taking an interest in me, nobody has done that before’.
The question was what was my interest in Steve? I was finding it hard to define. Sexual? I would not have minded having sex with Steve, but that was not my main interest. He was not very sexually attractive for me, and in any case, so far as I was concerned, Steve was straight — although, from a few things he had said, I gathered that he had engaged in gay sex when it was a question of surviving or getting heroin. No… the thing about Steve was that he filled a hole in my life. The problem was I could not define what that hole was.
I posted another letter off to him on the Wednesday, telling him I had sorted out things at the hostel and would be at his court hearing on the first. Once at the court I would be able to make an application to see him. I was hopeful that there would not be any problems.
Naturally, I had not told the probation staff that I was going into Leicester to see Steve, but I had not lied to them either. What I had said was that I needed to go into Leicester to meet my mother (which was true), to sort out my bank account (also true), and to deal with some legal issues and file court papers (again, totally true). It just happened that the County Court, where I had to file the papers, was in the same building as the Crown Court where Steve’s hearing would be held.
Friday the first of February came round faster than I expected. I woke early that morning — well before six thirty, which is what I had set my alarm for — and full of excitement in anticipation of seeing Steve again, even if it was behind a sheet of glass.
I took a quick shower, dressed, and went down to the dining room to get some breakfast. One of the night duty staff was just laying out the breakfast things. It was a fellow I had not seen before.
“You’re a bit early aren’t you?”
“Need to be. I have to catch the seven forty five bus, and it is ten minutes from here to the bus stop.”
He turned and looked at me.
“The seven forty five is the Derby bus; there is no way you can catch that and get back for nine.”
“I’m not attending the meeting this morning.” The moment I spoke I saw there was a problem.
“Are you working?”
“No, I have to go to Leicester today. I arranged to be exempt from the meeting this morning.”
“Well,” he said, “there is nothing in the log book, or the diary, so you’d better wait till the one of the managers gets in. You can sort it out with them.”
That would really fuck things up, The managers did not come in till half past eight, and then there was handover which would take half an hour. If I had to wait until then there was no way I could get the bus into Derby in time to catch the train to Leicester to be there when court started. I told him that I could not wait that long because I would miss my appointment, and moved to leave the dining room, with the intention of going to my room and getting my stuff.
Before I got to the door he shouted at me, “You are on hostel detention from now!”
Hostel detention meant you could not leave the building; you could not even go outside to the yard for a smoke. To do so would be an automatic breach of licence which meant recall to prison. All I could do was to wait around for someone to come in and sort the mess out. It seemed an awful long wait.
Fortunately, the first person to arrive was Janet, the assistant manager who had made the arrangements with me. Even better, she got in early, arriving just before a quarter past eight.
She had hardly got through the door when I approached her. Before I could start to explain the situation she asked why I was still there. “Shouldn’t you be on the bus to Derby?”
I told her what had happened.
“What!” she exclaimed, “Mike, only a manager or assistant manager can place you on hostel detention, and only after a second warning about something! It is in the diary, I know I wrote it there. Come to the office.”
I followed her to the office. The staff member who had placed me on detention was at the duty officer’s desk when she entered. “What’s this about there being nothing in the diary about Richards being exempt from the morning meeting?”
“There is nothing in the diary for today, except for Malcolm having to go to the hospital.”
Janet looked at him and let out a sigh. “That was last week.”
She walked around the desk and looked at the diary. “You’ve got it open at last Friday!”
Turning to me she continued, “Mike, get your stuff. I’ll drive you down to the supermarket. With a bit of luck we can get there before the eight fifteen has completed its run around the town.”
I ran up to my room, grabbed my coat and bag and was back down before Janet had finished putting her coat back on. From the look on the duty officer’s face I reckoned she had given him a tongue lashing.
The supermarket was situated at one end of the town’s bypass. It wasn’t far from the hostel, at least not by car. Fortunately for me the bus took a long route through a housing estate before joining the bypass at its other end. Janet got me there about a minute before the bus arrived.
On the way she had apologised for the action of the duty officer, explaining that he was not staff but a temporary cover they had got in from an agency. She also assured me that the hostel detention would not go into my file. Thinking about it later on the bus going to Derby, I realised that in this they were protecting themselves. With no entry in my file there would be no record of it, so it would be hard for me to sue them over an unlawful detention.
It was nine-fifteen when I got into Derby, and I had to dash across town to get to the railway station. There was no way I could make it in time to get the last train that would get me to Leicester before ten. Worse still, when I got to the station the departures screen showed the nine forty one from Sheffield going to Leicester, Market Harborough, and all stations to London, as being twenty minutes late. I checked to see if the nine twenty one was also running late. It had been, but only by ten minutes and I had just missed it.
The train was more like forty minutes late when it eventually arrived, and there was a further delay before it left Derby. It was just after eleven when I finally got into Leicester.
I literally ran from the station to the Crown Courts, and was held up yet again by the queue waiting to go through security. At last, I managed to make my way to the Crown Court area and asked which court Steve’s hearing was listed for. The hearing was over, but they told me that it was likely that he still in the building; if I went down to the visitor area I would probably be able to see him.
The custodial officer on duty when I got there was very helpful, asking me who it was that I wanted to see. I gave him the name and he went to check on Steve’s status. It was only about two minutes before he came back and informed me that Steve had been discharged.
“Discharged?”
“Yes, sir, apparently the prosecution advised the court that they would not be offering any evidence on the main charge. He pleaded guilty to two minor offences, and the sentence for those was less than time served, so he was released. About twenty minutes ago.”
I must have looked a bit faint or something because he became rather concerned and asked if I would like to sit down.
No, I did not want to sit down; all I wanted to do was get out of there and start looking for Steve. I hoped there would be a message on my phone, which I had to hand in to security at the entrance.
I made my way back there, retrieved my phone, and checked it for messages. There was one from my mother telling me that, given the weather, she did not think it wise to travel into Leicester. I agreed, especially as I was in no mood to have a nice afternoon tea with her.
The weak winter sun had finally given up any attempts to break through the clouds by time I left the courts. It was a dull and dank day with that fine drizzle that keeps trying to turn to snow but does not quite make it.
My plan to go to the university libraries was forgotten, although I did manage to get into my bank and sort out my account. There was a lot more money there than I expected; it seemed that Mattius, my ex-partner, had transferred two thousand Euros to me the day I was released. That reminded me that I needed to give him my new contact details.
For just over four hours I walked around Leicester, trying to visit all the places that Steve had mentioned during our talks, in the hope that I might just find him. It was a fruitless search. Eventually, just after four, I gave up and got the train back to Derby.
It is difficult to express how I felt. There was an emptiness and a sense of loss that… well, I simply could not describe how I felt. It was a totally new feeling for me and I did not recognise it.
That night I slept badly; in fact, I don’t think I actually slept at all; I just lay in bed feeling empty. I could not get Steve out of my mind, and the idea of not hearing from him or seeing him was just too much for me. Eventually I gave up trying to sleep. I got up, showered and dressed, and sat in my room listening to Classic FM.
Over the next few days I consoled myself with the thought that Steve had my telephone number and address. He could get in touch with me, and I expected that he would. Every day I eagerly awaited a letter or a call from him. There was nothing, however, and the feeling of emptiness grew.
By the Thursday when my Offender Manager came over to see me I was really down, and I think he got a bit worried about my mental state. He did have some good news for me, though. The building work at the Leicester hostel had been finished and they would be moving people back in as soon as the painting was done. He planned to move me the following week.
Saturday came and I had a chance to go back to Leicester and look around to see if I could find Steve. Of course, I had to obtain permission to go, but I had good reasons. Mattius, my ex, was driving over from Holland with his new partner to return a lot of my stuff that had been sitting in his garage for more than six years. He had arranged to put it into storage in Leicester, so that I would have easy access to it.
I thought that seeing Mattius with someone else would be strange. We had been together for fifteen years before my arrest, and at the time there was no reason to suppose that we would not be together for the foreseeable future. I had actually planned to liquidate my interests in the UK and buy a house in Holland where we could live together. Even after I was arrested, Mattius said he would wait for me. That did not work out, however; six months later he had met somebody else. I really could not blame him, although that relationship had not lasted very long. Later, he had met Jon and, when I was released from prison they had been together for four years.
Mattius had remained a friend throughout my whole time in prison. He had written to me regularly, and set up a virtual phone number in the UK so I could phone him without the high costs of an international call from a prison phone, which could be crippling. I had not known, though, that each month he had made a deposit into a savings account so there would be some money for me when I got out.
I had been lucky. Although most of my friends in England had dropped me the moment I was arrested, my Dutch and German friends had stood by me and supported me. But then, as Mattius had pointed out, if I had been in Holland or Germany I would not have been arrested — and they also knew the truth about what had happened.
I arrived in Leicester a few minutes after nine, which gave me a good four hours to spend looking for Steve before I had to meet Mattius and Jon. They had travelled over via the Channel tunnel the night before and were staying at a hotel down by Folkestone. It was a good two and a half to three hour drive from there, and as they would not be leaving till about ten, we had arranged to meet up at one.
My search for Steve was another fruitless one. If anything, I was more down than I had been all week when I finally met Mattius and Jon.
All the time I was inside, even after I knew that he was in a new relationship, I had held onto the idea that once I was out Mattius and I would get back together. When he arrived at our meeting place, a bar close by Leicester station, we hugged each other and then he introduced me to Jon. In that moment I realised that there was no chance of our getting back together, not because the relationship between Mattius and Jon was so obvious and so strong, but because I wanted something different — something that I had felt with Steve. I finally realised that what I wanted was to be with Steve.
We sat and had a light meal and a drink. Over the meal Mattius interrogated me about how things had gone since I was released. He did a fine job of it, as could be expected. I had taught him how to interview I.T. system users to find out what they wanted, and I had been one of the best solution architects in Europe. I had passed on my skills to Mattius.
“You know something, Mike…” he said, leaning back from the table and looking directly at me.
“What?”
“You’re in love.”
“I’m what?”
“In love. I don’t think you have ever been in love before, or had anyone in love with you. I hero-worshipped you and you responded and it worked for us, but it was not love. I don’t think you were in love with Mark, either.”
Mark had been my previous partner, and that relationship had ended about the time I met Mattius.
“I know Mark had a bloody big crush on you, but a crush is not love. For once, Mike, I think you have fallen in love, and it is hurting.”
I nodded.
“Well, you either have to find this Steve and sort something out, or you have to get over it. Either way, I don’t think it is going to be easy.”
He was damned right; it wasn’t easy. Once he had made me consider it, I had to admit that I was in love with Steve. The problem was, there was no Steve around to love. Without him life was going to be hell.
During the whole of the first week of February I hoped that Steve might phone me or send me a letter, but neither happened. After my meeting with Mattius I knew that I needed Steve and that I had to find him. The problem was I had no idea how to go about it. I could not even be sure that he was still in Leicester — his home town had been Derby and he had spoken about living in Nottingham.
The one thing I did know was that Steve did not have anywhere to go when he got out; he was homeless. I knew he had experienced periods of homelessness before, because he had talked about it a number of times and about how he survived on the streets. I just prayed that he had managed to get into one of the hostels for the homeless; the weather had been far from good.
On the Monday, immediately after the morning meeting, I went down to the local library and consulted the telephone book, looking for homeless hostels in Leicester, Derby or Nottingham. Once I had made a list I started to phone around them asking if Steve Ramozis was resident there.
A few informed me that they had nobody of that name in residence. One, in Leicester, told me he had been there for a couple of nights but had not been in since Friday. That told me that Steve was probably still in Leicester. Unfortunately, most of the hostels would not give out information pertaining to residents. I could understand the reason for that, but it was not very helpful.
Tuesday was a total disaster. I had to get a ten thousand word paper finished for my course. It was due on Friday, but I was getting nowhere with it. I found it impossible to keep my mind on the subject, because I kept wondering where Steve was.
Then, to cap it all, the ink cartridge on my word processor ran out. I was sure I had another, but could I find it? No way. I traipsed around town for the better part of an hour and a half trying to find a printer supply shop that stocked the cartridge I needed. That proved to be a total waste of time. It turned out that my cartridge was so out of date that it could only be obtained from specialist mail order suppliers. In the end I bought a computer magazine, looked through the advertisements for cartridge suppliers, and phoned them to see if they stocked the one I needed. I was quickly eating through my phone credit, which meant another trip into town to buy a prepayment voucher. Things were just not going my way.
In the end I phoned my supervisor at the university and explained that I was having problems getting the ink cartridge and he gave me an extension on my submission date. Actually he was quite helpful, saying that, given I had only just been released he imagined I had my hands full, so would give me an extra four weeks. I only needed one, but I was not going to turn down four.
When I got back to the hostel there was a message waiting for me from my Offender Manager. He would be over on Thursday for our weekly meeting, and would then transfer me to the hostel in Leicester. That was a relief; at least I would be back in the city where I hoped Steve was living. Actually knowing that helped me a lot. I calmed down and got a good sleep that night, and the following day I was able to sit down and work on my paper. I also managed to order the cartridge for my word processor. I even remembered to put the Leicester address on the order form.
Thursday morning my Offender Manager arrived and we had our weekly meeting. Really it was a waste of time, but it had to be done so the box could be ticked.
That finished, we went into the office so that I could go through the leaving process. The amount of paperwork that had to be filled in just to leave a hostel was unbelievable. I was in the middle of going through it all when my phone rang. It was my mother wanting to know what time I would be in Leicester. I told her I did not know but that I would call when I got there. I had just finished the call when Janet asked me to sign another pile of papers. Fortunately that was the last lot and once they were signed I was free to go.
I found my Offender Manager in the car park, talking on his phone. He indicated that I should get into the car as he walked about the car park.
“Sorry,” he said as he climbed into the driver’s seat, “there’s a bit of a flap going on. I need to pop into the office and then go to the West Indian Social Centre before I can take you to the hostel.”
I nodded; it was too much to expect things to run as planned. Although it had only taken an hour and a half to drive up from Leicester, it took the better part of three to drive back. There was a major jam on the M1 — I think at one point it actually took an hour to travel one mile. I suggested it might be better to leave the M1 and go across country, but apparently when they were transferring an offender they had to pre-book their route and then stick to it.
It had gone two by time we got to the probation offices in Leicester. My Offender Manager left me in the car whilst he went in and picked up some papers. We drove through back streets to the West Indian Centre, where I waited in the car for another ten minutes.
Finally, we started off for the hostel where I was to be accommodated. We were in a one way system, and where I would have expected to turn left to the main road we had to go right. That meant we passed a large new multi-storey building with the words “Dawn Centre” standing out down one wall. My Offender Manager mentioned that it was the location of the health service I would have to use.
The name Dawn Centre rang a bell with me. It was not on the list of the hostels I had compiled, but then if it was fairly new it probably would not be. I wracked my brains trying to remember where I knew it from, then recalled that a couple of nights before my release Steve had mentioned it, telling me that he used it as a postal address when he was on the streets in Leicester. It was a new homeless hostel and was very hard to get into.
At my new hostel and my Offender Manager handed me over to a case worker assigned to me from the hostel team, who would guide me through the registration process. That took over an hour and it was past four before everything was done and I was able to go to the room that had been allocated to me. Unfortunately it was a shared room, and I was not too happy about that.
I remembered I needed to phone my mother to let her know I had arrived and found I did not have my phone with me. For a moment I panicked, wondering where I could have lost it, but a moment’s thought made it clear. When Janet had handed me the last pile of papers to sign, I had put the phone down on the table. I must have left it there.
My Case Worker was still in the office when I got down to it, so I explained what I thought had happened. She phoned the other hostel and confirmed that I had left the phone on the table. They would post it to me but I would have to pay for the postage and they would not send the phone until they received the postage money. I agreed; there wasn’t much choice, but it left me without a phone and I needed one.
Unfortunately, the new hostel had imposed a five o’clock curfew on me, which they did for everyone who was not working. There was not enough time to get up town and back before sign-in. One of the reasons for the curfew was to make sure you were in the hostel for the evening meal. Once that was over it would be too late to get to a phone shop to get a new mobile. I did manage to phone mother using a pay phone in the hostel, and we agreed to meet on the Saturday.
That night I lay in bed, half listening to my roommate who was jabbering away telling me of all the burglaries he had committed over the year. He was certainly keen to portray himself as the hard man. I was not listening, having put my responses on automatic, which injected the appropriate ‘mm hmm’ or ‘aha’ when required. I was thinking about Steve. I was fairly certain that he would get a letter if I wrote to him at the Dawn Centre, but what could I say?
I got up the next morning, showered and made the first entry of the day in my journal. It was Friday the fourteenth of February, Valentine’s Day. Oh! That was the answer to my question; I knew what I could send to Steve. The first thing I did when I got up town was to get a new pay as you go phone. I went into a card shop and got a floral gift tube, some wrapping paper and a card. Finally, I bought a red rose from the market.
Back at the hostel I put the phone on charge and then set about preparing the gift I planned to send to Steve. I made a note of my new phone number and attached it to the stem of the rose, along with the card, then placed the rose in the tube and wrapped it up. I had three quarters of an hour before my lunchtime curfew kicked in — just enough time to get to the Dawn Centre and back.
I handed the package in at their reception. The young man looked at the label and told me that Steve had gone out about half an hour before. He said he would make sure that Steve got the package as soon as he arrived back.
That was useful information. It meant that Steve was actually staying at the Centre. I returned to my hostel, signed in and went through for lunch. I wasn’t in much of a mood to eat, though; I was worried about what Steve would do when he got the rose. I mentally kicked myself. Steve was not gay; how could I have been so stupid as to send him a rose on Valentine’s Day? It was a blatant announcement of something I was certain Steve was not ready to deal with.
After lunch I went up to my room and lay on my bed, listening to the news, and wondering what would happen. The afternoon seemed to drag. I expected a call from Steve any moment, but waited in vain. At five I went down to sign in and get dinner, after which I returned to my room.
It had just turned six when my phone rang. I grabbed it off my bedside table and pressed the answer button. “Steve?”
“How did you know it was me?”
“Only just got this phone. You’re the only person I have given the number to.”
We chatted for a couple of minutes until Steve said his money was running low. I suggested we meet up on New Walk; he agreed, so we ended the call and I got ready to go out.
There was no sign of Steve when I got there but just after I had sat on the bench where we had agreed to meet I saw him walking towards me. Seeing him confirmed to me exactly how much I wanted him in my life.
We sat on the bench talking for nearly three quarters of an hour. Steve did most of the talking; I listened and made the odd reassuring comment. He told me he was back using heroin. He described what he had to do to fund his habit. It was not nice, but it was something I just had to accept. If Steve was going to be part of my life I had to deal with it.
The alarm on my watch sounded, warning me that I had fifteen minutes to get back before curfew.
Steve walked back with me, promising me that he would get onto the methadone programme as soon as he could. Now he knew I was there for him he had a reason to sort himself out.
We walked down the road until we stood on the pavement opposite my hostel. I turned to Steve and have him a hug. He pulled me into an even tighter hug, turned his head to me and placed his lips against mine. We kissed for what seemed like an eternity before we broke apart.
Steve looked into my eyes. “I love you, Mike.”
“And I love you.”
“You know I’m a fucking mess.”
“I know, Steve, but we can work on sorting it out. You’ve got me now.”
“That’s all I need.” He turned and started to walk away, then looked over his shoulder and shouted, “Happy Valentine’s.”
* * * * *
That was six years ago. Those six years have not been easy; in fact they have probably been the hardest six years in my life — harder even than being in prison. There were times when I could have cheerfully murdered Steve, like when he stole my camera kit to pay for methadone because he had missed his appointment at the drug clinic. It was not so much the fact that he stole it that annoyed me, but that he only got a hundred and ten pounds for something worth over two thousand.
At one point we actually broke up and did not see each other for over a year. I even got involved in another relationship but that did not work out. John, my new partner complained when I called him Steve. I couldn’t blame him.
Although Steve and I had not seen each other we had kept in touch, and when I got a text asking me to meet him, I was there immediately. We were back together within about five days, determined to do something about Steve’s drug use. I managed to raise the three thousand pounds that was needed for Steve to go into private detox. More important, I managed to get a charity to fund him to go on a rehabilitation programme. It meant we were apart for four months but it was worth it; Steve has now been clean for two years.
Of course my big fear was that once he was clean he would no longer be dependent on me and I wondered whether that would change his feelings for me. It was a risk I had to take, though. Getting Steve clean was more important that having him with me. As it turned out, if anything, it made Steve’s feelings for me stronger.
During the rehabilitation he spent a lot of time in psychotherapy, going over his reasons for turning to drugs. One cause that was identified was his rejection of his own homosexuality. Once he accepted that the final barrier between us was gone.
After he got out of rehabilitation Steve went on a course at a local college and qualified as an exercise professional. He also obtained a qualification in therapeutic massage. He now works at the local sports centre, where he has been for the past six months.
We spent Christmas in Holland with Mattius and Jon, who wanted to meet Steve. I think Mattius still feels a bit proprietary towards me and wanted to approve my new partner. After that we drove to Vienna, with stopovers in Stuttgart and Munich to visit friends I had not seen for years.
It is now New Year’s Day and we are in Vienna. Steve is sitting at the breakfast table looking out across the city through the double doors that open on to the balcony of our hotel room. Shortly we will listen to the New Year’s Day concert from the Musikverein. Of course, we do not have tickets. That would have been almost impossible to arrange, even for me, but we are in Vienna. We will be back here for Valentine’s Day, the two of us… Steve and me.
Glossary
Association — A period when prisoners are allowed out of their cells to associate with each other or make phone calls.
Bang up — A period during which prisoners are locked in their cells.
Banged up — To be locked in your cell.
Licence — A period of supervision of an offender after their release from prison. A person on licence can be recalled to prison to serve the rest of their sentence at any time during their licence period. Until 2014 licence only applied to prisoners serving more than 12 months.
Local prison — A prison that takes in remand and short-term prisoners from the surrounding area and holds transitional prisoners for short periods.
Local release — In the UK the practice is, whenever possible, to move prisoners prior to their release to an establishment close to the probation area where they will be released. This avoids the necessity of Offender Managers having to travel long distances to make arrangements with prisoners and the provision of travel warrants for released prisoners to travel home. The term local can be misleading as the prison service seems to think that “local” means within fifty miles.
Lockdown — A state within a prison where all prisoners are locked in their cells. If there is any requirement to let prisoners out of their cells, for example to collect their lunch, this is done a few prisoners at a time.
Offender manager — A member of the probation service who has responsibility for the supervision of an offender who has been released on licence.
Pad — originally one's cell in prison, now general usage to mean the place you live in.
Property card / prop card — A record on which all property owned by the prisoner is listed. This includes property held by the prisoner, property that is stored at the prison for the prisoner, and a record of property that has been sent for long term storage in a warehouse.
Reception — The area of a prison dedicated to the processing of prisoners arriving at the prison or departing from it.
Rollcheck — A count done by prison officers of the number of prisoners in a unit or on a wing at a specific point in time, and the checking of this count against the list of prisoners who should be in the unit or on the wing. (See also the numbers.)
Screw — prison slang for a prison officer, which comes from the days of the treadmill when an officer would be in charge of tightening the screw to make the working of the treadmill harder.
The numbers — The count of the prisoners held in each unit or wing of a prison, phoned into security at roll check and checked against the total number of prisoners who should be in the prison.
Training prison — A prison which holds convicted prisoners on sentences of over twelve months, intended to provide training and rehabilitation for the prisoners.]]> <![CDATA[Warlord]]> https://funtailix.com/portal/showthread.php?tid=2352 Tue, 15 Jul 2025 17:27:55 +0000 WMASG]]> https://funtailix.com/portal/showthread.php?tid=2352 Really he was getting too old for this. Maybe after this battle he could resign and let somebody else take over the responsibility of being Warlord. There were plenty who would like the post, like the young Rebel opposite. In a couple of more years and a few more battles he would have enough experience, possibly, to take on the role. The gods knew he had fought enough battles to get to this one.
The flight of Fire Dragons as expected swept forward from the Rebel's line, just as the Warlord had expected. That combination of moves had first been used by the Emperor Tsu Shai some three thousand years ago. Not used often since, for the simple reason it was very rare that a battle went on long enough for a situation to develop where it could be used effectively, but this one had. Twelve great crossbows that the Warlord had ordered forward just for this eventuality spewed forth their bolts, six of the seven Fire Dragons fell from the sky. The seventh would no doubt turn and return to its lines.
With care the Warlord checked the projection of the battle that was before him. It was nearly time. The time was coming, he would use the Immortals. Again he smiled to himself. This had been a good battle, in so much as any battle could be good. Most of those he fought these days were little more than skirmishes. The son of some disgruntled member of the nobility raising a force to challenge the authority of the Empire. They would come to the field having studied all the great books on war and execute some manoeuvre that they had found and thought effective. It was then that they found that nine times out of ten the Warlord had written the definitive description of the manoeuvre. The other one time out of ten he had invented it, which was of course the reason he was the Warlord.
He had not only read the books on war, he had written all of the more up to date ones. He had not learnt his war craft studying in some classroom, he had learnt it on the field, just like the Rebel opposite. The Rebel was different. He did not come to the battle with Tsu Shai's 'The Use of the Ten Thousand' tucked under his arm, in all likelihood he probably had never read it, that is if he could read. The Warlord made a mental note to check after the battle if the Rebel could read. If he could not that could explain why he had been so successful. Not bound by the theories of war that had been laid down over the generations.
That was what had made this battle an interesting challenge. It had not been predictable. The Rebel had not followed any formal plan or strategy laid down in some book or other. Not like the young bucks who would come to the field of battle from time to time. They did not expect to win, they only wanted to be able to boast to those around them that they had fought the Warlord. They came with their advisors and books of reference, ready to look up the details of any change from the proscribed form of the battle as laid down by some author or other. They were not warriors who understood war, but students who appreciated books. Indeed one had come to the field of battle with a copy of 'The Concept of War' by the Warlord himself and sent it over before the battle with a request that the Warlord sign it, very unlike the Rebel.
The Warlord had observed the Rebel when he arrived. There had been no crowd of advisors and strategists round him. Just a communications officer and a servant to pour drinks and arrange refreshments, though from the apparent intimacy between them the Warlord thought the servant might be more than just a pourer of drinks. He had not arrived dressed in finery to impress his staff, just a plain comfortable white robe that would reflect the heat of the midday sun. The Warlord, sweltering in his Imperial robes of office, envied the young man across the field of battle. At least he had been able to dress sensibly for the day’s events.
In many ways the Warlord could appreciate and understand the Rebel. The two of them were so much alike. They both came from the same background, that of the middle class tradesmen. The Rebel like the Warlord had objected against the bullying and inconsideration of the petty nobility. He has stood up against the young bloods with their troops of soldiers and had soon raised enough support amongst the local populace to go up against them in minor skirmishes. Here he had had the advantage, not knowing the rules and etiquette of the procedures of war, he had just gone in to win.
A couple of victories had given the Rebel a greater following and a reputation. Now the younger sons of the minor nobility wanted to try their skill against him. One by one they had fallen to the unconventional tactics of the Rebel and his disregard for established rules of battle.
The Warlord knew just how it was. He had come up the same way from nearly the same start. Indeed the towns from which they both came were in the same province, less than a days march apart. Thirty years ago he had been the Rebel, now he sat in the Warlord's tent supervising the field of battle, that was the way of things. He eased himself around in the chair, leaning over to give a command to his communications officer. A command that would start to amass his forces behind the Imperial Immortals, those highly trained troops that were the invincible force in his battles.
It had not always been the case though. He remembered when he had been the Rebel and had faced the Warlord of the time. Then the Immortals had been on the field as they always were. Everyone knew that the Immortals were invincible, so when they joined the fight the opposing troops just fled. That is everyone but a young Rebel who had never read the classic texts on war. All he had looked at was the reports of the last fifty battles and he had observed one thing. When the Immortals charged they were never challenged. Nobody had seen them fight. This got the that Rebel into thinking, if nobody had seen them fight how did anyone know how good they were. So he had kept part of his force back in reserve and when the Immortals advanced and the cry when up, 'The Immortals are coming', he had launched his reserves into a direct attack on them. His guess had been right, in eighty years of never having to fight, just being display soldiers, they had become soft. That had been the end of the old Warlord and he had taken his place.
This new Rebel would not have such luck. The Warlord had kept his Immortals well trained and made sure he used them to effect in every battle. They were his hammer that he drove hard into the enemy. The battle hardened elite troops that would drive a wedge deep into the ranks of the opposing force. A weapon to use once he had spotted a weakness in the line of the troops who opposed him.
There it was, the weakness that the Warlord was looking for. The heavy infantry on the left flank were having difficulty holding their ground. The Rebel had moved two units of foot from the centre to support the left flank. That left the centre weak. Now was the time for the Immortals. He identified the target and gave the command to his communications officer. Then watched the field of battle before him as the scarlet and gold mass that was the Immortals started to advance down the slight hill towards the opposing centre. Behind them came rank after rank of light infantry to mop up the remains.
It always amazed the Warlord how slow the critical parts of the battle seemed to go. There seemed to be an age during which the Immortals advanced down hill before they made contact with the centre, far longer than he would have expected. Too long in fact. He looked again at the battle lines, the opposing centre was pulling back drawing his Immortals on deep into, into the Horns of the Ox. But for that the Rebel would need light troops on his flanks and he had heavy infantry on the left. The Warlord looked to double check. As he did he saw the left flank infantry drop its heavy armour and charge forward. Light infantry in disguise. Without looking he knew the right flank would also be charging across the face of the hill. Soon they would hit his advancing column. Not the Immortals head on, but the supporting troops at their back, and through them they would come on the Immortals from behind.
The position was lost. It was no use wasting resources in allowing the battle to continue. He indicated to the Adjudger of Battles that he was accepting defeat. The trumpets sounded the end of the battle.
The old man looked up at the young man in the campaign chair across the field of battle. They stared at each other, eye to eye.
"You always used the Immortals when given the chance," the young man commented.
"Yes, I learnt the mistake of not using them from the old Warlord I defeated at this field."
"I hope I've learnt not to use them too much, may I?" he asked indicating the stationary figures on the field of battle. The old man nodded, "Warlords privilege."
The new Warlord leaned over and switched off the projection.
"To think they used to fight battles once with real men."]]> Really he was getting too old for this. Maybe after this battle he could resign and let somebody else take over the responsibility of being Warlord. There were plenty who would like the post, like the young Rebel opposite. In a couple of more years and a few more battles he would have enough experience, possibly, to take on the role. The gods knew he had fought enough battles to get to this one.
The flight of Fire Dragons as expected swept forward from the Rebel's line, just as the Warlord had expected. That combination of moves had first been used by the Emperor Tsu Shai some three thousand years ago. Not used often since, for the simple reason it was very rare that a battle went on long enough for a situation to develop where it could be used effectively, but this one had. Twelve great crossbows that the Warlord had ordered forward just for this eventuality spewed forth their bolts, six of the seven Fire Dragons fell from the sky. The seventh would no doubt turn and return to its lines.
With care the Warlord checked the projection of the battle that was before him. It was nearly time. The time was coming, he would use the Immortals. Again he smiled to himself. This had been a good battle, in so much as any battle could be good. Most of those he fought these days were little more than skirmishes. The son of some disgruntled member of the nobility raising a force to challenge the authority of the Empire. They would come to the field having studied all the great books on war and execute some manoeuvre that they had found and thought effective. It was then that they found that nine times out of ten the Warlord had written the definitive description of the manoeuvre. The other one time out of ten he had invented it, which was of course the reason he was the Warlord.
He had not only read the books on war, he had written all of the more up to date ones. He had not learnt his war craft studying in some classroom, he had learnt it on the field, just like the Rebel opposite. The Rebel was different. He did not come to the battle with Tsu Shai's 'The Use of the Ten Thousand' tucked under his arm, in all likelihood he probably had never read it, that is if he could read. The Warlord made a mental note to check after the battle if the Rebel could read. If he could not that could explain why he had been so successful. Not bound by the theories of war that had been laid down over the generations.
That was what had made this battle an interesting challenge. It had not been predictable. The Rebel had not followed any formal plan or strategy laid down in some book or other. Not like the young bucks who would come to the field of battle from time to time. They did not expect to win, they only wanted to be able to boast to those around them that they had fought the Warlord. They came with their advisors and books of reference, ready to look up the details of any change from the proscribed form of the battle as laid down by some author or other. They were not warriors who understood war, but students who appreciated books. Indeed one had come to the field of battle with a copy of 'The Concept of War' by the Warlord himself and sent it over before the battle with a request that the Warlord sign it, very unlike the Rebel.
The Warlord had observed the Rebel when he arrived. There had been no crowd of advisors and strategists round him. Just a communications officer and a servant to pour drinks and arrange refreshments, though from the apparent intimacy between them the Warlord thought the servant might be more than just a pourer of drinks. He had not arrived dressed in finery to impress his staff, just a plain comfortable white robe that would reflect the heat of the midday sun. The Warlord, sweltering in his Imperial robes of office, envied the young man across the field of battle. At least he had been able to dress sensibly for the day’s events.
In many ways the Warlord could appreciate and understand the Rebel. The two of them were so much alike. They both came from the same background, that of the middle class tradesmen. The Rebel like the Warlord had objected against the bullying and inconsideration of the petty nobility. He has stood up against the young bloods with their troops of soldiers and had soon raised enough support amongst the local populace to go up against them in minor skirmishes. Here he had had the advantage, not knowing the rules and etiquette of the procedures of war, he had just gone in to win.
A couple of victories had given the Rebel a greater following and a reputation. Now the younger sons of the minor nobility wanted to try their skill against him. One by one they had fallen to the unconventional tactics of the Rebel and his disregard for established rules of battle.
The Warlord knew just how it was. He had come up the same way from nearly the same start. Indeed the towns from which they both came were in the same province, less than a days march apart. Thirty years ago he had been the Rebel, now he sat in the Warlord's tent supervising the field of battle, that was the way of things. He eased himself around in the chair, leaning over to give a command to his communications officer. A command that would start to amass his forces behind the Imperial Immortals, those highly trained troops that were the invincible force in his battles.
It had not always been the case though. He remembered when he had been the Rebel and had faced the Warlord of the time. Then the Immortals had been on the field as they always were. Everyone knew that the Immortals were invincible, so when they joined the fight the opposing troops just fled. That is everyone but a young Rebel who had never read the classic texts on war. All he had looked at was the reports of the last fifty battles and he had observed one thing. When the Immortals charged they were never challenged. Nobody had seen them fight. This got the that Rebel into thinking, if nobody had seen them fight how did anyone know how good they were. So he had kept part of his force back in reserve and when the Immortals advanced and the cry when up, 'The Immortals are coming', he had launched his reserves into a direct attack on them. His guess had been right, in eighty years of never having to fight, just being display soldiers, they had become soft. That had been the end of the old Warlord and he had taken his place.
This new Rebel would not have such luck. The Warlord had kept his Immortals well trained and made sure he used them to effect in every battle. They were his hammer that he drove hard into the enemy. The battle hardened elite troops that would drive a wedge deep into the ranks of the opposing force. A weapon to use once he had spotted a weakness in the line of the troops who opposed him.
There it was, the weakness that the Warlord was looking for. The heavy infantry on the left flank were having difficulty holding their ground. The Rebel had moved two units of foot from the centre to support the left flank. That left the centre weak. Now was the time for the Immortals. He identified the target and gave the command to his communications officer. Then watched the field of battle before him as the scarlet and gold mass that was the Immortals started to advance down the slight hill towards the opposing centre. Behind them came rank after rank of light infantry to mop up the remains.
It always amazed the Warlord how slow the critical parts of the battle seemed to go. There seemed to be an age during which the Immortals advanced down hill before they made contact with the centre, far longer than he would have expected. Too long in fact. He looked again at the battle lines, the opposing centre was pulling back drawing his Immortals on deep into, into the Horns of the Ox. But for that the Rebel would need light troops on his flanks and he had heavy infantry on the left. The Warlord looked to double check. As he did he saw the left flank infantry drop its heavy armour and charge forward. Light infantry in disguise. Without looking he knew the right flank would also be charging across the face of the hill. Soon they would hit his advancing column. Not the Immortals head on, but the supporting troops at their back, and through them they would come on the Immortals from behind.
The position was lost. It was no use wasting resources in allowing the battle to continue. He indicated to the Adjudger of Battles that he was accepting defeat. The trumpets sounded the end of the battle.
The old man looked up at the young man in the campaign chair across the field of battle. They stared at each other, eye to eye.
"You always used the Immortals when given the chance," the young man commented.
"Yes, I learnt the mistake of not using them from the old Warlord I defeated at this field."
"I hope I've learnt not to use them too much, may I?" he asked indicating the stationary figures on the field of battle. The old man nodded, "Warlords privilege."
The new Warlord leaned over and switched off the projection.
"To think they used to fight battles once with real men."]]> <![CDATA[Waiting]]> https://funtailix.com/portal/showthread.php?tid=2351 Tue, 15 Jul 2025 17:27:16 +0000 WMASG]]> https://funtailix.com/portal/showthread.php?tid=2351
Waiting, that is what it is all about. There is of course a technical term for it. There is a technical term for almost anything. In this case the term was ambush hunting. Martin though preferred to think of it as the waiting game. It was a game of course. A deep, deadly and at its end bloody game of seduction and betrayal, a dance of death, in which one partner did not know that they were dancing.

Tonight Martin intended his partner to be Tommy, the graceful youth with pale lips and deep blue eyes; who had draped himself across the end of the bar at the Kabouter, seemingly oblivious to what was going on. The decadent evil of the place seemed to offer no thrill for him or for that matter any interest. That was probably true, for how can anybody like Tommy appreciate the fine interplay of corruption that fills places like blot that was the Kabouter?

Martin though well appreciated that corruption. He had been brought here, when hardly eight, and seated on a bollard by the Hertengracht, outside the window whilst his father and uncle had auctioned off his services for the night. The memory of that night is long lost to Martin or to be more correct subsumed into a thousand and one nights that past-until he was old enough not to stand outside and be bid for by the ancient scented men but t0 come in and sell his body to those he choose.

The only thing he recalled from that first evening was the smell rising from the canal behind him mixing with the tobacco smoke drifting out from the brown bar. He forgot the faces that looked out from the window at him, or the events that followed that night. All he remembered was the feeling he got from the tablet his uncle had given him, the one he wanted more of in the weeks and months to come and the present his father had given him the next day for being a "good boy".

Oh, there was also the loss. He could not say what it was that he had lost but he knew he had lost something. Nowadays he had a name to put to it. It was innocence, but what that was he could not say. Maybe Tommy had it maybe that was why he seemed so untouched by this place.

Not that Martin could accept that, innocence could never come through the door of the Kabouter. It would instantly know the evil that existed within and draw back from it. That Martin knew so he was certain that Tommy must be drawn to that evil. To be so drawn, yet seeming unaffected by it, meant that the youth must be possessed of that specific evil that is so purely evil, that all others leave it unaffected. That was what made Tommy Martins prey.

The first time the youth had entered the bar, Martin had sensed it. He had an awareness of evil in its many forms, for had he not either sold or indulged in, or often both, all of the evils the Kabouter had to offer. No depravity had been too much for him, no activity too extreme. He was a connoisseur of all that was dark and hidden in man's soul, and he knew full well what was hidden in Tommy's.

So it was that Tommy had become an unknowing partner in a dangerous dance. Yes, there was danger. Martin knew full that there were risks in obtaining the feast of blood that he so desired. The very thought of that feast brought a delightful tingling to Martin's lips and a sense of anticipation to his being. He raised his eyes and looked down the length of the room to the corner of the bar, where Tommy perched on a high stool, half draped. half slumped across the end of the bar.

Stefan, that old queen, predatory like a big cat, a black cat, preying always on youth in the hope of regaining that which he had long lost, stood beside him, no doubt offering Tommy inducements to share his company. It was not, Martin noticed, so much the caste that Tommy ignored the man and his blandishments, it was more the case that he was oblivious to them. For him they did not exist, they had no importance. Martin guessed that there was no debauchery; no corruption; no sweet evil that Stefan could offer that came near to what Tommy sought.

As if to confirm his guess the youth looked up from his glass of forbidden drink, a half smoked cigarette hanging precariously from his lower lip and smiled at Martin their eyes meet and in that meeting Matin found confirmation of what he already knew Tommy sought true evil. Not the fashionable display of debauched perversion. that is just the illusion of evil. Nor did he seek the corrupt excess of the drugged addict, for their evil are an illusion for it is without understanding or intent. Tommy craved for that well-thought evil, that is, pure in intent and execution, not done because it is the current fad, or seems interesting, nor sunk into out of despair and self loathing. Tommy sought that pure evil, the evil whose act is fully understood and is committed because it can be, in the full knowledge of its consequences and its delights. This is what Martin knew he could supply. This was the moment Martin has been waiting for; soon the feast of blood would begin. He started to move down the bar, as he did his hand slipped into his pocket, seeking out the thumb blade, that sharp pointed thimble with a razors edge, which he slipped onto his thumb.
'
Those within the bar knew him for what he was. Why not, for they knew his history it was they who had made him what he was. Had they not paid for his body to warm them during the long nights of pure debauchery? Had they not led him into excesses beyond the imagining of all but the most corrupt? They had been with him when first he had raped and filmed him when he had, still a child, made his first kill. They knew him well, in word, deed and act, and they knew that he now exceeded them in all aspects of evil and corruption. Now he hunted and this they understood, wondering what was his prey. Hoping it was not them.

So they drew back and watched as he passed by, forming a free corridor in this crowd of inhuman mortality. They watched as Martin approached the youth, the aloof stranger who only recently had come to this bar, and gave a sigh of relief. The hunter was not hunting them. Martin stopped and looked at the youth. How old was he, eighteen, nineteen, maybe younger, maybe older? Martin was well aware that what he saw did not reflect that beings true age, it never did with their kind. Around the bar were boys at their trade, hardly into their teens, and already passing for eighteen or twenty. Soon, that which brought them their business would pass. Martin himself looked more like thirty than the just turned twenty that he was, twelve years in the Kabouter had taken their toll.

Twelve years of hunting, twelve years of waiting, for what? For this, for the youth who now raised his head and smiled at him. Somehow Martin had known, right from those early days, when it had been his body that was sold and not his soul, that Tommy would exist. This youth who evil seemed to wash around like water on a seashore rock, yet though he seemed untouched Martin knew that even he would be worn down eventually.

That is why he had waited, why he had carefully prepared. It had be five days before when the youth had first entered the bar. Just after eight on a dark late autumn night, when the first frosts of the winter yet to come, made themselves known. For the Kabouter it was early, the place was barely open, though for its regulars it never really closed. There had been some ten or so in the bar. Martin sat at his comer table, a bottle of cheap red wine and a half full glass. He had looked up expecting to see a tourist who had lost his way from the carefully prepared sights of the red light district and wondered into the shambles that was the Kabouter's world. Such would stray in every now and again, drawn like ships to a wreckers light by false promise of warmth and safety, to be quickly fleeced and turned out again, or, if the locals felt playful, drawn into activities they would long wish to forget. Such forgetfulness being impossible, for each month thereafter the bill for the nightâ€™s entertainment would arrive, with photos showing what they had done!

The youth who entered that night was no lost tourist but a seeker, seeking that which he knew only the Kabouter would be able to supply. He went to the end of the bar, taking the high stool, it had now become his place, and ordered absinthe. Piet, held back his denials that they had the stuff and poured the forbidden drink, asking for the name to be put on the tab. "Tommy". The name reverberated through the silent bar, where all wondered who the youthful stranger might be? What were his perversions? Was he selling, buying or both? Even then Martin had known him for what he was, choosing him as victim upon that first sight. It was then that the hunt began. There had been no contact that first night, no that was far too soon, it could easily scare the prey away. The next night when Tommy entered, Martin acknowledged his right to be there with a short incline of the head. Later that evening, they spoke briefly by the cigarette machine, whilst eyeing up a boy who was leaning on the canal side rail, outside the window, his price chalked on the sole of his shoe. Though both commented upon the boy, neither had any interest, for his corruption was too innocent to appeal to their tastes.

There was no contact the following evening, other than a quick acknowledgement of each other presence, but all that night Martin had been aware of the youth's eyes upon him. He knew that Tommy was interested in him, ready to take the bait, but he needed to be certain that Tommy would take the hook as well. So the next night Martin stayed away. That was a rare event. Few in Kabouter could remember a night when he had not been present, even if only for a few minutes to pick up a client.

So Martin had Tommy's interest. An interest fuelled by the fear that he might not be there. He would want Martin, desire him and would not risk losing him. Martin placed himself at the bar next to the youth. For a moment Stefan looked annoyed, then, acknowledging that Martin was master here, moved away. Tommy looked up at him, a slight smile on his face. There were no words, just an exchange of looks, they both knew this game. With a glance Martin indicated the door that led out to the side ally and its lost world beyond. Tommy nodded and removed his wallet, extracting a medium denomination note that more than covered his tab, placing it under his glass in payment to Piet.

He stood and the two the them exchanged smiles, both in anticipation of what was to come, both enjoying some secret anticipation of the fulﬁlment of their desire. Walking together they left the bar, the pale youth and the dissolute man aged beyond his years. Out in the ally they found darkness, the only light coming from a spluttering gas street light and the end, and even that was across the canal.

Both welcomed this darkness, for it was their world, a world of deception and evil. A world that embraced them, just as Martin embraced Tommy, drawing him close to his body. Their lips meet, fleetingly, a symbolic hint at desire, then moved on for each sought something else. Martin's steel tipped thumb came up to stroke the youth's bare neck he did not see the feral snarl on Tommy's face, as his lips pulled back revealing vampire fangs that sunk deep into Martin's neck.

Blood of the evil doer, life of evil, filled Tommy's mouth, a sweet spring of debauchery upon which to drink and he drank deep. As he did Martin lunged, his thumb blade cutting deep into the vampireâ€™s throat, from it he drank his fill.
The Gift carrier, taken without consent, stolen, and with that theft came much more than vampire immortality. For it carried in its substance the memories of a thousand years and more of being, the immortals doom.

Tommy drew back from his feast, laughing with total joy. His hand clamping Martin's mouth upon his neck forcing him to drink more than his fill. Tommy, was right, he had found that evil that he had sought. One who would take that which is not given, and in doing so would give him the end to immortality that he could no longer bear.

The agony of transformation filled Martin's body as he went from mortal to immortal. He sought to withdraw from his gruesome feast, but with the last of his strength Tommy held him there. Feeding him the memories of all his years, the timeless monotony of days without end, that goes on and on until they are too much to bear. In those memories Martin found the truth, that he had been hunted, by one who wanted release.]]>
Waiting, that is what it is all about. There is of course a technical term for it. There is a technical term for almost anything. In this case the term was ambush hunting. Martin though preferred to think of it as the waiting game. It was a game of course. A deep, deadly and at its end bloody game of seduction and betrayal, a dance of death, in which one partner did not know that they were dancing.

Tonight Martin intended his partner to be Tommy, the graceful youth with pale lips and deep blue eyes; who had draped himself across the end of the bar at the Kabouter, seemingly oblivious to what was going on. The decadent evil of the place seemed to offer no thrill for him or for that matter any interest. That was probably true, for how can anybody like Tommy appreciate the fine interplay of corruption that fills places like blot that was the Kabouter?

Martin though well appreciated that corruption. He had been brought here, when hardly eight, and seated on a bollard by the Hertengracht, outside the window whilst his father and uncle had auctioned off his services for the night. The memory of that night is long lost to Martin or to be more correct subsumed into a thousand and one nights that past-until he was old enough not to stand outside and be bid for by the ancient scented men but t0 come in and sell his body to those he choose.

The only thing he recalled from that first evening was the smell rising from the canal behind him mixing with the tobacco smoke drifting out from the brown bar. He forgot the faces that looked out from the window at him, or the events that followed that night. All he remembered was the feeling he got from the tablet his uncle had given him, the one he wanted more of in the weeks and months to come and the present his father had given him the next day for being a "good boy".

Oh, there was also the loss. He could not say what it was that he had lost but he knew he had lost something. Nowadays he had a name to put to it. It was innocence, but what that was he could not say. Maybe Tommy had it maybe that was why he seemed so untouched by this place.

Not that Martin could accept that, innocence could never come through the door of the Kabouter. It would instantly know the evil that existed within and draw back from it. That Martin knew so he was certain that Tommy must be drawn to that evil. To be so drawn, yet seeming unaffected by it, meant that the youth must be possessed of that specific evil that is so purely evil, that all others leave it unaffected. That was what made Tommy Martins prey.

The first time the youth had entered the bar, Martin had sensed it. He had an awareness of evil in its many forms, for had he not either sold or indulged in, or often both, all of the evils the Kabouter had to offer. No depravity had been too much for him, no activity too extreme. He was a connoisseur of all that was dark and hidden in man's soul, and he knew full well what was hidden in Tommy's.

So it was that Tommy had become an unknowing partner in a dangerous dance. Yes, there was danger. Martin knew full that there were risks in obtaining the feast of blood that he so desired. The very thought of that feast brought a delightful tingling to Martin's lips and a sense of anticipation to his being. He raised his eyes and looked down the length of the room to the corner of the bar, where Tommy perched on a high stool, half draped. half slumped across the end of the bar.

Stefan, that old queen, predatory like a big cat, a black cat, preying always on youth in the hope of regaining that which he had long lost, stood beside him, no doubt offering Tommy inducements to share his company. It was not, Martin noticed, so much the caste that Tommy ignored the man and his blandishments, it was more the case that he was oblivious to them. For him they did not exist, they had no importance. Martin guessed that there was no debauchery; no corruption; no sweet evil that Stefan could offer that came near to what Tommy sought.

As if to confirm his guess the youth looked up from his glass of forbidden drink, a half smoked cigarette hanging precariously from his lower lip and smiled at Martin their eyes meet and in that meeting Matin found confirmation of what he already knew Tommy sought true evil. Not the fashionable display of debauched perversion. that is just the illusion of evil. Nor did he seek the corrupt excess of the drugged addict, for their evil are an illusion for it is without understanding or intent. Tommy craved for that well-thought evil, that is, pure in intent and execution, not done because it is the current fad, or seems interesting, nor sunk into out of despair and self loathing. Tommy sought that pure evil, the evil whose act is fully understood and is committed because it can be, in the full knowledge of its consequences and its delights. This is what Martin knew he could supply. This was the moment Martin has been waiting for; soon the feast of blood would begin. He started to move down the bar, as he did his hand slipped into his pocket, seeking out the thumb blade, that sharp pointed thimble with a razors edge, which he slipped onto his thumb.
'
Those within the bar knew him for what he was. Why not, for they knew his history it was they who had made him what he was. Had they not paid for his body to warm them during the long nights of pure debauchery? Had they not led him into excesses beyond the imagining of all but the most corrupt? They had been with him when first he had raped and filmed him when he had, still a child, made his first kill. They knew him well, in word, deed and act, and they knew that he now exceeded them in all aspects of evil and corruption. Now he hunted and this they understood, wondering what was his prey. Hoping it was not them.

So they drew back and watched as he passed by, forming a free corridor in this crowd of inhuman mortality. They watched as Martin approached the youth, the aloof stranger who only recently had come to this bar, and gave a sigh of relief. The hunter was not hunting them. Martin stopped and looked at the youth. How old was he, eighteen, nineteen, maybe younger, maybe older? Martin was well aware that what he saw did not reflect that beings true age, it never did with their kind. Around the bar were boys at their trade, hardly into their teens, and already passing for eighteen or twenty. Soon, that which brought them their business would pass. Martin himself looked more like thirty than the just turned twenty that he was, twelve years in the Kabouter had taken their toll.

Twelve years of hunting, twelve years of waiting, for what? For this, for the youth who now raised his head and smiled at him. Somehow Martin had known, right from those early days, when it had been his body that was sold and not his soul, that Tommy would exist. This youth who evil seemed to wash around like water on a seashore rock, yet though he seemed untouched Martin knew that even he would be worn down eventually.

That is why he had waited, why he had carefully prepared. It had be five days before when the youth had first entered the bar. Just after eight on a dark late autumn night, when the first frosts of the winter yet to come, made themselves known. For the Kabouter it was early, the place was barely open, though for its regulars it never really closed. There had been some ten or so in the bar. Martin sat at his comer table, a bottle of cheap red wine and a half full glass. He had looked up expecting to see a tourist who had lost his way from the carefully prepared sights of the red light district and wondered into the shambles that was the Kabouter's world. Such would stray in every now and again, drawn like ships to a wreckers light by false promise of warmth and safety, to be quickly fleeced and turned out again, or, if the locals felt playful, drawn into activities they would long wish to forget. Such forgetfulness being impossible, for each month thereafter the bill for the nightâ€™s entertainment would arrive, with photos showing what they had done!

The youth who entered that night was no lost tourist but a seeker, seeking that which he knew only the Kabouter would be able to supply. He went to the end of the bar, taking the high stool, it had now become his place, and ordered absinthe. Piet, held back his denials that they had the stuff and poured the forbidden drink, asking for the name to be put on the tab. "Tommy". The name reverberated through the silent bar, where all wondered who the youthful stranger might be? What were his perversions? Was he selling, buying or both? Even then Martin had known him for what he was, choosing him as victim upon that first sight. It was then that the hunt began. There had been no contact that first night, no that was far too soon, it could easily scare the prey away. The next night when Tommy entered, Martin acknowledged his right to be there with a short incline of the head. Later that evening, they spoke briefly by the cigarette machine, whilst eyeing up a boy who was leaning on the canal side rail, outside the window, his price chalked on the sole of his shoe. Though both commented upon the boy, neither had any interest, for his corruption was too innocent to appeal to their tastes.

There was no contact the following evening, other than a quick acknowledgement of each other presence, but all that night Martin had been aware of the youth's eyes upon him. He knew that Tommy was interested in him, ready to take the bait, but he needed to be certain that Tommy would take the hook as well. So the next night Martin stayed away. That was a rare event. Few in Kabouter could remember a night when he had not been present, even if only for a few minutes to pick up a client.

So Martin had Tommy's interest. An interest fuelled by the fear that he might not be there. He would want Martin, desire him and would not risk losing him. Martin placed himself at the bar next to the youth. For a moment Stefan looked annoyed, then, acknowledging that Martin was master here, moved away. Tommy looked up at him, a slight smile on his face. There were no words, just an exchange of looks, they both knew this game. With a glance Martin indicated the door that led out to the side ally and its lost world beyond. Tommy nodded and removed his wallet, extracting a medium denomination note that more than covered his tab, placing it under his glass in payment to Piet.

He stood and the two the them exchanged smiles, both in anticipation of what was to come, both enjoying some secret anticipation of the fulﬁlment of their desire. Walking together they left the bar, the pale youth and the dissolute man aged beyond his years. Out in the ally they found darkness, the only light coming from a spluttering gas street light and the end, and even that was across the canal.

Both welcomed this darkness, for it was their world, a world of deception and evil. A world that embraced them, just as Martin embraced Tommy, drawing him close to his body. Their lips meet, fleetingly, a symbolic hint at desire, then moved on for each sought something else. Martin's steel tipped thumb came up to stroke the youth's bare neck he did not see the feral snarl on Tommy's face, as his lips pulled back revealing vampire fangs that sunk deep into Martin's neck.

Blood of the evil doer, life of evil, filled Tommy's mouth, a sweet spring of debauchery upon which to drink and he drank deep. As he did Martin lunged, his thumb blade cutting deep into the vampireâ€™s throat, from it he drank his fill.
The Gift carrier, taken without consent, stolen, and with that theft came much more than vampire immortality. For it carried in its substance the memories of a thousand years and more of being, the immortals doom.

Tommy drew back from his feast, laughing with total joy. His hand clamping Martin's mouth upon his neck forcing him to drink more than his fill. Tommy, was right, he had found that evil that he had sought. One who would take that which is not given, and in doing so would give him the end to immortality that he could no longer bear.

The agony of transformation filled Martin's body as he went from mortal to immortal. He sought to withdraw from his gruesome feast, but with the last of his strength Tommy held him there. Feeding him the memories of all his years, the timeless monotony of days without end, that goes on and on until they are too much to bear. In those memories Martin found the truth, that he had been hunted, by one who wanted release.]]> <![CDATA[Turning Ten Twice]]> https://funtailix.com/portal/showthread.php?tid=2350 Tue, 15 Jul 2025 17:26:25 +0000 WMASG]]> https://funtailix.com/portal/showthread.php?tid=2350 Danny was scared. He put down his burger and felt to his left to find Mrs Williamson’s hand. “Mrs Williamson,” he whispered, not wanting to upset her if she was doing anything special. There was no response. “Mrs Williamson,” this time a bit louder and still there was no response. A feeling of apprehension started to build up inside Danny. Suddenly he felt alone; he did not want to be alone. “Mrs Williamson!” This time he screamed the name.
A hand on his shoulder made Danny jump. He had not heard anybody approach.
“All right sonny what’s wrong?” a man’s voice asked.
He turned in the direction of the voice. “Mrs Williamson, she’s not answering me.”
“It’s OK, I’m a doctor; I’ll have a look and see what’s wrong.”
Danny became aware of a lot of movement around him and that other people had come to the table where they were sat. There seemed to be a lot of confusion and a people seemed to be pushing past him.
“Ambulance please. Hello this is Doctor Steven Ross, could I have a cardiac unit and an ambulance to Murry’s Burger Bar, the corner of High Street and Princes Street, Hoxenham, please. I have an unconscious middle-aged woman displaying symptoms of cardiac infarction.”
A hand lightly touched Danny’s shoulder. “OK, what’s your name?” the voice Danny now knew belonged to Dr Ross asked.
“Danny Coles.”
“How old are you Danny?”
“I’m ten. Well I will be ten tomorrow. Mrs Williamson brought me out for a birthday treat.”
“Well Danny, Mrs Williamson is not very well. She needs to go to hospital; I’ve called for help and an ambulance and it should be here soon. Can you just sit here for a bit whilst I look after Mrs Williamson, and finish off your burger and cola?” Danny nodded.
“I’ll get one of the staff to sit with him,” said a female voice to the side.
Danny took a bite out of his burger but it didn’t taste as good as it had.
The female voice was back. “Danny, this is Mike; he’ll sit with you for a bit.”
Danny nodded and felt somebody sit at the end of the bench seat next to him.
“Hello Danny, I’m Mike,” a youngish voice stated.
Danny just nodded, and then felt around for his cola. They did not get cola in the home so he did not want to lose it now. He felt Mike move then the cola was in his hand.
“Thank you.”
“That’s OK, must all be a bit confusing.”
“It is. What’s happening?”
“Well, the doctor’s listening to the old lady’s heart with one of those things they listen with.”
“A stethoscope.”
“Yes, that’s it.”
The sound of a siren became audible, getting louder, and accompanied by the roar of a powerful motorbike. Flashes of blue light lit the interior of the burger bar. The two noises stopped, and were replaced by the sound of running footsteps. Then a heavy box was put down.
“There’s a weak, but stable and constant beat; oxygen please at twenty eight percent,” Dr Ross said.
“You are?” a new voice asked.
“Dr Steven Ross.”
“Right.”
“Thank you. How long for the ambulance?”
“About fifteen minutes I’m afraid, nearest one was at Middleham. It’s on its way but at this time of day, who knows. How serious is it?”
“Hopefully not too bad. The fact that the heart has resumed a constant beat, albeit weak, is a good sign.”
“Will she be all right?” Danny asked from the other side of the table.
“Probably, but she will need to go to hospital and have a good rest,” Dr Ross replied. “Is there anybody we can contact to come and take care of you?”
“You’ll have to call the home.” Danny fumbled inside his pocket and pulled out a card which he held out.
Dr Ross took it, read the details, and entered the number in his mobile phone before putting the card back into Danny’s hand. He then moved away and pressed dial on his phone.
“Good afternoon, is that Matterson House? … This is Doctor Steven Ross. Could I speak to Ms Jenny Small please? … I need to speak to somebody about a boy called Danny Coles … I understand; only the case worker or the manager can speak to me … Could I speak to the manager then? … Do you have a contact number for Ms Small? … Good, could you let me have it? … No? Well, could you phone it and ask her to phone me? … I see; you seem to have a policy for everything … Could you ask her to ring me, please? This is very urgent … Yes, that is my number … Thank you.”
Dr Ross moved round the table and knelt down beside Danny. “Ms Small is out at the moment, but should be back within twenty minutes. They will get her to call me as soon as she is back.
“Danny, were you given any instructions as to what to do in case of an emergency?”
“Yes.”
“What was it?
“I had to stay with Mrs Williamson.”
“In that case, Danny, I think you better stay as close as you can to Mrs Williamson. You can’t go in the ambulance, but you can come with me in my car. I’ll be following the ambulance in.”
Just then Mrs Williamson, started to stir.
Dr Ross moved over to her. He checked her pulse and listened to her heart.
She opened her eyes and tried to say something. The paramedic lifted the mask off her face so they could hear what she was trying to say, but it was very slurred. All Dr Ross could make out was the word Danny.
“It’s all right Mrs Williamson. I’m Dr Ross; Danny is here, and he’ll be coming to the hospital with you. He can’t ride in the ambulance, but I’ll be following in my car and he will be with me.”
She gave a small smile at this news, then closed her eyes.
Dr Ross checked her heart with his stethoscope and gave the paramedic a thumbs-up sign. “Keep the oxygen on; I think she is going to be all right but the sooner we get her to hospital the better.”
As he was speaking they could hear an approaching siren, and see blue flashing lights. The ambulance pulled up outside the burger bar, partially blocking the road; a paramedic jumped out of the cab carrying a bag and ran into the burger bar.
“Dr Ross!” he declared as he entered, “so you’re the medic on the scene.”
“Guilty as charged. Just grabbing a quick snack before I drove over to pick Peter up.”
“How is she?”
“Better than she was fifteen minutes ago. The heart rhythm has stabilised, though there is a slight asymmetry; indications are a minor cardiac infarction. The main problem is some pulmonary congestion, and her blood pressure is very low. The quicker you can get her in the better.”
“OK, we’ll get her stretchered up.”
“Which unit will you take her to?”
“The Royal.”
“I’ll phone through and advise them what’s coming in.”
Dr Ross walked off and stood just outside the burger bar and spoke on his mobile for a minute or two, then asked to be transferred to another extension.
“Peter, something’s turned up. Could you meet me down in A&E? Should be there in about ten minutes … No Peter, I’m fine, but there is a cardiac case coming in and a complication I think needs your skills … I know you are not a cardiologist; just meet me and everything will be clear.”
Once he had finished his call he returned to the young boy.
“Danny they’re just about to put Mrs Williamson in the ambulance; we have to go to my car and we will follow them. Let’s put your coat on.”
The boy seemed to be lost in a bit of a daze but did not resist as Dr Ross helped with his coat.
“Now, Danny, give me your hand and I’ll guide you to my car.”
Danny held up his hand. As Dr Ross took it, he turned to the paramedics. “My car’s just round the corner; I’ll follow you in with the boy.”
The lead paramedic nodded as they started to wheel the stretcher out to the waiting ambulance.
Dr Ross led Danny out of the burger bar and around the corner to his car. He told Danny to stand by the passenger door whilst he opened the back and removed a booster seat. He thanked the gods that he had one with him. It was fortunate that he often took his nephew to school, and needed the seat for him. Once he had placed the booster in position in the passenger seat he helped Danny get in and fastened the seat belt, making sure the boy and the booster seat were secure.
By time Dr Ross got into the driver’s seat the ambulance had begun to move off. The doctor pulled a green light from the glove box and plugged it in. He lowered the window and reached out to attach the light to the roof; there was a clunk as the magnets took hold. He dropped his mobile phone into the hands free holder, and switched on his TomTom. Then he started the car and pulled out, turning into the main street to follow the ambulance.
“Are you all right Danny?”
“Yes doctor. Is Mrs Williamson going to be OK?”
“I think so. We’ll be at the hospital in about ten minutes; she should be fine once we’re there.”
“This car is very low.”
“Yes, it’s a Porsche 944. It’s an old car, but I like it.”
“Sounds powerful.”
“It is.”
The car caught up with the ambulance at the last set of traffic lights before the dual carriageway. Once on the major road the ambulance sped up, and with siren blaring and lights flashing, led the way to the Royal Hospital.
The ambulance took just over eleven minutes to make the trip to A&E. Dr Ross took a little longer as he had to find a parking space, never an easy task in the busy hospital car park. Fortunately his car sported a staff sticker, so he was able to make use of the staff section. A couple of minutes later he walked into A&E holding Danny’s hand.
“Steven,” a familiar voice called. The doctor looked in the direction of the sound, then guided Danny over to a large, slightly rotund man with a thick beard, who was standing by a vending machine.
“Danny Coles, I would like you to meet Dr Peter Clark. He’s going to be looking after you for a few minutes whilst I go and see how Mrs Williamson is. Will that be OK?”
“Yes, Dr Ross.”
Dr Clark lowered his bulk down till he was level with Danny, then took the boy’s hand and put it to his face. Danny felt the face and the beard.
“Peter, I’m sorry about this. Mrs Williamson had taken Danny to the burger bar for a birthday treat; she’s had a mild cardiac infarction, but there’s underlying pulmonary congestion. The ambulance just brought her in. Danny’s in care; his social worker phoned me whilst we were driving in and she’ll be here in about half an hour. Till then he is really my responsibility.”
“Look Steven, I’ll take Danny through to main reception; we’ll be in the café. You find out about this Mrs Williamson, then come and find us. Then you can explain to me why you come to be holding another man’s hand.”
Dr Ross laughed and headed into the emergency admissions area.
Dr Clark stood up. “Danny, how about I carry you? It would be easier than guiding you as there are a lot of doors and steps. Is that OK?”
“Yes doctor.”
With that, Peter Clark picked Danny up and set off down the corridor leading to the main reception. Danny leaned his head into Dr Clark’s shoulder and started to sob softly.
Dr Clark patted his back. “What’s wrong, little man?”
“I’m scared.”
“No doubt you are, but really, there is nothing to be scared of here, because I’m here to make sure that you’re OK. I’m a paediatrician; do you know what that means?”
“Isn’t it a doctor who looks after children?”
“That’s right! Clever of you to know that.”
“I’ve been in hospital a lot.”
“Guess you probably have.” Looking at the boy’s head he could make out the faint scars under the close cropped hair.
“Who is Mrs Williamson?”
“She was our next door neighbour when I lived with mother. She wanted to foster me when mother died, but they said her home was not suitable. She has just moved into a new house, and I was going to stay with her for a trial placement. I won’t be able to go there now will I? Don’t know where I will go. Don’t want to go back to Matterson House.”
They reached the main reception area and Dr Clark strode across it. As he entered the café he called one of the porters over. “Charlie, do me a favour, here’s a couple of quid; could you go to the counter and get something for this one? I don’t want to leave him on his own.”
“Of course doctor; healthy or sticky?”
“Sticky; I wouldn’t wish healthy hospital food on anyone, especially not somebody celebrating their tenth birthday.”
Charlie looked at the boy’s face, and a question started to form in his mind.
Anticipating the question, Dr Clark just nodded.
* * * * *
Some forty minutes later Dr Ross was standing by the A&E reception when a small, somewhat flustered woman dashed in and ran up to the desk and asked for him.
“Hi, I’m Dr Ross. You, I presume, are Jane Small.”
“Yes doctor; where’s Danny?”
“Danny is with my partner. They’re in the café by main reception. I thought it was best to get him away from the chaos here. I’ll show you the way.”
Jane Small looked relieved. “Yes, you’re probably right. He does not do well in new environments, especially noisy ones.”
Dr Ross had never thought of A&E as being noisy, but when he thought about it, it was. There was the pinging and bleeping of machines, trolleys constantly being moved about, and the constant background noise of chatter… plus the odd scream or abusive shouting. Not the place for a boy like Danny.
“How’s Mrs Williamson?”
“She’ll be fine, given a week or so. She had a mild cardiac infarction. To be honest, I’m not sure the cardiologists would even class it as that; they probably have some special name for it. The thing is she also had underlying pulmonary congestion, and the combination of the two caused her to pass out. Unless something else comes up I have no doubt that she will be right as rain after a few days’ rest. She’s recovered consciousness and is asking for Danny; I told her we’d take Danny up to see her as soon as she is on a ward.”
“Will she be in for long?”
“Can’t say, though I expect she will be here for a few days at least. You’ll need to speak to one of the hospital staff.”
“You’re not on the hospital staff?”
“No, I’m a medical writer. I do some work for the out-of-hours GP service that is based here, so I’m well known in the hospital, but I’m not on the staff here. My partner is, though.
“What’s going to happen to Danny?”
“Bit difficult to say. He was supposed to be on a trial placement with Mrs Williamson; she’s been wanting to foster him for ages but we have only just got the accommodation issues sorted out. He’ll have to go back into one of the homes till I can make other fostering arrangements… but he is not an easy child to place.
“Unfortunately, I don’t have any spaces in the local homes so it looks as if I will have to ship him out of the county. That is why I was out when you phoned—have just had an emergency care situation arise and had to split a family of five between Matterson House and another home, which took up all the spare places we had.”
They came to the main reception area and Jane Small looked across to the café to see Danny playing with a large bearded man. She smiled and walked across to them. “Peter, you seem to have got your hands full again.”
“Hello Jane! So this is one of your clients?”
“Yes, Danny is one of mine. Hello Danny, how are you?”
“I’m fine, Ms Small, but what is going to happen to me now?”
“Well, Danny, I need to sort that out and it is going to take me a bit. You can’t stay with Mrs Williamson for the moment.”
“I know, but I don’t want to go back to Matterson House.”
“OK, we’ll talk about it in a bit, why don’t you get back to your game?”
She turned to Dr Ross. “I thought you said your partner was looking after Danny.”
“He is. Dr Clark is my partner.”
Jane Small blushed with embarrassment as she realised she had made a presumption.
“I’m sorry, I just did not think.”
“That’s OK; most people don’t, and we do not make a big song and dance of being a relationship, although we don’t hide it. Clearly, you know Peter.”
“Yes, I’ve worked with him a few times on child protection cases.”
“That makes sense. Look why don’t we grab a coffee and then we can sit and discuss the situation.”
They went to the counter and each ordered a coffee. Steven got a cup of tea for Peter, plus a carton of orange juice for Danny.
Whilst at the counter Ms Small asked Steven how long they had been together.
“We met at medical school and have been together since, so that’s nearly twenty years. We were one of the first couples to have a civil partnership.”
Jane Small nodded at the news.
Once back with Peter and Danny the two of them sat at the table.
“Danny, it’s Dr Ross; I’ve brought you an orange juice. Hope you like it.” He guided the boy’s hand to the carton, in which he had already placed the straw.
“Peter, could I have a quick word with you, if Ms Small will excuse us for a moment?”
She nodded and the two men stood and walked out of the café. Standing in a corner by main reception, Steven explained the situation regarding the young boy.
They had just got back to the table when Danny informed them that he needed the toilet. Peter volunteered to take him and the two went off.
Steven turned to Ms Small. “Look, you need a place for Danny to stay for a few days until you know the situation with Mrs Williamson.”
Jane nodded.
“Peter and I are registered foster carers; we usually take in emergency placements of teenagers who have been thrown out of their homes because of their sexuality. At the moment we don’t have anybody. Danny already knows us and it seems has formed a bond with Peter, so why not place him with us for a few days? I know we are in the next county but it is only ten miles away and I am sure you can get the paperwork sorted out.”
Jane smiled and gave a small sigh of relief. “It would make things easier; who’s your fostering supervisor?”
Steven gave her the information and she got up and went out into the reception area to make a call. Within a few minutes she was back. “Well, they’ve confirmed your status, and as this is an emergency placement I can go ahead without having to get the paperwork done first—though I’ll have to get it sorted out on Monday. Are you OK with having him?”
“Of course we are.”
Just then Peter and Danny returned to the café; Steven gave Peter a thumbs up sign.
Peter lifted Danny onto his seat at the table and then knelt down next to him.
“Danny, I know you are worried about what is going to happen to you. How would you like to stay with me and Dr Ross for a bit until we see how Mrs Williamson is?”
“I’d like that; it would be better than Matterson House.” He reached out, found Peter’s shoulder, then put his arms around the big man.
“Right then, that’s settled! I think we’d better take you up to see Mrs Williamson before I take you home.”
* * * * *
The following day both Peter and Steven found themselves being run ragged by a ten-year-old intending to enjoy his birthday and all the presents he had, courtesy of a late night visit paid to a couple of local supermarkets by Steven. That afternoon they had a small birthday tea for Danny, complete with cake with ten candles. They also introduced Danny to Marmaduke, the four-year-old Shetland Pony that lived in the paddock next to the house. The boy spent a good half hour running his hands over the pony, getting to know its shape and form.
In the evening they went back to the hospital to visit Mrs Williamson, who was now much better and talking about going home on Monday, once she had seen the consultant.
* * * * *
“Calm down, Peter, everything is ready,” Steven said, in as reassuring a voice as he could manage. Really he wanted to shout at his partner to sit down and relax, but he knew that would just make Peter more tense.
“Is it? Oh, I forgot the napkins!”
“No you didn’t; they’re here. I don’t know why you are in such a fuss, Dan always comes home on his birthday.”
“I know Steven, but this is the first time he has brought a girlfriend.”
“So what?”
“Maybe she won’t like us.”
“In that case Dan will have made a mistake… and I seriously doubt that our Dan is capable of making mistakes.”
Through the open window of the conservatory they heard a car pull up outside, then doors opening and closing, followed by the tap, tap of a stick finding the first step that led up to the house.
“They’re here, that’s their taxi,” Peter stated, moving rapidly, insomuch as his bulk would allow, towards the front door.
Steven followed at a somewhat more sedate pace.
Peter managed to get to the door and throw it open just as Dan and a striking looking blonde girl got to the top. He stepped forward and pulled Dan into an embrace.
There was a cough behind them; Peter released Dan.
“Judith, can I introduce you to my Dad’s? The big hairy one is Peter; the sensible one behind him is Steven.
“Peter, Steven, this is Judith Rousse, my girlfriend.”
Steven extended his hand to Judith, then moved over to give Dan a hug whilst Peter shook hands with Judith.
“You better come in; dump your luggage and come through to the conservatory. There is tea or coffee, whichever you prefer.”
An hour later Judith and Steven sat on the terrace by the conservatory, drinking another cup of tea whilst Peter and Dan made their way across to the paddock and a now rather aged Marmaduke.
“So,” asked Steven, “how did you two get together?”
“We met in a history lecture. I’m doing Politics and Economics and it has a number of modules in common with Law and Politics. I didn’t realise that the seat by the entrance was reserved, and it was a bit of an embarrassment when Dan tried to sit there.”
“No doubt it was.”
“Yes. Well, we got talking and I must say it was nice to have a boy interested in me for something other than my looks. After that we started going out together, so here I am.
“How did you come to adopt Dan?”
“He came to us for a few days’ emergency foster care and just stuck around. To be honest, by time he was here a week we really couldn’t imagine our lives without him around.”
“It could not have been an easy decision, though, to adopt a blind boy.”
“I don’t think we ever thought of him as being blind. He was just Dan—or Danny as he was then.”
Just then the doorbell rang and Steven excused himself to answer it. He returned with an elderly lady on his arm. “Judith, can I introduce Mrs Williamson?”
“Ah, so you’re the young lady I’ve heard so much about!”
“Oh,” Judith responded in surprise.
“Yes, ever since he was ten, Danny has phoned me each day to make sure I’m all right. For the last seven months, whenever he has phoned he has spoken about you, Judith.”
Dan and Peter returned to the terrace as Mrs Williamson was speaking.
Dan moved in the direction of her voice and the old lady stepped forward to embrace him.
“Right, now everybody is here I have an announcement.” Dan stated. “On the train down I asked Judith to marry me. Despite her university education she was silly enough to say yes. Now, can we go in and have my cake? We can use that to celebrate.”
The party moved into the house. Steven found some glasses and a bottle of Freixenet Elyssia Gran Cuveé. Peter lit the candles on the cake, then guided Dan’s hand to it.
The young man held his hand over the cake so he could feel the heat coming off the candles, then moved it around so he could count them. “One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten.” Once he had them positioned in his mind he took a deep breath and blew them out.
“To Judith and Dan, may they have a happy life together,” Peter proposed.
“To Judith and Dan,” Steven and Mrs Williamson replied.
“Why are there only ten candles on the cake? Dan’s twenty.” Judith asked.
“They’re not celebrating my birthday darling; that’s tomorrow. This is the anniversary of the day I met my dads.”]]> Danny was scared. He put down his burger and felt to his left to find Mrs Williamson’s hand. “Mrs Williamson,” he whispered, not wanting to upset her if she was doing anything special. There was no response. “Mrs Williamson,” this time a bit louder and still there was no response. A feeling of apprehension started to build up inside Danny. Suddenly he felt alone; he did not want to be alone. “Mrs Williamson!” This time he screamed the name.
A hand on his shoulder made Danny jump. He had not heard anybody approach.
“All right sonny what’s wrong?” a man’s voice asked.
He turned in the direction of the voice. “Mrs Williamson, she’s not answering me.”
“It’s OK, I’m a doctor; I’ll have a look and see what’s wrong.”
Danny became aware of a lot of movement around him and that other people had come to the table where they were sat. There seemed to be a lot of confusion and a people seemed to be pushing past him.
“Ambulance please. Hello this is Doctor Steven Ross, could I have a cardiac unit and an ambulance to Murry’s Burger Bar, the corner of High Street and Princes Street, Hoxenham, please. I have an unconscious middle-aged woman displaying symptoms of cardiac infarction.”
A hand lightly touched Danny’s shoulder. “OK, what’s your name?” the voice Danny now knew belonged to Dr Ross asked.
“Danny Coles.”
“How old are you Danny?”
“I’m ten. Well I will be ten tomorrow. Mrs Williamson brought me out for a birthday treat.”
“Well Danny, Mrs Williamson is not very well. She needs to go to hospital; I’ve called for help and an ambulance and it should be here soon. Can you just sit here for a bit whilst I look after Mrs Williamson, and finish off your burger and cola?” Danny nodded.
“I’ll get one of the staff to sit with him,” said a female voice to the side.
Danny took a bite out of his burger but it didn’t taste as good as it had.
The female voice was back. “Danny, this is Mike; he’ll sit with you for a bit.”
Danny nodded and felt somebody sit at the end of the bench seat next to him.
“Hello Danny, I’m Mike,” a youngish voice stated.
Danny just nodded, and then felt around for his cola. They did not get cola in the home so he did not want to lose it now. He felt Mike move then the cola was in his hand.
“Thank you.”
“That’s OK, must all be a bit confusing.”
“It is. What’s happening?”
“Well, the doctor’s listening to the old lady’s heart with one of those things they listen with.”
“A stethoscope.”
“Yes, that’s it.”
The sound of a siren became audible, getting louder, and accompanied by the roar of a powerful motorbike. Flashes of blue light lit the interior of the burger bar. The two noises stopped, and were replaced by the sound of running footsteps. Then a heavy box was put down.
“There’s a weak, but stable and constant beat; oxygen please at twenty eight percent,” Dr Ross said.
“You are?” a new voice asked.
“Dr Steven Ross.”
“Right.”
“Thank you. How long for the ambulance?”
“About fifteen minutes I’m afraid, nearest one was at Middleham. It’s on its way but at this time of day, who knows. How serious is it?”
“Hopefully not too bad. The fact that the heart has resumed a constant beat, albeit weak, is a good sign.”
“Will she be all right?” Danny asked from the other side of the table.
“Probably, but she will need to go to hospital and have a good rest,” Dr Ross replied. “Is there anybody we can contact to come and take care of you?”
“You’ll have to call the home.” Danny fumbled inside his pocket and pulled out a card which he held out.
Dr Ross took it, read the details, and entered the number in his mobile phone before putting the card back into Danny’s hand. He then moved away and pressed dial on his phone.
“Good afternoon, is that Matterson House? … This is Doctor Steven Ross. Could I speak to Ms Jenny Small please? … I need to speak to somebody about a boy called Danny Coles … I understand; only the case worker or the manager can speak to me … Could I speak to the manager then? … Do you have a contact number for Ms Small? … Good, could you let me have it? … No? Well, could you phone it and ask her to phone me? … I see; you seem to have a policy for everything … Could you ask her to ring me, please? This is very urgent … Yes, that is my number … Thank you.”
Dr Ross moved round the table and knelt down beside Danny. “Ms Small is out at the moment, but should be back within twenty minutes. They will get her to call me as soon as she is back.
“Danny, were you given any instructions as to what to do in case of an emergency?”
“Yes.”
“What was it?
“I had to stay with Mrs Williamson.”
“In that case, Danny, I think you better stay as close as you can to Mrs Williamson. You can’t go in the ambulance, but you can come with me in my car. I’ll be following the ambulance in.”
Just then Mrs Williamson, started to stir.
Dr Ross moved over to her. He checked her pulse and listened to her heart.
She opened her eyes and tried to say something. The paramedic lifted the mask off her face so they could hear what she was trying to say, but it was very slurred. All Dr Ross could make out was the word Danny.
“It’s all right Mrs Williamson. I’m Dr Ross; Danny is here, and he’ll be coming to the hospital with you. He can’t ride in the ambulance, but I’ll be following in my car and he will be with me.”
She gave a small smile at this news, then closed her eyes.
Dr Ross checked her heart with his stethoscope and gave the paramedic a thumbs-up sign. “Keep the oxygen on; I think she is going to be all right but the sooner we get her to hospital the better.”
As he was speaking they could hear an approaching siren, and see blue flashing lights. The ambulance pulled up outside the burger bar, partially blocking the road; a paramedic jumped out of the cab carrying a bag and ran into the burger bar.
“Dr Ross!” he declared as he entered, “so you’re the medic on the scene.”
“Guilty as charged. Just grabbing a quick snack before I drove over to pick Peter up.”
“How is she?”
“Better than she was fifteen minutes ago. The heart rhythm has stabilised, though there is a slight asymmetry; indications are a minor cardiac infarction. The main problem is some pulmonary congestion, and her blood pressure is very low. The quicker you can get her in the better.”
“OK, we’ll get her stretchered up.”
“Which unit will you take her to?”
“The Royal.”
“I’ll phone through and advise them what’s coming in.”
Dr Ross walked off and stood just outside the burger bar and spoke on his mobile for a minute or two, then asked to be transferred to another extension.
“Peter, something’s turned up. Could you meet me down in A&E? Should be there in about ten minutes … No Peter, I’m fine, but there is a cardiac case coming in and a complication I think needs your skills … I know you are not a cardiologist; just meet me and everything will be clear.”
Once he had finished his call he returned to the young boy.
“Danny they’re just about to put Mrs Williamson in the ambulance; we have to go to my car and we will follow them. Let’s put your coat on.”
The boy seemed to be lost in a bit of a daze but did not resist as Dr Ross helped with his coat.
“Now, Danny, give me your hand and I’ll guide you to my car.”
Danny held up his hand. As Dr Ross took it, he turned to the paramedics. “My car’s just round the corner; I’ll follow you in with the boy.”
The lead paramedic nodded as they started to wheel the stretcher out to the waiting ambulance.
Dr Ross led Danny out of the burger bar and around the corner to his car. He told Danny to stand by the passenger door whilst he opened the back and removed a booster seat. He thanked the gods that he had one with him. It was fortunate that he often took his nephew to school, and needed the seat for him. Once he had placed the booster in position in the passenger seat he helped Danny get in and fastened the seat belt, making sure the boy and the booster seat were secure.
By time Dr Ross got into the driver’s seat the ambulance had begun to move off. The doctor pulled a green light from the glove box and plugged it in. He lowered the window and reached out to attach the light to the roof; there was a clunk as the magnets took hold. He dropped his mobile phone into the hands free holder, and switched on his TomTom. Then he started the car and pulled out, turning into the main street to follow the ambulance.
“Are you all right Danny?”
“Yes doctor. Is Mrs Williamson going to be OK?”
“I think so. We’ll be at the hospital in about ten minutes; she should be fine once we’re there.”
“This car is very low.”
“Yes, it’s a Porsche 944. It’s an old car, but I like it.”
“Sounds powerful.”
“It is.”
The car caught up with the ambulance at the last set of traffic lights before the dual carriageway. Once on the major road the ambulance sped up, and with siren blaring and lights flashing, led the way to the Royal Hospital.
The ambulance took just over eleven minutes to make the trip to A&E. Dr Ross took a little longer as he had to find a parking space, never an easy task in the busy hospital car park. Fortunately his car sported a staff sticker, so he was able to make use of the staff section. A couple of minutes later he walked into A&E holding Danny’s hand.
“Steven,” a familiar voice called. The doctor looked in the direction of the sound, then guided Danny over to a large, slightly rotund man with a thick beard, who was standing by a vending machine.
“Danny Coles, I would like you to meet Dr Peter Clark. He’s going to be looking after you for a few minutes whilst I go and see how Mrs Williamson is. Will that be OK?”
“Yes, Dr Ross.”
Dr Clark lowered his bulk down till he was level with Danny, then took the boy’s hand and put it to his face. Danny felt the face and the beard.
“Peter, I’m sorry about this. Mrs Williamson had taken Danny to the burger bar for a birthday treat; she’s had a mild cardiac infarction, but there’s underlying pulmonary congestion. The ambulance just brought her in. Danny’s in care; his social worker phoned me whilst we were driving in and she’ll be here in about half an hour. Till then he is really my responsibility.”
“Look Steven, I’ll take Danny through to main reception; we’ll be in the café. You find out about this Mrs Williamson, then come and find us. Then you can explain to me why you come to be holding another man’s hand.”
Dr Ross laughed and headed into the emergency admissions area.
Dr Clark stood up. “Danny, how about I carry you? It would be easier than guiding you as there are a lot of doors and steps. Is that OK?”
“Yes doctor.”
With that, Peter Clark picked Danny up and set off down the corridor leading to the main reception. Danny leaned his head into Dr Clark’s shoulder and started to sob softly.
Dr Clark patted his back. “What’s wrong, little man?”
“I’m scared.”
“No doubt you are, but really, there is nothing to be scared of here, because I’m here to make sure that you’re OK. I’m a paediatrician; do you know what that means?”
“Isn’t it a doctor who looks after children?”
“That’s right! Clever of you to know that.”
“I’ve been in hospital a lot.”
“Guess you probably have.” Looking at the boy’s head he could make out the faint scars under the close cropped hair.
“Who is Mrs Williamson?”
“She was our next door neighbour when I lived with mother. She wanted to foster me when mother died, but they said her home was not suitable. She has just moved into a new house, and I was going to stay with her for a trial placement. I won’t be able to go there now will I? Don’t know where I will go. Don’t want to go back to Matterson House.”
They reached the main reception area and Dr Clark strode across it. As he entered the café he called one of the porters over. “Charlie, do me a favour, here’s a couple of quid; could you go to the counter and get something for this one? I don’t want to leave him on his own.”
“Of course doctor; healthy or sticky?”
“Sticky; I wouldn’t wish healthy hospital food on anyone, especially not somebody celebrating their tenth birthday.”
Charlie looked at the boy’s face, and a question started to form in his mind.
Anticipating the question, Dr Clark just nodded.
* * * * *
Some forty minutes later Dr Ross was standing by the A&E reception when a small, somewhat flustered woman dashed in and ran up to the desk and asked for him.
“Hi, I’m Dr Ross. You, I presume, are Jane Small.”
“Yes doctor; where’s Danny?”
“Danny is with my partner. They’re in the café by main reception. I thought it was best to get him away from the chaos here. I’ll show you the way.”
Jane Small looked relieved. “Yes, you’re probably right. He does not do well in new environments, especially noisy ones.”
Dr Ross had never thought of A&E as being noisy, but when he thought about it, it was. There was the pinging and bleeping of machines, trolleys constantly being moved about, and the constant background noise of chatter… plus the odd scream or abusive shouting. Not the place for a boy like Danny.
“How’s Mrs Williamson?”
“She’ll be fine, given a week or so. She had a mild cardiac infarction. To be honest, I’m not sure the cardiologists would even class it as that; they probably have some special name for it. The thing is she also had underlying pulmonary congestion, and the combination of the two caused her to pass out. Unless something else comes up I have no doubt that she will be right as rain after a few days’ rest. She’s recovered consciousness and is asking for Danny; I told her we’d take Danny up to see her as soon as she is on a ward.”
“Will she be in for long?”
“Can’t say, though I expect she will be here for a few days at least. You’ll need to speak to one of the hospital staff.”
“You’re not on the hospital staff?”
“No, I’m a medical writer. I do some work for the out-of-hours GP service that is based here, so I’m well known in the hospital, but I’m not on the staff here. My partner is, though.
“What’s going to happen to Danny?”
“Bit difficult to say. He was supposed to be on a trial placement with Mrs Williamson; she’s been wanting to foster him for ages but we have only just got the accommodation issues sorted out. He’ll have to go back into one of the homes till I can make other fostering arrangements… but he is not an easy child to place.
“Unfortunately, I don’t have any spaces in the local homes so it looks as if I will have to ship him out of the county. That is why I was out when you phoned—have just had an emergency care situation arise and had to split a family of five between Matterson House and another home, which took up all the spare places we had.”
They came to the main reception area and Jane Small looked across to the café to see Danny playing with a large bearded man. She smiled and walked across to them. “Peter, you seem to have got your hands full again.”
“Hello Jane! So this is one of your clients?”
“Yes, Danny is one of mine. Hello Danny, how are you?”
“I’m fine, Ms Small, but what is going to happen to me now?”
“Well, Danny, I need to sort that out and it is going to take me a bit. You can’t stay with Mrs Williamson for the moment.”
“I know, but I don’t want to go back to Matterson House.”
“OK, we’ll talk about it in a bit, why don’t you get back to your game?”
She turned to Dr Ross. “I thought you said your partner was looking after Danny.”
“He is. Dr Clark is my partner.”
Jane Small blushed with embarrassment as she realised she had made a presumption.
“I’m sorry, I just did not think.”
“That’s OK; most people don’t, and we do not make a big song and dance of being a relationship, although we don’t hide it. Clearly, you know Peter.”
“Yes, I’ve worked with him a few times on child protection cases.”
“That makes sense. Look why don’t we grab a coffee and then we can sit and discuss the situation.”
They went to the counter and each ordered a coffee. Steven got a cup of tea for Peter, plus a carton of orange juice for Danny.
Whilst at the counter Ms Small asked Steven how long they had been together.
“We met at medical school and have been together since, so that’s nearly twenty years. We were one of the first couples to have a civil partnership.”
Jane Small nodded at the news.
Once back with Peter and Danny the two of them sat at the table.
“Danny, it’s Dr Ross; I’ve brought you an orange juice. Hope you like it.” He guided the boy’s hand to the carton, in which he had already placed the straw.
“Peter, could I have a quick word with you, if Ms Small will excuse us for a moment?”
She nodded and the two men stood and walked out of the café. Standing in a corner by main reception, Steven explained the situation regarding the young boy.
They had just got back to the table when Danny informed them that he needed the toilet. Peter volunteered to take him and the two went off.
Steven turned to Ms Small. “Look, you need a place for Danny to stay for a few days until you know the situation with Mrs Williamson.”
Jane nodded.
“Peter and I are registered foster carers; we usually take in emergency placements of teenagers who have been thrown out of their homes because of their sexuality. At the moment we don’t have anybody. Danny already knows us and it seems has formed a bond with Peter, so why not place him with us for a few days? I know we are in the next county but it is only ten miles away and I am sure you can get the paperwork sorted out.”
Jane smiled and gave a small sigh of relief. “It would make things easier; who’s your fostering supervisor?”
Steven gave her the information and she got up and went out into the reception area to make a call. Within a few minutes she was back. “Well, they’ve confirmed your status, and as this is an emergency placement I can go ahead without having to get the paperwork done first—though I’ll have to get it sorted out on Monday. Are you OK with having him?”
“Of course we are.”
Just then Peter and Danny returned to the café; Steven gave Peter a thumbs up sign.
Peter lifted Danny onto his seat at the table and then knelt down next to him.
“Danny, I know you are worried about what is going to happen to you. How would you like to stay with me and Dr Ross for a bit until we see how Mrs Williamson is?”
“I’d like that; it would be better than Matterson House.” He reached out, found Peter’s shoulder, then put his arms around the big man.
“Right then, that’s settled! I think we’d better take you up to see Mrs Williamson before I take you home.”
* * * * *
The following day both Peter and Steven found themselves being run ragged by a ten-year-old intending to enjoy his birthday and all the presents he had, courtesy of a late night visit paid to a couple of local supermarkets by Steven. That afternoon they had a small birthday tea for Danny, complete with cake with ten candles. They also introduced Danny to Marmaduke, the four-year-old Shetland Pony that lived in the paddock next to the house. The boy spent a good half hour running his hands over the pony, getting to know its shape and form.
In the evening they went back to the hospital to visit Mrs Williamson, who was now much better and talking about going home on Monday, once she had seen the consultant.
* * * * *
“Calm down, Peter, everything is ready,” Steven said, in as reassuring a voice as he could manage. Really he wanted to shout at his partner to sit down and relax, but he knew that would just make Peter more tense.
“Is it? Oh, I forgot the napkins!”
“No you didn’t; they’re here. I don’t know why you are in such a fuss, Dan always comes home on his birthday.”
“I know Steven, but this is the first time he has brought a girlfriend.”
“So what?”
“Maybe she won’t like us.”
“In that case Dan will have made a mistake… and I seriously doubt that our Dan is capable of making mistakes.”
Through the open window of the conservatory they heard a car pull up outside, then doors opening and closing, followed by the tap, tap of a stick finding the first step that led up to the house.
“They’re here, that’s their taxi,” Peter stated, moving rapidly, insomuch as his bulk would allow, towards the front door.
Steven followed at a somewhat more sedate pace.
Peter managed to get to the door and throw it open just as Dan and a striking looking blonde girl got to the top. He stepped forward and pulled Dan into an embrace.
There was a cough behind them; Peter released Dan.
“Judith, can I introduce you to my Dad’s? The big hairy one is Peter; the sensible one behind him is Steven.
“Peter, Steven, this is Judith Rousse, my girlfriend.”
Steven extended his hand to Judith, then moved over to give Dan a hug whilst Peter shook hands with Judith.
“You better come in; dump your luggage and come through to the conservatory. There is tea or coffee, whichever you prefer.”
An hour later Judith and Steven sat on the terrace by the conservatory, drinking another cup of tea whilst Peter and Dan made their way across to the paddock and a now rather aged Marmaduke.
“So,” asked Steven, “how did you two get together?”
“We met in a history lecture. I’m doing Politics and Economics and it has a number of modules in common with Law and Politics. I didn’t realise that the seat by the entrance was reserved, and it was a bit of an embarrassment when Dan tried to sit there.”
“No doubt it was.”
“Yes. Well, we got talking and I must say it was nice to have a boy interested in me for something other than my looks. After that we started going out together, so here I am.
“How did you come to adopt Dan?”
“He came to us for a few days’ emergency foster care and just stuck around. To be honest, by time he was here a week we really couldn’t imagine our lives without him around.”
“It could not have been an easy decision, though, to adopt a blind boy.”
“I don’t think we ever thought of him as being blind. He was just Dan—or Danny as he was then.”
Just then the doorbell rang and Steven excused himself to answer it. He returned with an elderly lady on his arm. “Judith, can I introduce Mrs Williamson?”
“Ah, so you’re the young lady I’ve heard so much about!”
“Oh,” Judith responded in surprise.
“Yes, ever since he was ten, Danny has phoned me each day to make sure I’m all right. For the last seven months, whenever he has phoned he has spoken about you, Judith.”
Dan and Peter returned to the terrace as Mrs Williamson was speaking.
Dan moved in the direction of her voice and the old lady stepped forward to embrace him.
“Right, now everybody is here I have an announcement.” Dan stated. “On the train down I asked Judith to marry me. Despite her university education she was silly enough to say yes. Now, can we go in and have my cake? We can use that to celebrate.”
The party moved into the house. Steven found some glasses and a bottle of Freixenet Elyssia Gran Cuveé. Peter lit the candles on the cake, then guided Dan’s hand to it.
The young man held his hand over the cake so he could feel the heat coming off the candles, then moved it around so he could count them. “One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten.” Once he had them positioned in his mind he took a deep breath and blew them out.
“To Judith and Dan, may they have a happy life together,” Peter proposed.
“To Judith and Dan,” Steven and Mrs Williamson replied.
“Why are there only ten candles on the cake? Dan’s twenty.” Judith asked.
“They’re not celebrating my birthday darling; that’s tomorrow. This is the anniversary of the day I met my dads.”]]> <![CDATA[Turning Ten On The Road To Kamping]]> https://funtailix.com/portal/showthread.php?tid=2349 Tue, 15 Jul 2025 17:23:38 +0000 WMASG]]> https://funtailix.com/portal/showthread.php?tid=2349 Suan got off the bike and double checked the engine, just in case it was something minor. He quickly came to the conclusion that his original thought was correct: those bastards back at Kaulim village had sold him contaminated fuel. Well, at least he could push or carry his 125cc Honda for the next couple of miles. That was one thing his associates back in the city never appreciated; if a car broke down on these jungle tracks you were stuck where it broke down. With a motor bike you could at least push it to the next village where you could get help. Even in this sparsely inhabited region there was rarely more than a few miles between villages.
Fortunately for Suan the rains were late this year and what passed for a road in these parts was still firm and solid. It was fairly easy to push the bike and its accompanying load of survey and camping equipment in the direction he wanted to take. He had been hoping to make it as far as Topi this evening but now he knew he had at least an hour’s pushing before he got to any inhabited place, and that place would be Fat Fan’s. Originally he had not intended to stop there; in fact he had made up his mind to avoid it, and so would have taken the turn that was coming up in a few hundred yards rather than take the direct route to Topi via the ferry. Now he had no choice: he would have to push the bike the mile or so it would take to get to the trading post on the river. One thing he was sure of was that he would be able to get the bike fixed. Fat Fan might be many things but he was no idiot, and he made sure that the mechanics who worked on the engines for his fleet of river boats were the best that he could get. It was rumoured that one or two of them were also aircraft mechanics who could service the float planes that could land on that stretch of the river in the rainy season, when it would double or even triple in width.
Of course it made no economic sense to have six or seven top mechanics sitting around at a riverside trading station in the middle of the jungle. There would just not be enough business passing through, even in the rainy season when the river was navigable for a couple of hundred miles past Fat Fan’s. That, of course, presumed that you were looking at the legitimate business that could be conducted at such an establishment. Fat Fan had never taken such a restrictive view of his investments, a position helped by the fact that the particular bend in the river which Fat Fan’s establishment occupied was in an area of disputed ownership between four different countries — the law enforcement authorities of each having decided, with assistance from Fat Fan’s contributions to their wealth, to avoid the risk of any form of border confrontation by not actively patrolling the area.
That arrangement had worked out well for all concerned. Fat Fan’s increase in wealth had enabled him to be most generous to those officials in the various countries, who at the same time did not have to expend funds, for which they had far better use, on mounting border patrols in an area of jungle that no sensible person would want to enter.
It was just after mid-afternoon when Suan pushed the bike into Fat Fan’s clearing. Some two hundred yards away, on the veranda of a large bungalow overlooking the river, sat Fat Fan, no doubt waiting for him. Nothing came within a couple of miles of Fat Fan’s without Fat Fan knowing about it and Suan Reynolds was one person Fat Fan always wanted to know about, since the two of them had a history.
Suan pushed the bike to the foot of the steps leading up to the veranda and leaned it against a convenient post. As he started to climb the steps, Fat Fan raised his bulk out of the large wicker chair he had been occupying. At the top Suan turned to face Fat Fan and gave a small but significant bow. “Mr Sung, I crave your hospitality and assistance.”
“Mr Reynolds, I offer you such humble hospitality and assistance that is within my means to provide.” The two men both spoke in English with an accent that would not have been out of place in Rowhampton or Harrow. However, both used a form of phraseology and semantic structure that owed more to the time of the Yellow Emperor than to either Oxford or Cambridge, where they had been educated — Suan at Oxford, Fat Fan at Cambridge, albeit some forty years apart. Fat Fan indicated the seat on the other side of the low table from where he had been sitting.
Suan nodded his acceptance of the offer and seated himself in the chair before Fat Fan lowered his bulk back into the wicker armchair. Once settled in the high-backed chair Fat Fan picked up a felt headed hammer and struck a gong. A few moments later a youth of thirteen or fourteen came out of the building carrying a tray set for afternoon tea.
Suan looked up at the youth and after a few moments remembered to breathe. Before him, moving with the elegance of a gazelle, was a vision that was nigh impossible to believe... yet here it was in front of him. For a few moments Suan sat captivated by the youthful vision, to such an extent that he risked being disrespectful to Fat Fan. He mentally shook himself and returned his attention to his host.
Fat Fan smiled, “I see that Fuhua has caught your attention, Mr Reynolds, many of your taste have looked upon him with similar attention.”
“He is something of great beauty that blesses the house of my host.”
“Yes, I like to gather such beauty around me as I can, for there is little else here to enjoy.”
Given implicit permission to look upon the beauty Suan returned his attention to Fuhua. A reappraisal of the youth confirmed his attractiveness but also hinted that he might be a bit older than Suan had thought. He was probably more like fourteen or fifteen, maybe a young-looking sixteen year old; there were signs of muscle definition in his body that one only expects in an older boy. His skin was lighter in colour than the local natives though not as light as that of the Cantonese Chinese such as Fat Fan, so the boy was clearly of mixed race, although he had typically Chinese eyes. It was those eyes, however, and the boy’s hair which marked him as mixed race. His eyes were a pale blue, almost grey, and his hair was very light brown, though not quite blond.
Suan felt a pang of sympathy for the boy. It was hard enough being mixed race, as both the natives and the Chinese looked down on you, but to have European blood meant you were truly despised. Even the Europeans looked down on you and everything would be twice as hard. It was a fact that Suan was only too aware of. His own mother, who was mixed race — Chinese father and native mother — had fled before the advancing Japanese, escaping on one of the last boats to leave. She escaped to Australia but was refused admission because of her colour, and ended up in Ceylon. By some strange quirk of fate it was there that she met and married an Australian Major and gave him a son, Suan. Once the war was over they had chosen to avoid the hostility of Australia and settled in her country, but even there they were looked down upon.
Fuhua finished setting the table for tea and stood bowing to Fat Fan. “Do you require anything else Uncle Fan?” The term Uncle sent a shiver down Suan’s spine. It was used here as a term of respect for Suan was quite certain this boy was not a member of Fat Fan’s family. That meant one thing, Fuhua was a slave. Slavery was, of course, illegal in this part of Asia: the combined empires of Britain, France and the Netherlands had stamped it out. That was well known. It was a fact that you would not find a slave anywhere. What you would find was indentured workers, whose obligations would never be worked off and whose bondholders could, if they so wished, sell on their indentures to others. Indentured workers were just slaves by another name and could be — and were — used just like slaves.
Fat Fan indicated that nothing more was required of the boy, and he turned and left. Pouring the tea, Fat Fan raised the question as to what had brought Mr Reynolds to his trading station at this time.
“Was on my way to Kamping, meant to go via Rampotan and Topi, but just before the turn my engine started to splutter then died. Think I got a batch of bad fuel back at Kaulim village.”
“Most unfortunate, but the villagers of Kaulim are Daks, and as we all know Daks are not the most intelligent of people. No doubt they did not take proper precautions in storing the fuel.” Fat Fan lifted the cup of green tea to his lips and sipped at it.
Suan followed suit then responded, “I understand your observation of the Daks, but must say I have never experienced such laxity in the past.”
“You have no doubt been lucky, we must see to sorting out your transport with immediate effect.” Fat Fan picked up the striker and stroked the gong with it twice. A girl of some eleven or twelve years appeared. She was bare-chested, with a light sarong around her waist. Suan noticed she was another mixed race child, just coming into womanhood as shown by the first swelling of her breasts. Fat Fan instructed her in pidgin to go and fetch Mr Smyth.
For a few minutes the two men on the veranda sat in silence and sipped at their tea.
The young girl ran back across the compound to say that Mr Smyth was on his way.
Suan turned to see a short dumpish European man wearing a sarong and a dirty shirt under the shade of a broad brimmed native hat waddling over.
Fat Fan looked up as he approached. “Ah, Smyth, my friend Mr Reynolds has had some problems with his bike.” He pointed to the Honda at the foot of the steps. “Examine it and advise us of the problem and how it can be remedied.”
It was a command. There was no request, no politeness, only a simple command from one who expected it to be carried out.
Mr Smyth stood there, his eyes scanning the young girl. Fat Fan waved the girl inside, and turned back to Smyth. “Go on then, I would like your report before I dine. Please place the panniers on the steps.”
Smyth turned to the bike, removed the panniers and placed them on the steps, then proceeded to push the bike in the direction of a group of buildings on the far side of the compound, from where the occasional sound of metal upon metal could be heard.
Fat Fan turned his attention back to Suan. “From your expression I gather you do not like our Mr Smyth.”
“He is a man who has a certain reputation.”
“One, no doubt, that is fully deserved. It would seem that if it had not been the case that certain high officials in the government, much higher than the lowly post Mr Smyth once held, had similar tastes and frequented the same establishments as he did, to enjoy — unfortunately for them, sometimes in his presence — the same delights, then a warrant would no doubt have been issued for his arrest. As it was, it seemed best that he remove himself to a more remote location. I have always found it difficult to keep good mechanics out here, so the arrangement has suited many parties. It was, after all, an unfortunate accident.”
“Damm it, Fan, they say the girl was only seven.”
“So I have heard; but as they say, it was an accident, he rolled on her in his sleep. Maybe if he had indulged in a little less opium or maybe a little more, things would have been different.”
The simplistic way Fat Fan stated the case filled Suan with revulsion; he was, of course, aware that such things went on but had never been faced with such evidence of the system as in Fan’s simple statement.
“Anyway, we should be grateful that circumstances force Mr Smyth to be here. He may be many things and have many failings but he is an excellent mechanic. He will sort out your bike and in the meantime you must be my guest. Join me for dinner and we can talk about Kamping; I hear they have Black Leaf there.”
The Chinese man’s statement jolted Suan back to the reality of the moment. The outbreak of Black Leaf was a closely guarded secret within the company. If news got out that they had an infestation in the plantation the markets would go mad. He looked at Fat Fan, who smiled back at him. They were only eighty miles from Kamping, and only half that as the crow flies. Nothing happened within two hundred miles of Fat Fan that Fat Fan did not know about... or if it did it was because Fat Fan did not want to know about it.
“We’re not certain it is Black Leaf, that is why I was on my way, to confirm or refute the reports.” Suan was fairly certain it was Black Leaf, Mitchell the overseer up at Kamping was experienced and had seen Black Leaf before.
“And if it is Black Leaf, rip out the plantation and burn; five years before you replant?”
“Probably not, we have had some success upcountry and over in Ceylon with some of the new fungicides. We will lose the plants that are already infected but the rest can be saved. They’ve already sent to Ceylon for some supplies.”
Fat Fan nodded and made a mental note to contact his agents in the capital and tell them to cancel the future buying order he had sent them this morning. If fungicides could successfully be used then there would only be a small reduction in the crop, not enough to push up the market for a killing.
“Ah the advances of science, before the war Black Leaf would destroy the livelihood of a complete region, now it is an inconvenience that is science for you, Mr Reynolds. They say that within three years they will be putting a man on the Moon. It must be good to be young and living in a time of such scientific progress.
“You yourself are a scientist, are you not? Studied Botany at Oxford and got a First Class degree, no less.”
Suan was surprised that Fat Fan would know such a thing; it must have shown on his face.
“Oh, do not be surprised, Mr Reynolds. I myself studied at Cambridge some forty years ago and still read the Times every day, though now it takes some eight weeks to get to me. I take note when my fellow countrymen are mentioned in that august journal.”
It sounded plausible but somehow it did not quite ring true to Suan’s ears. He had first met Fat Fan when he was eleven and even then the man seemed to know more about him than an eleven year old thought he should.
“But I am remiss in my hospitality... after pushing that bike from near the Rampotan turn you must he tired, and probably sweaty. There is no way your bike can be repaired today as we will no doubt require parts, so you must stay the night. I’ll get Fuhua to take you to your room, there you can shower. Unfortunately I cannot offer you European clothes for your stay but I understand that you are comfortable in native dress, I’ll get some sent to you.”
Once again Fat Fan displayed a level of knowledge about Suan that Suan found uncomfortable.
“My staff will launder your clothes so they are ready for when you leave.” Fat Fan again picked up the striker and sounded the gong once.
Fuhua appeared, giving Suan the impression that he must have been just beyond the door waiting for the summons. Fat Fan pointed to the two panniers on the veranda steps. “Take Mr Reynolds’ luggage and guide him to his room, then arrange some clothes for him to wear when he joins me for dinner.
“Mr Reynolds, you have about an hour before the great gong sounds to announce assembly for drinks before dinner.” The statement was politely made, but with a finality that did not brook any discussion. Suan stood and bowed to his host, then followed Fuhua down the length of the veranda and around the side of the bungalow.
The room to which Fuhua showed him was set out and furnished in the European style, clearly a guest room for visitors. It had wide slidingdouble doors that opened out onto the side veranda and looked out over a small formal garden — a most unusual sight in the Asian jungle, and one which Suan suspected required a small army of labour to keep maintained, though he had no doubt that Fat Fan had such an army available.
Mosquito screens were available to close over the door and the louvered windows, allowing them to be kept open at night to provide the benefit of the cooling night air without the risk of exposure to the biting insects. The bed, Suan surmised, must have travelled out from England during the time of Queen Victoria and it probably took an elephant to transport it up from the coast. That thought made him wonder for a moment just who Fat Fan was. Everybody in the country knew of him, but it was clear, even allowing for Fat Fan’s age (which was no doubt going on some) that this place had been around a lot longer and had been a centre of power. Before he had time to follow that line of thought any further Fuhua pointed out the door that connected to the shower and toilet facilities and a second door that led into the main body of the bungalow. The boy then departed through that door.
Suan stood for a moment, realising that the boy had never spoken a word to him, though he had heard Fuhua speak to Fat Fan so he had not been muted — there still being a trade amongst certain rich Chinese for mute servants who could not spread gossip of their activities. Suan suspected that the boy only spoke Hokkien, which was the Chinese language that he had used when he spoke to Fat Fan. Suan was familiar enough with the dialect to be able to identify it and follow a simple conversation but he was not a speaker of it, though his mother had spoken it from time to time when one of his aunts had visited, which indicated that it must have been a language in her family. He regretted he did not know more about her family but that was a subject she would not speak about.
Suan quickly stripped off his travel clothes and laid them on the chair by the bed. Grabbing one of the large towels from the stand by the door that led to the facilities he went through to have a very welcome shower. He was confident that by time he returned to his room servants would have removed his soiled clothing for washing, and there would be suitable native garb laid out for him.
Whilst Suan enjoyed the luxury of the shower Fat Fan retired inside to a suite of rooms that were totally private, where a small elderly woman dressed in traditional Chinese style waited for him. “It went well, Husband?”
“As you predicted, Number One Wife, he is a most mannered man, even when faced with the slug Smyth. Though I fear Mr Reynolds has a wrath within him that may descend on our friend in Kaulim for providing him with bad fuel.”
“He is, Husband, well rewarded for his work and you did promise to place his daughter by Mia Lin in the House of the Lotus to learn her trade. She is a girl of great promise and no doubt will be Madam before many years, though at thirteen she is somewhat old for entry into a house of pleasure so you do him a great favour. Nonetheless a small gift to show your appreciation of service provided might be appropriate, especially if the wrath of one such as Mr Reynolds has been earned for serving your interests.”
Fat Fan nodded. Naturally, no man would take instruction from a woman... but it was a fool who ignored the advice and guidance of a wise woman. Number One Wife was a wise woman, there was no doubt of that — which was, in fact, why he had married her.
Fat Fan was well aware that many thought he had taken her as his wife in order to become son-in-law to Black Snake, who had run the trading station for many years and built up the initial web of power that Fat Fan now enjoyed. They were mistaken. Even back then, some fifty years ago, the fourteen year old Fan (he was not fat then) had appreciated the wisdom of the girl who had become his Number One Wife. He had also understood that, whilst Black Snake had run the trading station and its associated activities, his wife was the guide that controlled it.
Fat Fan smiled as he remembered his mother-in-law. She was a woman of great being, one whose advice you were ill-advised to ignore. It was she who had first seen Fan’s potential and arranged for him to be sent to England for his education, even though Black Snake had rebelled against the cost and pointed out that not even Number One Son had been sent to England. Of course Mother-in-law’s plan had been for Fan and his wife to set up in England and represent the interests of the family over there. However, fate — and some assistance from Number One Wife — had resulted in the demise of both of Black Snake’s sons, and Fan had taken over the business when Black Snake died.
“And his tastes, are they as we were told?” Number One Wife enquired.
“Surely, he looked upon our grandson with desire but not with lust. It is promising and I feel all will be achieved. Fuhua did all that was directed of him.”
“Then all will become as required.”
Fat Fan nodded, a smile of satisfaction spreading across his face.
“I will rest with one of my concubines before dinner, select one for me, but one who is not too energetic; I need release but I need to rest.”
Number One Wife smiled and nodded, she knew just who to choose. She was grateful that her husband always bowed to her judgement when it came to his concubines and she appreciated his need for them, not only because of the fact that she hand bore him no children but also because the demands upon her time where such that she could not always provide him with the release he needed. Anyway the concubines had given her many daughters to raise, unfortunately no son had survived beyond infancy.
Suan finished his shower and walked into his room still drying himself. He was astounded to find Fuhua standing in his room, a sarong and shirt spread across his outstretched arms. Suan knew full well that the servants in the house would be aware of his movements into and out of the room and would have had ample time to enter his room, remove his clothes and place the supplied clothing whilst he was still in the shower, so the fact that Fuhua was there must have been intentional.
Fuhua laid the sarong and shirt on the end of the bed then walked over to Suan and took the towel from his hands. For a moment Suan was about to protest, then Fuhua started to dry him. Suan wanted to say something but his Hokkien was not sufficient for him to put together what he wished to say to this boy, so he just stood there letting the boy carry out his task. It was clear from the way he did it that he had been well taught, and Suan suspected that he was trained as a bath boy. It was a suspicion confirmed when Fuhua took a phial of sweet oil from the dressing table and started to anoint Suan with it, his hands caressing Suan’s body.
“That’s not necessary,” Suan stated in English.
“Oh, but it is, Honoured Guest. Uncle Fan was most insistent that I attend to your needs fully,” the boy replied in faultless English: he did not even have the sing-song accent that many Chinese speakers have when they switch to English.
“You speak English!”
“Of course. It is the language I spoke at home and at school in Aberdeen.” It took Suan a moment to realise the boy meant Aberdeen, Hong Kong, not Scotland, though the later would not have surprised him.
“You’re from Hong Kong?”
“Yes, mother concubine to English doctor, much prestige; he send me to best school. Now mother sends me here to Uncle Fan.”
“How old are you?”
“I am sixteen.” The boy finished his administration of the oil to Suan’s body and wiped his hands on the towel, which he then folded and placed upon the chair.
Suan stood motionless, naked, waiting. He knew it would be a waste of time protesting; the boy had been instructed in what to do and would carry out his instructions. As he expected, Fuhua took the sarong and fitted it around Suan’s waist, fixing it perfectly so that it was tight and secure at the waist but hanging loose and free to the floor. There were no undergarments, something which Suan appreciated; in this heat such wear could soon become a discomfort. The boy then held up the white short-sleeved shirt for Suan to slip into. When buttoned it hung down loosely, just covering the top of the sarong.
Suan luxuriated in the feel of native dress. It was not often that he got the chance to wear it and never normally when about on the company business. To go native in any way was seriously frowned upon.
“Drinks will be served on the front veranda when the dinner gong sounds. Uncle Fan is expecting some guests from an upriver station,” Fuhua announced, then he turned and left, his work done.
Suan was confused. Something was not right and he could not put his finger on it. Clearly, the boy was trained as a bath boy, and very well and probably expensively, but he was already too old to be sent to such an occupation. Moreover, so far as Suan was aware there was no bath house that would use such boys in that part of the state. Could he be Fat Fan’s personal bath boy? Suan felt physically sick at the thought.
It was a possibility that Suan could not discount. Many Chinese men, especially those who followed the Dao, turned to boys as they got older in the belief that the boys would bring them vitality in their old age and prolong their lives. Somehow, though, it did not quite fit. He had seen no indication that Fat Fan found Fuhua attractive in that sense... or any boy for that matter.
It had only been twelve years ago that he, then eleven, had first been brought here by his mother. They were on their way upcountry by fast engine canoe to escape the wet season heat of the low lands, a trip that was to become an annual event until he went to Oxford. He had known even then where his interests lay, and had known that he was attractive to men. A few had already shown their interest in him, but Fat Fan was not one of them, although the old man had engaged him in long and thoughtful conversations during the stopovers whilst their canoe was refuelled for the final journey upstream into the hill country and its cooler climate.
Suan sat out on the side veranda enjoying the cooling breeze that had started up as the sun set lower in the sky. A couple of hundred yards away, beyond the vegetable plots that surrounded the compound, lay the jungle with its mysteries and dangers. Suan thought that maybe the jungle might be a safer place than where he was. Something was going on and he was not sure what it was. Nothing quite made sense.
The sound of a large Tam-Tam reverberated through the bungalow and the surrounding compound, setting monkeys chattering in the nearby jungle. Suan stood and made his way around to the front veranda. Fat Fan was there with a middle-aged European and a Chinese woman whom Suan estimated to be in her late twenties or early thirties.
“Ah, Mr Reynolds, please come and meet my guests. This is Dr Kaufman and his wife Bao-Yu.”
Suan shook hands with them both, extending to Bao-Yu the compliment that she lit up the place with her beauty. She seemed perplexed to be spoken to.
“You must forgive my wife, Mr Reynolds, she does not speak English, only Cantonese or German.”
Suan acknowledge the information and proceeded to repeat the remark in Cantonese, which was appropriately received with an appreciative giggle. Although the remark was given as a formal pleasantry for the occasion it was also well deserved, for she was a remarkable looking woman and Suan had no doubt that in her younger years she had been a great beauty. What did he mean ‘in her younger years’? She was still a great beauty, even now.
Fat Fan indicated to the party that they should be seated. Suan sat next to Fat Fan, with Bao-Yu on his right and across the low table from Dr Kaufman.
Fuhua came and took their drink orders. Suan ordered gin and tonic, the same as Dr Kaufman and Fat Fan, while Bao-Yu asked for a tonic on its own.
The conversation around the table quickly fell to a discussion of how late the rains were this year and the problems the low river level was causing, especially the difficulty Dr Kaufman was having getting his harvest downriver to market.
Suan found himself remembering what he had heard about Dr Kaufman. The man was a German who had been sent out during the war to assist Germany’s allies, the Japanese. Apparently it had been intended as some form of disgrace for some offence he had given to the Fuhrer — an offence which would have sent him to the Russian Front or Dachau, normally, but the doctor’s family was just a bit too important for such a solution so he ended up out here. Like most European men at that time he had taken himself a young Chinese mistress, but then, to the shock of the local community, he had married her. After the defeat of Germany and Japan he had been allowed to stay on. This had been somewhat to the surprise of many, but it had come out that he had been passing information to the local resistance, and providing them with medical supplies. It had been made clear to him, however, that his residence in the capital or any of the other major cities on the coast would not be welcome, so he had moved upcountry and was now a plantation owner.
Suan was deep in this line of thought when he almost missed the question from Dr Kaufman. “What brings you up here, Mr Reynolds?”
“Ah,” interrupted Fat Fan, before Suan had chance to expose the fact that he had been miles away in thought, “Mr Reynolds is Assistant Agronomist with West Asian Spice. He was on his way to their plantation at Kamping when his transport suffered a mechanical failure.”
“Assistant Agronomist... you are very young to hold such an exalted position within the Company,” stated the doctor.
“I probably am, but I did Botany at Oxford and specialised in plant pathology in my final year, so I was probably the best qualified person out here when Malcolm Short was forced to return to the UK so suddenly.”
There was a moment of silence around the table; a sense of embarrassment at the memory of an incident that was only just over two years old. Everybody had been shocked when the news had broken that the police had raided a house of pleasure and found Malcolm Short in a highly compromising position with two very underage girls. It was totally unbelievable that the police should raid such an establishment without giving some warning and allowing the Madam to replace such girls with somebody of more suitable age. Of course, each side blamed the other: the police stating that the Madam had not acted fast enough, and Madam stating that the police had not given enough warning. There was a feeling that something had gone very wrong and that perhaps Mr Short had a powerful enemy who could arrange such things. If that was the case and and such an enemy had shown his displeasure it was felt best that Mr Short return to England.
“Ah yes,” commented Fat Fan, “such an unfortunate affair.” A faint smile crossed his face. “The House of the Pearl took many months to re-establish its clientele.”
Just how, thought Suan, did the old bastard know that?
“It is lucky you were at this place when your transport failed you,” Dr Kaufman commented.
“I was some distance out, by the turnoff to Rampotan. I was intending to go- via Rampotan to Topi, and then onto Kamping.”
“A somewhat roundabout route but no doubt you had business that way. It is lucky, though, that you found this place.”
“There was no luck involved,” declared Fat Fan, “his mother is a favourite of my Number One Wife, and called in here often when she and her son were on their way upcountry or on their return downriver.”
There it was again, the specific terminology that Fat Fan used was not quite right. The Cantonese phrase that became ‘favourite’ in English had a subtle secondary meaning which carried more than was expressed in the English translation. It almost implied a member of the family, but such usage did not make sense.
Just then a small Chinese woman and a middle aged Chinese man stepped out onto the veranda.
“Ah,” continued Fat Fan, “talk of the devil. My Number One Wife and my Esteemed Son-in-Law.”
Now Suan was totally confused. Something was going on here and he did not understand what. By introducing the man as his esteemed son-in-law Fat Fan had announced to those present that he had no sons, an admission that no Chinese man of his generation would willingly make public, unless he was also stating that this man was the one who would take over his business.
“Dr Kaufman, Mr Reynolds, I hope you are enjoying your visit to my home,” Number One Wife stated in perfect and almost accentless English.
“Your home is remarkable,” Suan replied, “as is your English.”
“You compliment me too much! My English is... oh, what is the word? â€¦Stilted. I do not get to speak it enough since I returned from England.”
“You were in England?”
“Yes, for six years, in the 1920s. I accompanied my husband when he went to study at Cambridge, then we lived in London whilst he did his PhD. Unfortunately, the death of my elder brother required our urgent return to my home before I truly mastered your language or customs... or my husband finished his studies.”
Suddenly bits started to fall into place and a pattern emerged, like the completion of a jigsaw. This was her home; Fat Fan had married into the business, but she had been born into it. The question was, what was the business? Suan had always thought that Fat Fan was a local crook, maybe a bit bigger than most of the small-time wheeler-dealers around; one who had expanded into the opium market and into child labour, perhaps even a few illicit gemstones. Now, though, he got a different perspective on things: is it possible that the brothels and drinking dens on the coast are run from here? That was a nonsense, of course; surely there was no way such an operation could be run — the distance and the associated delay in communication would make it impossible — yet it also made a kind of sense. Here Fat Fan was safe; he would know many hours in advance if the police were to move to raid him; and anyway, which police would raid? Who had jurisdiction up in this triangle of land claimed by three countries?
If Suan was right, Fat Fan was no small crooked river trader with his hands in half a dozen questionable activities; he was Triad, and the small woman who now stood in front of him was effectively the head of this Triad. Suan looked at her with an increasing sense of amazement. She smiled at him as if she read the understanding that was developing in his mind. Another thought struck Suan... if his thinking was correct what did it mean that his mother had been a favourite of Number One Wife?
“How is your mother?” she asked.
“Well, but she had flu a few weeks ago and is still a bit weak from its effect.”
“I am sorry to hear that, Mr Reynolds, but I do hope she will be fit to travel when the rains come. I so look forward her visits. Perhaps this year Major Duncan might come with her; I hear he is retiring from the civil service.”
This was news to Suan — who had not seen his father for some months — though not a surprise. Since independence there had been a constant pressure within the civil service to replace Europeans with Chinese or native staff.
“I have no way of knowing, I have not seen my father since Christmas.”
“That is unfortunate. I was hoping for news of him, he is such a pleasant man.” Suan was surprised that Number One Wife knew his father, but then if she was as close to his mother as appeared to be the case it followed that she would probably know his father.
Just then the Tam-Tam sounded. “It seems dinner is ready. Would you be so kind as to take me in?” Suan was surprised, for such an arrangement was very European and very non-Chinese, but he offered Number One Wife his arm.
Just as they were about to be seated, Esteemed Son-in-Law was called out of the room to receive a message. When he returned he passed a note to Fat Fan, who opened it and read the contents.
“Mr Reynolds, it seems that the fuel in your bike was contaminated, as you expected. You are lucky, though. Mr Smyth reports that there is no serious damage and he has sent downriver for the spare parts that are required. They should be with us by mid-afternoon tomorrow. Your bike should be ready within about three hours of their arrival, but that will be too late for you to leave so you will have to endure my hospitality for another night.”
This news did not please Suan; he hoped the parts might arrive early so that he could get away well before dusk.
The dinner was a mix of Chinese and European, all prepared to a quality that would have surpassed most of the leading hotels in Europe. Four servants provided service, one of them Fuhua who seemed to have been assigned to Suan. After dinner and coffee Number One Wife excused herself, but left Fat Fan, Esteemed Son-in-Law, the Kaufmans and Suan to play a few hands of cards and enjoy some single malt whiskey. Shortly after nine the Kaufmans excused themselves and retired to the guest bungalow. Once they had left Suan made his excuses and made his way to his room.
When he arrived there the mosquito screens were closed and an insect-repellent joss coil had been lit and placed on the table by the window. Suan stripped, pulled down the mosquito curtain and slipped naked into the bed, quickly falling off to sleep.
He was jolted back awake when he sensed a movement by the side of the bed. Looking up he made out the figure of Fuhua in the faint moonlight that shafted through the louvered windows. The boy was naked, and raising the mosquito net to climb in next to Suan. “What are you doing here?”
“Great Aunt sent me to see to your needs for the night.” For a moment Suan was puzzled, until he realised that great aunt must refer to Number One Wife. “Do you not want me?”
There was a hint of panic in the boy’s voice. Why? What was he afraid of? Then Suan realised that if he threw Fuhua out the boy would be blamed, and no doubt punished.
“Of course I want you, just not like this.” His eyes, accustomed to the low light level, made out the look on the boy’s face. “Look, you’d better get in here before a mosquito gets you.”
Fuhua ducked under the net and slipped in under the single sheet next to Suan, his naked body touching Suan’s. A feeling of longing welled up inside Suan; he wanted to this boy so much, to hold him, to know him, to explore him and to use him... but it could not be. He pulled himself away.
“Do I not please you?”
“Fuhua, you please me more than you can understand, but I cannot enjoy taking such pleasure.”
“Why not, it is a gift for you?”
“Yes, but it is not your gift. It is a gift you are being made to give, not one you want to give.”
“If it was a gift I could give would you take it?”
“Yes Fuhua, if it was your gift I would take it, for it would give me great pleasure.”
“I am glad, for it would give me great pleasure to make you that gift. Can we not make believe that it is my gift and enjoy the pleasure that it would give to both of us?”
“No, Fuhua, for we would both know that it is not true. You can stay here with me tonight so that there will be no disgrace upon you, but that is all. Maybe some other time we can be together — when you are free to give that gift.”
“I hope, Suan, that time is not far away.” The sound of his name spoken by this boy was almost too much for Suan, he wanted to envelop the boy in his arms, to hold him and to caress him. As it was he turned on his side away from the boy and went to sleep.
The chattering of the monkeys in the nearby jungle woke Suan just as the first light of dawn hit the window of his room. He turned lazily in the bed, his body coming into contact with that of Fuhua, which brought back to his mind the events of the night before.
The boy started slightly at the contact, then began to wake up. He looked up at Suan and smiled. “Did Honoured Guest sleep well?”
“No, Honoured Guest was disturbed by Beautiful Boy climbing into his bed in the middle of the night.”
“It was not the middle, it had barely gone half past ten.”
“I stand corrected... and less of the Honoured Guest, please, at least when we are alone. It doesn’t feel right when we are lying here naked next to each other. Call me Suan; you did last night.”
“I know, but that was a mistake.”
“No, that was probably the one thing that was not a mistake. Friends use each other’s personal names.”
“Are we friends, then, Suan?”
“I hope so, Fuhua, I hope so.”
“Good, then I will make things good for my friend.” He reached out and took hold of Suan’s already erect cock.
“No Fuhua,” Suan responded, pushing the hand away, “it is not yet your gift to give.”
“But I would enjoy giving it and you would enjoy taking it.”
“Yes, Fuhua, but then there would be a price. Fat Fan never gives anything away without a price.”
“Fat Fan... is that what you call him? It is a good name, but I dare not use it.”
“Yes, it is a good name. Come, you’d better get about your business for the day and I’d better get ready to leave as soon as my bike is repaired.” Suan pushed the mosquito net to one side and got out of the bed. Fuhua followed him.
“My business for the day is to look after you. Uncle Fan went up-river last night after dinner and will not be back till late afternoon. Great Aunt has gone to her bungalow and will be there till Uncle Fan returns. My instructions are to see that your needs are cared for during the day. Your bike will not be ready till after dark so you will not be leaving today.”
“How do you know that?” Suan was certain that Fuhua had not been present when Fat Fan had told him about the repairs. That had been before service had started and there had been no servants in the room.
For a moment Fuhua looked concerned, as if he realised he had said too much, then he spoke.
“I heard Uncle Fan tell the boatman not to get back with the parts till after three, and Mr Smyth had said it would take three hours to repair your bike, so it will be dark by time it is ready.”
Suan nodded. The boy was right. There was no way he could risk riding on the jungle roads at night, it was too bloody dangerous. It was not just the risk of a pothole or rut in the road, there were also predators that came out at night. He knew that tigers were supposed to have been hunted out of this part of the country, but one never knew... then there were panthers and leopards. During day the twelve foot cut-back on each side of the track, plus his speed, gave him relative safety, but at night it was another matter.
“So I’m stuck here for another bloody day. All right, I’m going to have a shower.”
“May I join you? It would give me pleasure to assist you in your bathing.” The words were formulaic but something in the way they were said suggested that it would give the boy great pleasure. For a moment Suan thought to decline the offer, but then nodded to the boy.
Once in the shower it became even clearer that Fuhua had been very well trained as a bath boy. There was, though, something odd, almost innocent, about his ministrations. Suan had enjoyed bathhouses in Japan and in Hong Kong (he had never dared to frequent one back in the capital; that was too much of a risk) and there the boys were good — just as attentive as Fuhua — but there was something else they had, a certain coarseness an overt sexuality that was lacking in Fuhua. It was as if the boy knew all the moves but not the intent.
Whilst Fuhua was drying him Suan asked how the boy had come to be with Fat Fan. “Doctor father was taken ill; he had cancer and his wife said he had to go back to England. For nine months money came from England very good but then stopped, Doctor father was dead. Mother had good house with two servants and money... plenty to live on, but not enough to send me to school.”
Suan could understand that. Some of the private schools in Hong Kong were more expensive than many a minor English public school. “Uncle Fan and Great Aunt visited us at Christmas and I came back with them here.”
That, thought Suan, was strange. Why would Fat Fan visit Fuhua’s mother in Hong Kong? For that matter, why would he go to Hong Kong? Of course, if he was Triad it made sense— in fact it made a lot of sense.
“So where did you learn this?” he indicated Fuhua’s use of the towel to dry him off and implied the washing skills used in the shower.
“Oh, when twelve, Mother sent me to bathhouse in Happy Valley to be taught; said it never hurt to know a skill and that pleasing men was a skill.”
The response caught Suan by surprise... the boy’s mother had sent him to learn the skills of a bathhouse boy. Why? It was clear from what the boy had told him that they were not short of money. Nothing here quite made sense.
Once dry, they dressed. Suan noticed that whilst they had been in the shower clean sarongs and shirts had been provided for both of them. Also, his travel clothes from yesterday had been cleaned, pressed and folded, and laid on the newly-made bed. Then Fuhua guided Suan to the front veranda where a breakfast table was set with two places. When Suan was seated, Fuhua went into the bungalow, only to return a couple of minutes later with a tray containing breakfast for two. He set the contents of the tray upon the table, then, leaning the tray against the bungalow wall, seated himself in the other seat and joined Suan for breakfast. “Uncle Fan said I was to be your host for the day until he returned.”
After breakfast Fuhua showed Suan around the compound. Although he had visited with his mother on many occasions, and had also had official business here a couple of times since his appointment with the company, Suan had never seen more than the landing area and the surrounding buildings. Fuhua took him back into the compound away from the river. It was far larger than he had imagined, and probably, he thought, than the authorities in the capital knew. There must have been over a hundred bungalows plus dormitory buildings, workshops and warehouses. Suan estimated that altogether there were probably over a thousand people in the compound, all giving allegiance to Fat Fan. As they walked along the path going upriver Suan heard the voices of children reciting a nursery rhyme in English. He stopped for a moment to listen. “Miss Carter, she English woman came out here before war, teaches children till they are eight. Then they get sent to capital or other coastal cities to Aunts or Uncles and go to school in city till twelve. Those that show promise Uncle Fan sends to secondary schools, those that don’t are taught trade and join business.”
The information Fuhua supplied made Suan realise just how vast Fat Fan’s operation must be. If what half Suan now suspected was true Fat Fan must be one of the most powerful persons in the country, if not the most powerful, and nobody knew. That, Suan realised, was true power... to be able to do what you needed done and not have anyone knowing that you had done it.
Just past the school building they came to a rushing stream that ran down into the river. It appeared to mark the boundary of the compound, for on the other side there were only a few small fields of vegetables, and beyond them the jungle.
Fuhua and Suan turned left and followed the stream upward towards the back of the compound. Set well back from the rest of the buildings was a bungalow built in the traditional Chinese style, at total variance to the other buildings in the compound.
“Great Aunt’s house, we may not go closer without being invited.” Fuhua said.
Suan looked up at the house. Two hundred yards or more behind the house an escarpment towered at least a couple of hundred feet above the surrounding jungle. Immediately behind the bungalow the escarpment was cut by a steep-sided valley, from which the stream tumbled. High above the bungalow, perched on the edge of the valley, was a tower a clear two hundred feet high.
Suan turned and looked across the river. Back from the jungle edge rose a matching escarpment, upon which stood another tower. Wires were strung between the two towers. He looked at Fuhua, his eyes conveying his question.
“The Japanese installed them during the war. Just beyond that bend in the valley,” he pointed up the opposite valley, “there’s a dam with a hydroelectric power station. At peak we can get ten megawatts, even now with the water low we get a good five.”
Suan nodded. Short and long wave radio equipment, plenty of power; Fat Fan could run an empire from here... and probably did.
They made their way back to the main bungalow and lunched together.
After lunch they walked down to the landing stage. Clearly, school was out, for naked children jumped into the river and frolicked in the water. On the far side, where the jungle came down to the water’s edge, monkeys chattered and hurled abuse at the shouting children who had disturbed their peace.
“Do you like it here?” Suan asked.
“Why do you ask?”
“I want to know, Fuhua, do you like it here?”
“It is nice here, I have my work and Uncle Fan is good to me but â€¦”
“But what, Fuhua?”
“I wanted to complete sixth form and go to university; I wanted to be an engineer, but I can’t do that from here.”
“So, where would you like to be?”
“With you.”
“But you don’t know me. You only met me yesterday.”
“Maybe, but it seems I have known you all my life. Uncle Fan and Great Aunt often spoke of you when they came to Hong Kong... the mixed race boy whose father married his mother, who came top of best school in capital and went to Oxford and got a first.”
Suan was surprised, why should Fat Fan and his wife talk about him? What was their interest?
“When they told me last week that you were coming â€¦”
“They told you I was coming last week? When?”
“Five... six days ago, don’t remember exactly when. Great Aunt say Suan Reynolds come in few days and I had to make you comfortable and take care of you.”
Suan was puzzled, how could she have known? He had not known he was coming five days ago. They had only just received the report of Black Leaf at Kamping. It could have been any of the agronomists who came upcountry. In fact it was far more likely that Jim Carter, the head agronomist, or Bill Murphy, Suan’s senior, would have come up for something as serious as Black Leaf —that was not something you would leave to the new boy. It was pure chance that Suan had come. First, there had been the break-in at Jim’s, and then Bill’s car had broken down. There was no way Number One Wife could have known; it was just chance.
Or was it?
Break-ins were not uncommon in the capital, but in the European quarter they were rare; in fact, Suan could not think of one. Not only did the police patrol the area with great alacrity but there were also private patrols on duty. Then the dinner invitation from the Minister of Agriculture that was so sudden and out of the blue. Such dinners were usually set up days, if not weeks, in advance, never the day before. How had the thieves known that the Carters and their servants would be out that night?
Bill’s car breakdown was also a puzzle. The man was a stickler for maintaining it — in fact he seemed to lavish more attention on his car than he did his wife, though having met Bill’s wife Suan could understand why. It was so strange that it should break down just as Bill was setting out for Kamping... and that the part needed to fix it would take a week or so to obtain.
Was it just chance that had put Suan on the road to Kamping? If it wasn’t, neither was the contaminated fuel.
Suan felt Fuhua’s hand slip into his. “Last night I came to you and I was scared. Yes, I wanted you. During the day you had been good to me; most of the time people see me as just a servant, but you treated me with respect, even when you did not speak with me.
“I’ve known what I am and what are my desires since I was twelve. Why else should my mother send me to a bathhouse to train?”
That at least answered one of Suan’s questions.
“All the time men have looked at me and I have seen the lust in their eyes, but when you looked at me there was something different. Yes, I saw that you wanted me, but there was something different in the way you wanted me.
“Last night I came to you and you would have been my first man. The boys with whom I trained told me that being taken by your first man could be painful and it would hurt. I feared that, but I admired you. I wanted you to be my first man; I wanted to give myself to you.
“You would not take that gift and that makes me want to give it to you even more. I understand why you would not take it and your reason gives me honour and it gives me hope. I know that you want to give me more than just the pleasure of the body, I sense that you want to give me the love that I find I have for you.”
“But Fuhua, I’m six years older than you are. I’m a man... you’re still a boy.”
“What is six years? My father was thirty years older than my mother, but I know they had love for each other. You say I am a boy but I have no doubt that before this year is out I will be a man.”
The roar of a powerful outboard filled the air as a motor canoe rounded the bend in the river. All heads turned in the direction of the sound and a number of men appeared from the surrounding buildings and made their way down to the landing stage.
“I think your spare parts have arrived, Suan,” Fuhua commented.
“I hope so, then I can leave tomorrow.”
“I will be sorry to see you go.”
“I’ll be back.”
“Will you?”
“Yes, I can’t just leave you now, can I?”
“I hope not.”
While the motor canoe was being unloaded the chugging of another motor became audible over the general bustle. Shortly, a sedate motor boat, canopied in the style of something from The African Queen, sauntered around the upriver bend and drew up against the landing stage. Fat Fan eased himself up from the chair situated under the canopy and, with some assistance, stepped up onto the landing stage. He spied Suan and Fuhua, and he signalled that they should come over to him. “Mr Reynolds, I trust you have not had too boring a day today?”
“Not at all Mr Sung, Fuhua has been quite diligent in keeping me entertained.”
“I am so pleased that he was able to be useful to you. Unfortunately, I must now deprive you of his company as I need an urgent task undertaken.”
Suan saw the look of disappointment cross Fuhua’s face. Fortunately it was gone by the time Fat Fan turned to him.
“Fuhua, as soon as the canoe has been unloaded, get Tok Tan to take you downriver to Lee Qui’s. Give Lee Qui this...” he removed an envelope from the sleeve of his robe and handed it to the boy. “Hand it only to Lee Qui, and convey my apologies for not visiting him in person, but ask him to join me for dinner tomorrow evening. Tell him that the guest bungalow he likes will be available to him with the normal resources.”
The boy bowed in resigned acknowledgement and walked down the landing stage to the motor canoe.
Fat Fan turned back to Suan. “Your bike should be ready by the morning, and I am sure you would like an early start.”
“Yes, I would. It is a long way still to Kamping and I would like to make up for the lost time — so I will go there direct.”
“Very wise. I will make certain one of the ferry men is on duty to take you across the river first thing in the morning. You can go across and cut up the track to the jungle road; that will save you a couple of hours backtracking to the turnoff for the bridge.” There was an unspoken suggestion that Fat Fan was well aware that Suan had been trying to avoid his compound with the route he had chosen before the breakdown.
“It looks as if there will be only the two of us for dinner this evening. My Number One Wife is busy with her business, and Esteemed Son-in-Law has had to return to the capital. May I suggest we dine early; that would give us time for a game of cards and still allow you an early night for an early start.”
Suan, with some reluctance, acknowledged the arrangement. Already he was finding the separation from Fuhua disconcerting.
Just over an hour later the Tam-Tam announced the serving of pre-dinner drinks. Suan met Fat Fan on the front veranda, where the bare-chested girl he had seen on his arrival at the compound served the drinks. Suan requested a gin and tonic which she brought to him. As she served him she pressed her body up against him suggestively. Suan felt uncomfortable.
“Ching Lan, my Honoured Guest is not one of your customers for this night,” Fat Fan commented, “restrain yourself. Mr Lee will be visiting tomorrow and I have no doubt he will require your services.” The girl giggled and moved off.
The two men sat on the veranda and drank in silence until the Tam-Tam sounded to indicate dinner was served.
The meal was traditional Chinese. Again there was silence as the two men started to partake, until Fat Fan spoke. “You disapprove of me do you not, Mr Reynolds?”
“Iâ€¦”
Fat Fan held up his hand.
“Do not deny it, for I see it in your face. Sometimes I have the same feelings, and I disapprove of myself. However, I have to live in the world as it is, not how I would like it to be. This is 1965, and people depend on me for a livelihood. Yes, I put girls into my houses of pleasure, but I am not one who buys an unwanted girl child from her parents to put her up for auction as a nine-year-old virgin.”
Suan was about to protest but Fat Fan again held up his hand. “No child should have to go into the houses of pleasure... but then, no child should have to suffer hunger or lack medical treatment because their family is without funds.
“When a poor family offers a girl child for sale I will, if I can, buy her and bring her to this place. She will know what her fate is and what is expected of her; it is the fate of many children— girls and boys — from poor families. Here, though, I give them options. I provide education and training, and if they show aptitude in some skill or trade I will support them in that; if not, I provide them with the best training and preparation that I can give them for the houses of pleasure.
“This is the reality of the world which I have to deal with and in which I have to live. Fortunately the world is changing. People like you, Mr Reynolds, will bring about that change.”
“I hope so, Mr Sung, I hope so.”
“So do I... so do I.”
Somehow Fat Fan’s admission had broken the ice between the two men. Suan could not approve of Fat Fan but at least he understood where the man was coming from. Even he had to admit that it was better for a child to go into the houses of pleasure after preparation and training and knowing what was to come, rather than being thrown in, auctioned and raped all in a single night. There was, though, one outstanding question. He looked up at Fat Fan.
“You wonder, Mr Reynolds, if I partake of the pleasure I train them to provide. The answer is no. It would not make good business sense. Virgins, even slightly older ones who are of age, still demand a premium. Even Ching Lan, seductive little minx that she is, is a virgin — and will remain so, even after her night with Mr Lee.”
Suan looked surprised.
“Be assured... Ching Lan, I am told, can do wonders with her hands and mouth, and she will provide Mr Lee with great pleasure, but should he require more release an older sister experienced in the ways will be present to provide such service.”
Suan wondered if there had been an older brother waiting nearby to provide such services if he had taken Fuhua the previous night.
Over the rest of dinner the two men discussed the changes that were taking place in the country, the nativisation of the administration and the civil service, and how even Chinese were being excluded from many positions. Fat Fan expressed the opinion that this would be to the long term detriment of the country as a whole and that it needed a dynamic mixed population. This was something Suan found himself in agreement with.
After dinner they moved to the library where they sat in the cool of the evening behind the mosquito screens, enjoying a single malt whilst playing a local variation on pontoon. The stakes were low, and after about an hour’s play Suan was some ten ringgits up on his original purse. He started to make his excuses to retire, but Fat Fan pressed him for one more game.
“How about if we raise the stakes?” Suan asked.
“And what would you like me to stake?”
“Fuhua.”
“You think the boy is mine to stake like some asset I may dispose of?”
“You hold his indenture no doubt.”
“So it is the indenture that is the stake, not the boy.”
Suan nodded at this differentiation, though both knew it was meaningless.
“And what would you stake against such a valuable item?”
Suan thought for a moment. He had nearly two thousand ringgits on him, but that was company money which he would need if he had to pay compensation to local farmers up at Kamping. Of his own funds he had less than a hundred ringgits. He very much doubted if that would be enough. He had only one thing of value; his mother had given it to him before he went to Oxford, with the injunction to only to use it in an emergency. He wondered if she would class this as an emergency.
Slowly he put his hand inside his shirt and drew out a small draw bag which hung from a corded strand around his neck. Opening the bag, he tipped a single gemstone out onto the table.
Fat Fan could not help but gasp. It was a ruby, a pigeon blood ruby of about thirty carats. Fat Fan reached over to the drawer in the sideboard next to the table and pulled from it a jeweller’s loupe — not that he needed it; he knew this stone, although it had been over a quarter of a century since he last saw it. He picked up the stone and made a play of examining it. “A fine and worthy stake. Clearly, you set much store on the boy.”
Suan nodded.
“Shall we play then, the stone for the boy’s indenture?”
Fat Fan reached into the drawer and pulled out a new, sealed deck of cards. Showing the seals to Suan, he broke them and pushed the pack onto the table, indicating to Suan that he should shuffle.
Suan mixed the pack overhand a few times, then performed a sequence of riffle shuffles and ended with a Hindu one before placing the pack in the centre of the table.
Fat Fan cut the pack and completed the cut, he performed the operation twice more then slid the top card off the pack and drew it over the table felt until it rested in front of him.
Suan slid off the second card and drew it to himself.
Both men glanced at their cards.
Suan’s was an Ace, which he could use as a one or an eleven.
Fat Fan drew another card, as did Suan, and again both men looked at their cards.
Suan had a two: not good. Fat Fan turned his cards over, revealing Pontoon, an ace and a Queen.
Suan’s heart dropped and his mouth went dry. He had lost; only one hand could beat that, and the odds were unthinkable. He drew a third card; another two. Then a fourth; a six, his cards totalled eleven.
Fat Fan looked at him expectantly, his eyes every now and then glancing at the stone that lay on the table.
Suan reached forward and took a fifth card from the deck and pulled it towards him. As he did so he prayed to every god he knew and offered to burn incense at all the shrines in the capital. Slowly he turned the card over looking at it with a sense of disbelief; it was a ten, he had turned a ten! One by one he turned the others... the six, making sixteen; the two twos making twenty; and finally the ace, making twenty one. He thanked the gods they were playing the local variation instead of standard pontoon: here a five card trick totalling twenty one without any court cards beat a pontoon.
Fat Fan looked at the cards, then bowed in acknowledgement to Suan before striking the small gong on the sideboard by the table.
A moment later a servant entered and was instructed to bring the green deed box from the study. Whilst waiting for its arrival Fat Fan took an ink stone and block from the sideboard drawer, together with a set of brushes. With water from the jug that had been provided for the whisky he started to grind the ink. When the servant appeared with the deed box Fat Fan opened it with a key that hung from the chain round his neck and removed an indenture paper. He showed the paper to Suan who confirmed it was Fuhua’s indenture, then wrote an assignment on the paper and marked it with his chop before passing the paper to Suan.
Suan looked at the unused fire pot that sat in the centre of the room. “May I?” he enquired gesturing towards it.
Fat Fan nodded.
Picking up a cigarette lighter from the sideboard Suan walked over to the pot and held the indenture papers over it. He flicked the lighter and applied the flame to the paper.
It was just after midnight when Suan felt the boy slide into bed next to him. “Uncle Fan says I am now yours.”
“No, you are now free. I burnt your papers.”
“Don’t you want me?” the voice sounded frail.
“Of course I want you! I want you with me, but I want you with me because you want to be with me.”
“I do.”
Suan turned on his side and drew Fuhua towards him, their lips met in a kiss.
Next morning the bike was ready for them at the bottom of the veranda steps. Once they had put the panniers on the bike and collected Fuhua’s few belongings, they set off for Kamping.
Up in the Chinese bungalow below the escarpment Fat Fan and Number One Wife looked out over the compound as the two young men pushed the bike down to the landing stage and the ferry. Fat Fan was shuffling a pack of cards.
“So your favourite grandson goes off with his new lover?”
“Yes, Wife, quite a satisfactory outcome.” Fat Fan started to deal the cards: first a King for himself, then an ace for the other hand, followed by another ace for himself. Then he dealt two twos to the other hand, a six and finally a ten.
His wife looked on in amusement. “You always wanted to be a magician didn’t you?”“Am I not one now, Wife? Is not this all one wonderful illusion?” Fat Fan indicated the compound around him, then returned his attention to the two young men disembarking from the ferry. “Why was it you insisted that I should lose Fuhua to him in a card game? Could I not have just sold him the indenture?”
“And how would he have paid for such a valuable indenture? I doubt he would have sold the gem for it. No, whatever price he paid he would have known it was too low; he would have sensed there was a gift in it. Eventually he would have felt he had to return it.
“No, Husband, selling Fuhua’s indenture was not an answer. By having Suan win it at the card table you have given him a victory over you. Even if he should cease to care for Fuhua in the future he will always protect the symbol of his victory over you.”
Fat Fan nodded at the wisdom in his wife’s words. “There is great wisdom in your thinking, Number One Wife! Where would I be without you to guide me?”
“Ah, but I cannot take all the credit... for whose idea was it to put Number One Daughter by Honoured Younger Sister on the last boat to leave for Australia?”
“Yes, that was a gamble that worked well, although it was Number One Daughter who caught Major Duncan. Without that nothing would have come as it has.”
“And my Younger Sister’s daughter in Hong Kong caught the good doctor.”
Fat Fan smiled at the way his wife used the old term for an approved concubines.
“Will they ever know they are cousins?”
“I think so one day... but by then they will be long settled in England.”
“They go to England, you think?”
“Of course, Wife. Suan will insist that Fuhua becomes an engineer, and as he does not speak German he will have to go to England to do his studies. Suan will not want to be separated from him for that long so he will go too. Remember, his professor wanted him to do his PhD; we must make certain that the funding is available for both.”
The old woman took out a notebook and made an entry to remind herself to make the required arrangements through the lawyers in New York.]]> Suan got off the bike and double checked the engine, just in case it was something minor. He quickly came to the conclusion that his original thought was correct: those bastards back at Kaulim village had sold him contaminated fuel. Well, at least he could push or carry his 125cc Honda for the next couple of miles. That was one thing his associates back in the city never appreciated; if a car broke down on these jungle tracks you were stuck where it broke down. With a motor bike you could at least push it to the next village where you could get help. Even in this sparsely inhabited region there was rarely more than a few miles between villages.
Fortunately for Suan the rains were late this year and what passed for a road in these parts was still firm and solid. It was fairly easy to push the bike and its accompanying load of survey and camping equipment in the direction he wanted to take. He had been hoping to make it as far as Topi this evening but now he knew he had at least an hour’s pushing before he got to any inhabited place, and that place would be Fat Fan’s. Originally he had not intended to stop there; in fact he had made up his mind to avoid it, and so would have taken the turn that was coming up in a few hundred yards rather than take the direct route to Topi via the ferry. Now he had no choice: he would have to push the bike the mile or so it would take to get to the trading post on the river. One thing he was sure of was that he would be able to get the bike fixed. Fat Fan might be many things but he was no idiot, and he made sure that the mechanics who worked on the engines for his fleet of river boats were the best that he could get. It was rumoured that one or two of them were also aircraft mechanics who could service the float planes that could land on that stretch of the river in the rainy season, when it would double or even triple in width.
Of course it made no economic sense to have six or seven top mechanics sitting around at a riverside trading station in the middle of the jungle. There would just not be enough business passing through, even in the rainy season when the river was navigable for a couple of hundred miles past Fat Fan’s. That, of course, presumed that you were looking at the legitimate business that could be conducted at such an establishment. Fat Fan had never taken such a restrictive view of his investments, a position helped by the fact that the particular bend in the river which Fat Fan’s establishment occupied was in an area of disputed ownership between four different countries — the law enforcement authorities of each having decided, with assistance from Fat Fan’s contributions to their wealth, to avoid the risk of any form of border confrontation by not actively patrolling the area.
That arrangement had worked out well for all concerned. Fat Fan’s increase in wealth had enabled him to be most generous to those officials in the various countries, who at the same time did not have to expend funds, for which they had far better use, on mounting border patrols in an area of jungle that no sensible person would want to enter.
It was just after mid-afternoon when Suan pushed the bike into Fat Fan’s clearing. Some two hundred yards away, on the veranda of a large bungalow overlooking the river, sat Fat Fan, no doubt waiting for him. Nothing came within a couple of miles of Fat Fan’s without Fat Fan knowing about it and Suan Reynolds was one person Fat Fan always wanted to know about, since the two of them had a history.
Suan pushed the bike to the foot of the steps leading up to the veranda and leaned it against a convenient post. As he started to climb the steps, Fat Fan raised his bulk out of the large wicker chair he had been occupying. At the top Suan turned to face Fat Fan and gave a small but significant bow. “Mr Sung, I crave your hospitality and assistance.”
“Mr Reynolds, I offer you such humble hospitality and assistance that is within my means to provide.” The two men both spoke in English with an accent that would not have been out of place in Rowhampton or Harrow. However, both used a form of phraseology and semantic structure that owed more to the time of the Yellow Emperor than to either Oxford or Cambridge, where they had been educated — Suan at Oxford, Fat Fan at Cambridge, albeit some forty years apart. Fat Fan indicated the seat on the other side of the low table from where he had been sitting.
Suan nodded his acceptance of the offer and seated himself in the chair before Fat Fan lowered his bulk back into the wicker armchair. Once settled in the high-backed chair Fat Fan picked up a felt headed hammer and struck a gong. A few moments later a youth of thirteen or fourteen came out of the building carrying a tray set for afternoon tea.
Suan looked up at the youth and after a few moments remembered to breathe. Before him, moving with the elegance of a gazelle, was a vision that was nigh impossible to believe... yet here it was in front of him. For a few moments Suan sat captivated by the youthful vision, to such an extent that he risked being disrespectful to Fat Fan. He mentally shook himself and returned his attention to his host.
Fat Fan smiled, “I see that Fuhua has caught your attention, Mr Reynolds, many of your taste have looked upon him with similar attention.”
“He is something of great beauty that blesses the house of my host.”
“Yes, I like to gather such beauty around me as I can, for there is little else here to enjoy.”
Given implicit permission to look upon the beauty Suan returned his attention to Fuhua. A reappraisal of the youth confirmed his attractiveness but also hinted that he might be a bit older than Suan had thought. He was probably more like fourteen or fifteen, maybe a young-looking sixteen year old; there were signs of muscle definition in his body that one only expects in an older boy. His skin was lighter in colour than the local natives though not as light as that of the Cantonese Chinese such as Fat Fan, so the boy was clearly of mixed race, although he had typically Chinese eyes. It was those eyes, however, and the boy’s hair which marked him as mixed race. His eyes were a pale blue, almost grey, and his hair was very light brown, though not quite blond.
Suan felt a pang of sympathy for the boy. It was hard enough being mixed race, as both the natives and the Chinese looked down on you, but to have European blood meant you were truly despised. Even the Europeans looked down on you and everything would be twice as hard. It was a fact that Suan was only too aware of. His own mother, who was mixed race — Chinese father and native mother — had fled before the advancing Japanese, escaping on one of the last boats to leave. She escaped to Australia but was refused admission because of her colour, and ended up in Ceylon. By some strange quirk of fate it was there that she met and married an Australian Major and gave him a son, Suan. Once the war was over they had chosen to avoid the hostility of Australia and settled in her country, but even there they were looked down upon.
Fuhua finished setting the table for tea and stood bowing to Fat Fan. “Do you require anything else Uncle Fan?” The term Uncle sent a shiver down Suan’s spine. It was used here as a term of respect for Suan was quite certain this boy was not a member of Fat Fan’s family. That meant one thing, Fuhua was a slave. Slavery was, of course, illegal in this part of Asia: the combined empires of Britain, France and the Netherlands had stamped it out. That was well known. It was a fact that you would not find a slave anywhere. What you would find was indentured workers, whose obligations would never be worked off and whose bondholders could, if they so wished, sell on their indentures to others. Indentured workers were just slaves by another name and could be — and were — used just like slaves.
Fat Fan indicated that nothing more was required of the boy, and he turned and left. Pouring the tea, Fat Fan raised the question as to what had brought Mr Reynolds to his trading station at this time.
“Was on my way to Kamping, meant to go via Rampotan and Topi, but just before the turn my engine started to splutter then died. Think I got a batch of bad fuel back at Kaulim village.”
“Most unfortunate, but the villagers of Kaulim are Daks, and as we all know Daks are not the most intelligent of people. No doubt they did not take proper precautions in storing the fuel.” Fat Fan lifted the cup of green tea to his lips and sipped at it.
Suan followed suit then responded, “I understand your observation of the Daks, but must say I have never experienced such laxity in the past.”
“You have no doubt been lucky, we must see to sorting out your transport with immediate effect.” Fat Fan picked up the striker and stroked the gong with it twice. A girl of some eleven or twelve years appeared. She was bare-chested, with a light sarong around her waist. Suan noticed she was another mixed race child, just coming into womanhood as shown by the first swelling of her breasts. Fat Fan instructed her in pidgin to go and fetch Mr Smyth.
For a few minutes the two men on the veranda sat in silence and sipped at their tea.
The young girl ran back across the compound to say that Mr Smyth was on his way.
Suan turned to see a short dumpish European man wearing a sarong and a dirty shirt under the shade of a broad brimmed native hat waddling over.
Fat Fan looked up as he approached. “Ah, Smyth, my friend Mr Reynolds has had some problems with his bike.” He pointed to the Honda at the foot of the steps. “Examine it and advise us of the problem and how it can be remedied.”
It was a command. There was no request, no politeness, only a simple command from one who expected it to be carried out.
Mr Smyth stood there, his eyes scanning the young girl. Fat Fan waved the girl inside, and turned back to Smyth. “Go on then, I would like your report before I dine. Please place the panniers on the steps.”
Smyth turned to the bike, removed the panniers and placed them on the steps, then proceeded to push the bike in the direction of a group of buildings on the far side of the compound, from where the occasional sound of metal upon metal could be heard.
Fat Fan turned his attention back to Suan. “From your expression I gather you do not like our Mr Smyth.”
“He is a man who has a certain reputation.”
“One, no doubt, that is fully deserved. It would seem that if it had not been the case that certain high officials in the government, much higher than the lowly post Mr Smyth once held, had similar tastes and frequented the same establishments as he did, to enjoy — unfortunately for them, sometimes in his presence — the same delights, then a warrant would no doubt have been issued for his arrest. As it was, it seemed best that he remove himself to a more remote location. I have always found it difficult to keep good mechanics out here, so the arrangement has suited many parties. It was, after all, an unfortunate accident.”
“Damm it, Fan, they say the girl was only seven.”
“So I have heard; but as they say, it was an accident, he rolled on her in his sleep. Maybe if he had indulged in a little less opium or maybe a little more, things would have been different.”
The simplistic way Fat Fan stated the case filled Suan with revulsion; he was, of course, aware that such things went on but had never been faced with such evidence of the system as in Fan’s simple statement.
“Anyway, we should be grateful that circumstances force Mr Smyth to be here. He may be many things and have many failings but he is an excellent mechanic. He will sort out your bike and in the meantime you must be my guest. Join me for dinner and we can talk about Kamping; I hear they have Black Leaf there.”
The Chinese man’s statement jolted Suan back to the reality of the moment. The outbreak of Black Leaf was a closely guarded secret within the company. If news got out that they had an infestation in the plantation the markets would go mad. He looked at Fat Fan, who smiled back at him. They were only eighty miles from Kamping, and only half that as the crow flies. Nothing happened within two hundred miles of Fat Fan that Fat Fan did not know about... or if it did it was because Fat Fan did not want to know about it.
“We’re not certain it is Black Leaf, that is why I was on my way, to confirm or refute the reports.” Suan was fairly certain it was Black Leaf, Mitchell the overseer up at Kamping was experienced and had seen Black Leaf before.
“And if it is Black Leaf, rip out the plantation and burn; five years before you replant?”
“Probably not, we have had some success upcountry and over in Ceylon with some of the new fungicides. We will lose the plants that are already infected but the rest can be saved. They’ve already sent to Ceylon for some supplies.”
Fat Fan nodded and made a mental note to contact his agents in the capital and tell them to cancel the future buying order he had sent them this morning. If fungicides could successfully be used then there would only be a small reduction in the crop, not enough to push up the market for a killing.
“Ah the advances of science, before the war Black Leaf would destroy the livelihood of a complete region, now it is an inconvenience that is science for you, Mr Reynolds. They say that within three years they will be putting a man on the Moon. It must be good to be young and living in a time of such scientific progress.
“You yourself are a scientist, are you not? Studied Botany at Oxford and got a First Class degree, no less.”
Suan was surprised that Fat Fan would know such a thing; it must have shown on his face.
“Oh, do not be surprised, Mr Reynolds. I myself studied at Cambridge some forty years ago and still read the Times every day, though now it takes some eight weeks to get to me. I take note when my fellow countrymen are mentioned in that august journal.”
It sounded plausible but somehow it did not quite ring true to Suan’s ears. He had first met Fat Fan when he was eleven and even then the man seemed to know more about him than an eleven year old thought he should.
“But I am remiss in my hospitality... after pushing that bike from near the Rampotan turn you must he tired, and probably sweaty. There is no way your bike can be repaired today as we will no doubt require parts, so you must stay the night. I’ll get Fuhua to take you to your room, there you can shower. Unfortunately I cannot offer you European clothes for your stay but I understand that you are comfortable in native dress, I’ll get some sent to you.”
Once again Fat Fan displayed a level of knowledge about Suan that Suan found uncomfortable.
“My staff will launder your clothes so they are ready for when you leave.” Fat Fan again picked up the striker and sounded the gong once.
Fuhua appeared, giving Suan the impression that he must have been just beyond the door waiting for the summons. Fat Fan pointed to the two panniers on the veranda steps. “Take Mr Reynolds’ luggage and guide him to his room, then arrange some clothes for him to wear when he joins me for dinner.
“Mr Reynolds, you have about an hour before the great gong sounds to announce assembly for drinks before dinner.” The statement was politely made, but with a finality that did not brook any discussion. Suan stood and bowed to his host, then followed Fuhua down the length of the veranda and around the side of the bungalow.
The room to which Fuhua showed him was set out and furnished in the European style, clearly a guest room for visitors. It had wide slidingdouble doors that opened out onto the side veranda and looked out over a small formal garden — a most unusual sight in the Asian jungle, and one which Suan suspected required a small army of labour to keep maintained, though he had no doubt that Fat Fan had such an army available.
Mosquito screens were available to close over the door and the louvered windows, allowing them to be kept open at night to provide the benefit of the cooling night air without the risk of exposure to the biting insects. The bed, Suan surmised, must have travelled out from England during the time of Queen Victoria and it probably took an elephant to transport it up from the coast. That thought made him wonder for a moment just who Fat Fan was. Everybody in the country knew of him, but it was clear, even allowing for Fat Fan’s age (which was no doubt going on some) that this place had been around a lot longer and had been a centre of power. Before he had time to follow that line of thought any further Fuhua pointed out the door that connected to the shower and toilet facilities and a second door that led into the main body of the bungalow. The boy then departed through that door.
Suan stood for a moment, realising that the boy had never spoken a word to him, though he had heard Fuhua speak to Fat Fan so he had not been muted — there still being a trade amongst certain rich Chinese for mute servants who could not spread gossip of their activities. Suan suspected that the boy only spoke Hokkien, which was the Chinese language that he had used when he spoke to Fat Fan. Suan was familiar enough with the dialect to be able to identify it and follow a simple conversation but he was not a speaker of it, though his mother had spoken it from time to time when one of his aunts had visited, which indicated that it must have been a language in her family. He regretted he did not know more about her family but that was a subject she would not speak about.
Suan quickly stripped off his travel clothes and laid them on the chair by the bed. Grabbing one of the large towels from the stand by the door that led to the facilities he went through to have a very welcome shower. He was confident that by time he returned to his room servants would have removed his soiled clothing for washing, and there would be suitable native garb laid out for him.
Whilst Suan enjoyed the luxury of the shower Fat Fan retired inside to a suite of rooms that were totally private, where a small elderly woman dressed in traditional Chinese style waited for him. “It went well, Husband?”
“As you predicted, Number One Wife, he is a most mannered man, even when faced with the slug Smyth. Though I fear Mr Reynolds has a wrath within him that may descend on our friend in Kaulim for providing him with bad fuel.”
“He is, Husband, well rewarded for his work and you did promise to place his daughter by Mia Lin in the House of the Lotus to learn her trade. She is a girl of great promise and no doubt will be Madam before many years, though at thirteen she is somewhat old for entry into a house of pleasure so you do him a great favour. Nonetheless a small gift to show your appreciation of service provided might be appropriate, especially if the wrath of one such as Mr Reynolds has been earned for serving your interests.”
Fat Fan nodded. Naturally, no man would take instruction from a woman... but it was a fool who ignored the advice and guidance of a wise woman. Number One Wife was a wise woman, there was no doubt of that — which was, in fact, why he had married her.
Fat Fan was well aware that many thought he had taken her as his wife in order to become son-in-law to Black Snake, who had run the trading station for many years and built up the initial web of power that Fat Fan now enjoyed. They were mistaken. Even back then, some fifty years ago, the fourteen year old Fan (he was not fat then) had appreciated the wisdom of the girl who had become his Number One Wife. He had also understood that, whilst Black Snake had run the trading station and its associated activities, his wife was the guide that controlled it.
Fat Fan smiled as he remembered his mother-in-law. She was a woman of great being, one whose advice you were ill-advised to ignore. It was she who had first seen Fan’s potential and arranged for him to be sent to England for his education, even though Black Snake had rebelled against the cost and pointed out that not even Number One Son had been sent to England. Of course Mother-in-law’s plan had been for Fan and his wife to set up in England and represent the interests of the family over there. However, fate — and some assistance from Number One Wife — had resulted in the demise of both of Black Snake’s sons, and Fan had taken over the business when Black Snake died.
“And his tastes, are they as we were told?” Number One Wife enquired.
“Surely, he looked upon our grandson with desire but not with lust. It is promising and I feel all will be achieved. Fuhua did all that was directed of him.”
“Then all will become as required.”
Fat Fan nodded, a smile of satisfaction spreading across his face.
“I will rest with one of my concubines before dinner, select one for me, but one who is not too energetic; I need release but I need to rest.”
Number One Wife smiled and nodded, she knew just who to choose. She was grateful that her husband always bowed to her judgement when it came to his concubines and she appreciated his need for them, not only because of the fact that she hand bore him no children but also because the demands upon her time where such that she could not always provide him with the release he needed. Anyway the concubines had given her many daughters to raise, unfortunately no son had survived beyond infancy.
Suan finished his shower and walked into his room still drying himself. He was astounded to find Fuhua standing in his room, a sarong and shirt spread across his outstretched arms. Suan knew full well that the servants in the house would be aware of his movements into and out of the room and would have had ample time to enter his room, remove his clothes and place the supplied clothing whilst he was still in the shower, so the fact that Fuhua was there must have been intentional.
Fuhua laid the sarong and shirt on the end of the bed then walked over to Suan and took the towel from his hands. For a moment Suan was about to protest, then Fuhua started to dry him. Suan wanted to say something but his Hokkien was not sufficient for him to put together what he wished to say to this boy, so he just stood there letting the boy carry out his task. It was clear from the way he did it that he had been well taught, and Suan suspected that he was trained as a bath boy. It was a suspicion confirmed when Fuhua took a phial of sweet oil from the dressing table and started to anoint Suan with it, his hands caressing Suan’s body.
“That’s not necessary,” Suan stated in English.
“Oh, but it is, Honoured Guest. Uncle Fan was most insistent that I attend to your needs fully,” the boy replied in faultless English: he did not even have the sing-song accent that many Chinese speakers have when they switch to English.
“You speak English!”
“Of course. It is the language I spoke at home and at school in Aberdeen.” It took Suan a moment to realise the boy meant Aberdeen, Hong Kong, not Scotland, though the later would not have surprised him.
“You’re from Hong Kong?”
“Yes, mother concubine to English doctor, much prestige; he send me to best school. Now mother sends me here to Uncle Fan.”
“How old are you?”
“I am sixteen.” The boy finished his administration of the oil to Suan’s body and wiped his hands on the towel, which he then folded and placed upon the chair.
Suan stood motionless, naked, waiting. He knew it would be a waste of time protesting; the boy had been instructed in what to do and would carry out his instructions. As he expected, Fuhua took the sarong and fitted it around Suan’s waist, fixing it perfectly so that it was tight and secure at the waist but hanging loose and free to the floor. There were no undergarments, something which Suan appreciated; in this heat such wear could soon become a discomfort. The boy then held up the white short-sleeved shirt for Suan to slip into. When buttoned it hung down loosely, just covering the top of the sarong.
Suan luxuriated in the feel of native dress. It was not often that he got the chance to wear it and never normally when about on the company business. To go native in any way was seriously frowned upon.
“Drinks will be served on the front veranda when the dinner gong sounds. Uncle Fan is expecting some guests from an upriver station,” Fuhua announced, then he turned and left, his work done.
Suan was confused. Something was not right and he could not put his finger on it. Clearly, the boy was trained as a bath boy, and very well and probably expensively, but he was already too old to be sent to such an occupation. Moreover, so far as Suan was aware there was no bath house that would use such boys in that part of the state. Could he be Fat Fan’s personal bath boy? Suan felt physically sick at the thought.
It was a possibility that Suan could not discount. Many Chinese men, especially those who followed the Dao, turned to boys as they got older in the belief that the boys would bring them vitality in their old age and prolong their lives. Somehow, though, it did not quite fit. He had seen no indication that Fat Fan found Fuhua attractive in that sense... or any boy for that matter.
It had only been twelve years ago that he, then eleven, had first been brought here by his mother. They were on their way upcountry by fast engine canoe to escape the wet season heat of the low lands, a trip that was to become an annual event until he went to Oxford. He had known even then where his interests lay, and had known that he was attractive to men. A few had already shown their interest in him, but Fat Fan was not one of them, although the old man had engaged him in long and thoughtful conversations during the stopovers whilst their canoe was refuelled for the final journey upstream into the hill country and its cooler climate.
Suan sat out on the side veranda enjoying the cooling breeze that had started up as the sun set lower in the sky. A couple of hundred yards away, beyond the vegetable plots that surrounded the compound, lay the jungle with its mysteries and dangers. Suan thought that maybe the jungle might be a safer place than where he was. Something was going on and he was not sure what it was. Nothing quite made sense.
The sound of a large Tam-Tam reverberated through the bungalow and the surrounding compound, setting monkeys chattering in the nearby jungle. Suan stood and made his way around to the front veranda. Fat Fan was there with a middle-aged European and a Chinese woman whom Suan estimated to be in her late twenties or early thirties.
“Ah, Mr Reynolds, please come and meet my guests. This is Dr Kaufman and his wife Bao-Yu.”
Suan shook hands with them both, extending to Bao-Yu the compliment that she lit up the place with her beauty. She seemed perplexed to be spoken to.
“You must forgive my wife, Mr Reynolds, she does not speak English, only Cantonese or German.”
Suan acknowledge the information and proceeded to repeat the remark in Cantonese, which was appropriately received with an appreciative giggle. Although the remark was given as a formal pleasantry for the occasion it was also well deserved, for she was a remarkable looking woman and Suan had no doubt that in her younger years she had been a great beauty. What did he mean ‘in her younger years’? She was still a great beauty, even now.
Fat Fan indicated to the party that they should be seated. Suan sat next to Fat Fan, with Bao-Yu on his right and across the low table from Dr Kaufman.
Fuhua came and took their drink orders. Suan ordered gin and tonic, the same as Dr Kaufman and Fat Fan, while Bao-Yu asked for a tonic on its own.
The conversation around the table quickly fell to a discussion of how late the rains were this year and the problems the low river level was causing, especially the difficulty Dr Kaufman was having getting his harvest downriver to market.
Suan found himself remembering what he had heard about Dr Kaufman. The man was a German who had been sent out during the war to assist Germany’s allies, the Japanese. Apparently it had been intended as some form of disgrace for some offence he had given to the Fuhrer — an offence which would have sent him to the Russian Front or Dachau, normally, but the doctor’s family was just a bit too important for such a solution so he ended up out here. Like most European men at that time he had taken himself a young Chinese mistress, but then, to the shock of the local community, he had married her. After the defeat of Germany and Japan he had been allowed to stay on. This had been somewhat to the surprise of many, but it had come out that he had been passing information to the local resistance, and providing them with medical supplies. It had been made clear to him, however, that his residence in the capital or any of the other major cities on the coast would not be welcome, so he had moved upcountry and was now a plantation owner.
Suan was deep in this line of thought when he almost missed the question from Dr Kaufman. “What brings you up here, Mr Reynolds?”
“Ah,” interrupted Fat Fan, before Suan had chance to expose the fact that he had been miles away in thought, “Mr Reynolds is Assistant Agronomist with West Asian Spice. He was on his way to their plantation at Kamping when his transport suffered a mechanical failure.”
“Assistant Agronomist... you are very young to hold such an exalted position within the Company,” stated the doctor.
“I probably am, but I did Botany at Oxford and specialised in plant pathology in my final year, so I was probably the best qualified person out here when Malcolm Short was forced to return to the UK so suddenly.”
There was a moment of silence around the table; a sense of embarrassment at the memory of an incident that was only just over two years old. Everybody had been shocked when the news had broken that the police had raided a house of pleasure and found Malcolm Short in a highly compromising position with two very underage girls. It was totally unbelievable that the police should raid such an establishment without giving some warning and allowing the Madam to replace such girls with somebody of more suitable age. Of course, each side blamed the other: the police stating that the Madam had not acted fast enough, and Madam stating that the police had not given enough warning. There was a feeling that something had gone very wrong and that perhaps Mr Short had a powerful enemy who could arrange such things. If that was the case and and such an enemy had shown his displeasure it was felt best that Mr Short return to England.
“Ah yes,” commented Fat Fan, “such an unfortunate affair.” A faint smile crossed his face. “The House of the Pearl took many months to re-establish its clientele.”
Just how, thought Suan, did the old bastard know that?
“It is lucky you were at this place when your transport failed you,” Dr Kaufman commented.
“I was some distance out, by the turnoff to Rampotan. I was intending to go- via Rampotan to Topi, and then onto Kamping.”
“A somewhat roundabout route but no doubt you had business that way. It is lucky, though, that you found this place.”
“There was no luck involved,” declared Fat Fan, “his mother is a favourite of my Number One Wife, and called in here often when she and her son were on their way upcountry or on their return downriver.”
There it was again, the specific terminology that Fat Fan used was not quite right. The Cantonese phrase that became ‘favourite’ in English had a subtle secondary meaning which carried more than was expressed in the English translation. It almost implied a member of the family, but such usage did not make sense.
Just then a small Chinese woman and a middle aged Chinese man stepped out onto the veranda.
“Ah,” continued Fat Fan, “talk of the devil. My Number One Wife and my Esteemed Son-in-Law.”
Now Suan was totally confused. Something was going on here and he did not understand what. By introducing the man as his esteemed son-in-law Fat Fan had announced to those present that he had no sons, an admission that no Chinese man of his generation would willingly make public, unless he was also stating that this man was the one who would take over his business.
“Dr Kaufman, Mr Reynolds, I hope you are enjoying your visit to my home,” Number One Wife stated in perfect and almost accentless English.
“Your home is remarkable,” Suan replied, “as is your English.”
“You compliment me too much! My English is... oh, what is the word? â€¦Stilted. I do not get to speak it enough since I returned from England.”
“You were in England?”
“Yes, for six years, in the 1920s. I accompanied my husband when he went to study at Cambridge, then we lived in London whilst he did his PhD. Unfortunately, the death of my elder brother required our urgent return to my home before I truly mastered your language or customs... or my husband finished his studies.”
Suddenly bits started to fall into place and a pattern emerged, like the completion of a jigsaw. This was her home; Fat Fan had married into the business, but she had been born into it. The question was, what was the business? Suan had always thought that Fat Fan was a local crook, maybe a bit bigger than most of the small-time wheeler-dealers around; one who had expanded into the opium market and into child labour, perhaps even a few illicit gemstones. Now, though, he got a different perspective on things: is it possible that the brothels and drinking dens on the coast are run from here? That was a nonsense, of course; surely there was no way such an operation could be run — the distance and the associated delay in communication would make it impossible — yet it also made a kind of sense. Here Fat Fan was safe; he would know many hours in advance if the police were to move to raid him; and anyway, which police would raid? Who had jurisdiction up in this triangle of land claimed by three countries?
If Suan was right, Fat Fan was no small crooked river trader with his hands in half a dozen questionable activities; he was Triad, and the small woman who now stood in front of him was effectively the head of this Triad. Suan looked at her with an increasing sense of amazement. She smiled at him as if she read the understanding that was developing in his mind. Another thought struck Suan... if his thinking was correct what did it mean that his mother had been a favourite of Number One Wife?
“How is your mother?” she asked.
“Well, but she had flu a few weeks ago and is still a bit weak from its effect.”
“I am sorry to hear that, Mr Reynolds, but I do hope she will be fit to travel when the rains come. I so look forward her visits. Perhaps this year Major Duncan might come with her; I hear he is retiring from the civil service.”
This was news to Suan — who had not seen his father for some months — though not a surprise. Since independence there had been a constant pressure within the civil service to replace Europeans with Chinese or native staff.
“I have no way of knowing, I have not seen my father since Christmas.”
“That is unfortunate. I was hoping for news of him, he is such a pleasant man.” Suan was surprised that Number One Wife knew his father, but then if she was as close to his mother as appeared to be the case it followed that she would probably know his father.
Just then the Tam-Tam sounded. “It seems dinner is ready. Would you be so kind as to take me in?” Suan was surprised, for such an arrangement was very European and very non-Chinese, but he offered Number One Wife his arm.
Just as they were about to be seated, Esteemed Son-in-Law was called out of the room to receive a message. When he returned he passed a note to Fat Fan, who opened it and read the contents.
“Mr Reynolds, it seems that the fuel in your bike was contaminated, as you expected. You are lucky, though. Mr Smyth reports that there is no serious damage and he has sent downriver for the spare parts that are required. They should be with us by mid-afternoon tomorrow. Your bike should be ready within about three hours of their arrival, but that will be too late for you to leave so you will have to endure my hospitality for another night.”
This news did not please Suan; he hoped the parts might arrive early so that he could get away well before dusk.
The dinner was a mix of Chinese and European, all prepared to a quality that would have surpassed most of the leading hotels in Europe. Four servants provided service, one of them Fuhua who seemed to have been assigned to Suan. After dinner and coffee Number One Wife excused herself, but left Fat Fan, Esteemed Son-in-Law, the Kaufmans and Suan to play a few hands of cards and enjoy some single malt whiskey. Shortly after nine the Kaufmans excused themselves and retired to the guest bungalow. Once they had left Suan made his excuses and made his way to his room.
When he arrived there the mosquito screens were closed and an insect-repellent joss coil had been lit and placed on the table by the window. Suan stripped, pulled down the mosquito curtain and slipped naked into the bed, quickly falling off to sleep.
He was jolted back awake when he sensed a movement by the side of the bed. Looking up he made out the figure of Fuhua in the faint moonlight that shafted through the louvered windows. The boy was naked, and raising the mosquito net to climb in next to Suan. “What are you doing here?”
“Great Aunt sent me to see to your needs for the night.” For a moment Suan was puzzled, until he realised that great aunt must refer to Number One Wife. “Do you not want me?”
There was a hint of panic in the boy’s voice. Why? What was he afraid of? Then Suan realised that if he threw Fuhua out the boy would be blamed, and no doubt punished.
“Of course I want you, just not like this.” His eyes, accustomed to the low light level, made out the look on the boy’s face. “Look, you’d better get in here before a mosquito gets you.”
Fuhua ducked under the net and slipped in under the single sheet next to Suan, his naked body touching Suan’s. A feeling of longing welled up inside Suan; he wanted to this boy so much, to hold him, to know him, to explore him and to use him... but it could not be. He pulled himself away.
“Do I not please you?”
“Fuhua, you please me more than you can understand, but I cannot enjoy taking such pleasure.”
“Why not, it is a gift for you?”
“Yes, but it is not your gift. It is a gift you are being made to give, not one you want to give.”
“If it was a gift I could give would you take it?”
“Yes Fuhua, if it was your gift I would take it, for it would give me great pleasure.”
“I am glad, for it would give me great pleasure to make you that gift. Can we not make believe that it is my gift and enjoy the pleasure that it would give to both of us?”
“No, Fuhua, for we would both know that it is not true. You can stay here with me tonight so that there will be no disgrace upon you, but that is all. Maybe some other time we can be together — when you are free to give that gift.”
“I hope, Suan, that time is not far away.” The sound of his name spoken by this boy was almost too much for Suan, he wanted to envelop the boy in his arms, to hold him and to caress him. As it was he turned on his side away from the boy and went to sleep.
The chattering of the monkeys in the nearby jungle woke Suan just as the first light of dawn hit the window of his room. He turned lazily in the bed, his body coming into contact with that of Fuhua, which brought back to his mind the events of the night before.
The boy started slightly at the contact, then began to wake up. He looked up at Suan and smiled. “Did Honoured Guest sleep well?”
“No, Honoured Guest was disturbed by Beautiful Boy climbing into his bed in the middle of the night.”
“It was not the middle, it had barely gone half past ten.”
“I stand corrected... and less of the Honoured Guest, please, at least when we are alone. It doesn’t feel right when we are lying here naked next to each other. Call me Suan; you did last night.”
“I know, but that was a mistake.”
“No, that was probably the one thing that was not a mistake. Friends use each other’s personal names.”
“Are we friends, then, Suan?”
“I hope so, Fuhua, I hope so.”
“Good, then I will make things good for my friend.” He reached out and took hold of Suan’s already erect cock.
“No Fuhua,” Suan responded, pushing the hand away, “it is not yet your gift to give.”
“But I would enjoy giving it and you would enjoy taking it.”
“Yes, Fuhua, but then there would be a price. Fat Fan never gives anything away without a price.”
“Fat Fan... is that what you call him? It is a good name, but I dare not use it.”
“Yes, it is a good name. Come, you’d better get about your business for the day and I’d better get ready to leave as soon as my bike is repaired.” Suan pushed the mosquito net to one side and got out of the bed. Fuhua followed him.
“My business for the day is to look after you. Uncle Fan went up-river last night after dinner and will not be back till late afternoon. Great Aunt has gone to her bungalow and will be there till Uncle Fan returns. My instructions are to see that your needs are cared for during the day. Your bike will not be ready till after dark so you will not be leaving today.”
“How do you know that?” Suan was certain that Fuhua had not been present when Fat Fan had told him about the repairs. That had been before service had started and there had been no servants in the room.
For a moment Fuhua looked concerned, as if he realised he had said too much, then he spoke.
“I heard Uncle Fan tell the boatman not to get back with the parts till after three, and Mr Smyth had said it would take three hours to repair your bike, so it will be dark by time it is ready.”
Suan nodded. The boy was right. There was no way he could risk riding on the jungle roads at night, it was too bloody dangerous. It was not just the risk of a pothole or rut in the road, there were also predators that came out at night. He knew that tigers were supposed to have been hunted out of this part of the country, but one never knew... then there were panthers and leopards. During day the twelve foot cut-back on each side of the track, plus his speed, gave him relative safety, but at night it was another matter.
“So I’m stuck here for another bloody day. All right, I’m going to have a shower.”
“May I join you? It would give me pleasure to assist you in your bathing.” The words were formulaic but something in the way they were said suggested that it would give the boy great pleasure. For a moment Suan thought to decline the offer, but then nodded to the boy.
Once in the shower it became even clearer that Fuhua had been very well trained as a bath boy. There was, though, something odd, almost innocent, about his ministrations. Suan had enjoyed bathhouses in Japan and in Hong Kong (he had never dared to frequent one back in the capital; that was too much of a risk) and there the boys were good — just as attentive as Fuhua — but there was something else they had, a certain coarseness an overt sexuality that was lacking in Fuhua. It was as if the boy knew all the moves but not the intent.
Whilst Fuhua was drying him Suan asked how the boy had come to be with Fat Fan. “Doctor father was taken ill; he had cancer and his wife said he had to go back to England. For nine months money came from England very good but then stopped, Doctor father was dead. Mother had good house with two servants and money... plenty to live on, but not enough to send me to school.”
Suan could understand that. Some of the private schools in Hong Kong were more expensive than many a minor English public school. “Uncle Fan and Great Aunt visited us at Christmas and I came back with them here.”
That, thought Suan, was strange. Why would Fat Fan visit Fuhua’s mother in Hong Kong? For that matter, why would he go to Hong Kong? Of course, if he was Triad it made sense— in fact it made a lot of sense.
“So where did you learn this?” he indicated Fuhua’s use of the towel to dry him off and implied the washing skills used in the shower.
“Oh, when twelve, Mother sent me to bathhouse in Happy Valley to be taught; said it never hurt to know a skill and that pleasing men was a skill.”
The response caught Suan by surprise... the boy’s mother had sent him to learn the skills of a bathhouse boy. Why? It was clear from what the boy had told him that they were not short of money. Nothing here quite made sense.
Once dry, they dressed. Suan noticed that whilst they had been in the shower clean sarongs and shirts had been provided for both of them. Also, his travel clothes from yesterday had been cleaned, pressed and folded, and laid on the newly-made bed. Then Fuhua guided Suan to the front veranda where a breakfast table was set with two places. When Suan was seated, Fuhua went into the bungalow, only to return a couple of minutes later with a tray containing breakfast for two. He set the contents of the tray upon the table, then, leaning the tray against the bungalow wall, seated himself in the other seat and joined Suan for breakfast. “Uncle Fan said I was to be your host for the day until he returned.”
After breakfast Fuhua showed Suan around the compound. Although he had visited with his mother on many occasions, and had also had official business here a couple of times since his appointment with the company, Suan had never seen more than the landing area and the surrounding buildings. Fuhua took him back into the compound away from the river. It was far larger than he had imagined, and probably, he thought, than the authorities in the capital knew. There must have been over a hundred bungalows plus dormitory buildings, workshops and warehouses. Suan estimated that altogether there were probably over a thousand people in the compound, all giving allegiance to Fat Fan. As they walked along the path going upriver Suan heard the voices of children reciting a nursery rhyme in English. He stopped for a moment to listen. “Miss Carter, she English woman came out here before war, teaches children till they are eight. Then they get sent to capital or other coastal cities to Aunts or Uncles and go to school in city till twelve. Those that show promise Uncle Fan sends to secondary schools, those that don’t are taught trade and join business.”
The information Fuhua supplied made Suan realise just how vast Fat Fan’s operation must be. If what half Suan now suspected was true Fat Fan must be one of the most powerful persons in the country, if not the most powerful, and nobody knew. That, Suan realised, was true power... to be able to do what you needed done and not have anyone knowing that you had done it.
Just past the school building they came to a rushing stream that ran down into the river. It appeared to mark the boundary of the compound, for on the other side there were only a few small fields of vegetables, and beyond them the jungle.
Fuhua and Suan turned left and followed the stream upward towards the back of the compound. Set well back from the rest of the buildings was a bungalow built in the traditional Chinese style, at total variance to the other buildings in the compound.
“Great Aunt’s house, we may not go closer without being invited.” Fuhua said.
Suan looked up at the house. Two hundred yards or more behind the house an escarpment towered at least a couple of hundred feet above the surrounding jungle. Immediately behind the bungalow the escarpment was cut by a steep-sided valley, from which the stream tumbled. High above the bungalow, perched on the edge of the valley, was a tower a clear two hundred feet high.
Suan turned and looked across the river. Back from the jungle edge rose a matching escarpment, upon which stood another tower. Wires were strung between the two towers. He looked at Fuhua, his eyes conveying his question.
“The Japanese installed them during the war. Just beyond that bend in the valley,” he pointed up the opposite valley, “there’s a dam with a hydroelectric power station. At peak we can get ten megawatts, even now with the water low we get a good five.”
Suan nodded. Short and long wave radio equipment, plenty of power; Fat Fan could run an empire from here... and probably did.
They made their way back to the main bungalow and lunched together.
After lunch they walked down to the landing stage. Clearly, school was out, for naked children jumped into the river and frolicked in the water. On the far side, where the jungle came down to the water’s edge, monkeys chattered and hurled abuse at the shouting children who had disturbed their peace.
“Do you like it here?” Suan asked.
“Why do you ask?”
“I want to know, Fuhua, do you like it here?”
“It is nice here, I have my work and Uncle Fan is good to me but â€¦”
“But what, Fuhua?”
“I wanted to complete sixth form and go to university; I wanted to be an engineer, but I can’t do that from here.”
“So, where would you like to be?”
“With you.”
“But you don’t know me. You only met me yesterday.”
“Maybe, but it seems I have known you all my life. Uncle Fan and Great Aunt often spoke of you when they came to Hong Kong... the mixed race boy whose father married his mother, who came top of best school in capital and went to Oxford and got a first.”
Suan was surprised, why should Fat Fan and his wife talk about him? What was their interest?
“When they told me last week that you were coming â€¦”
“They told you I was coming last week? When?”
“Five... six days ago, don’t remember exactly when. Great Aunt say Suan Reynolds come in few days and I had to make you comfortable and take care of you.”
Suan was puzzled, how could she have known? He had not known he was coming five days ago. They had only just received the report of Black Leaf at Kamping. It could have been any of the agronomists who came upcountry. In fact it was far more likely that Jim Carter, the head agronomist, or Bill Murphy, Suan’s senior, would have come up for something as serious as Black Leaf —that was not something you would leave to the new boy. It was pure chance that Suan had come. First, there had been the break-in at Jim’s, and then Bill’s car had broken down. There was no way Number One Wife could have known; it was just chance.
Or was it?
Break-ins were not uncommon in the capital, but in the European quarter they were rare; in fact, Suan could not think of one. Not only did the police patrol the area with great alacrity but there were also private patrols on duty. Then the dinner invitation from the Minister of Agriculture that was so sudden and out of the blue. Such dinners were usually set up days, if not weeks, in advance, never the day before. How had the thieves known that the Carters and their servants would be out that night?
Bill’s car breakdown was also a puzzle. The man was a stickler for maintaining it — in fact he seemed to lavish more attention on his car than he did his wife, though having met Bill’s wife Suan could understand why. It was so strange that it should break down just as Bill was setting out for Kamping... and that the part needed to fix it would take a week or so to obtain.
Was it just chance that had put Suan on the road to Kamping? If it wasn’t, neither was the contaminated fuel.
Suan felt Fuhua’s hand slip into his. “Last night I came to you and I was scared. Yes, I wanted you. During the day you had been good to me; most of the time people see me as just a servant, but you treated me with respect, even when you did not speak with me.
“I’ve known what I am and what are my desires since I was twelve. Why else should my mother send me to a bathhouse to train?”
That at least answered one of Suan’s questions.
“All the time men have looked at me and I have seen the lust in their eyes, but when you looked at me there was something different. Yes, I saw that you wanted me, but there was something different in the way you wanted me.
“Last night I came to you and you would have been my first man. The boys with whom I trained told me that being taken by your first man could be painful and it would hurt. I feared that, but I admired you. I wanted you to be my first man; I wanted to give myself to you.
“You would not take that gift and that makes me want to give it to you even more. I understand why you would not take it and your reason gives me honour and it gives me hope. I know that you want to give me more than just the pleasure of the body, I sense that you want to give me the love that I find I have for you.”
“But Fuhua, I’m six years older than you are. I’m a man... you’re still a boy.”
“What is six years? My father was thirty years older than my mother, but I know they had love for each other. You say I am a boy but I have no doubt that before this year is out I will be a man.”
The roar of a powerful outboard filled the air as a motor canoe rounded the bend in the river. All heads turned in the direction of the sound and a number of men appeared from the surrounding buildings and made their way down to the landing stage.
“I think your spare parts have arrived, Suan,” Fuhua commented.
“I hope so, then I can leave tomorrow.”
“I will be sorry to see you go.”
“I’ll be back.”
“Will you?”
“Yes, I can’t just leave you now, can I?”
“I hope not.”
While the motor canoe was being unloaded the chugging of another motor became audible over the general bustle. Shortly, a sedate motor boat, canopied in the style of something from The African Queen, sauntered around the upriver bend and drew up against the landing stage. Fat Fan eased himself up from the chair situated under the canopy and, with some assistance, stepped up onto the landing stage. He spied Suan and Fuhua, and he signalled that they should come over to him. “Mr Reynolds, I trust you have not had too boring a day today?”
“Not at all Mr Sung, Fuhua has been quite diligent in keeping me entertained.”
“I am so pleased that he was able to be useful to you. Unfortunately, I must now deprive you of his company as I need an urgent task undertaken.”
Suan saw the look of disappointment cross Fuhua’s face. Fortunately it was gone by the time Fat Fan turned to him.
“Fuhua, as soon as the canoe has been unloaded, get Tok Tan to take you downriver to Lee Qui’s. Give Lee Qui this...” he removed an envelope from the sleeve of his robe and handed it to the boy. “Hand it only to Lee Qui, and convey my apologies for not visiting him in person, but ask him to join me for dinner tomorrow evening. Tell him that the guest bungalow he likes will be available to him with the normal resources.”
The boy bowed in resigned acknowledgement and walked down the landing stage to the motor canoe.
Fat Fan turned back to Suan. “Your bike should be ready by the morning, and I am sure you would like an early start.”
“Yes, I would. It is a long way still to Kamping and I would like to make up for the lost time — so I will go there direct.”
“Very wise. I will make certain one of the ferry men is on duty to take you across the river first thing in the morning. You can go across and cut up the track to the jungle road; that will save you a couple of hours backtracking to the turnoff for the bridge.” There was an unspoken suggestion that Fat Fan was well aware that Suan had been trying to avoid his compound with the route he had chosen before the breakdown.
“It looks as if there will be only the two of us for dinner this evening. My Number One Wife is busy with her business, and Esteemed Son-in-Law has had to return to the capital. May I suggest we dine early; that would give us time for a game of cards and still allow you an early night for an early start.”
Suan, with some reluctance, acknowledged the arrangement. Already he was finding the separation from Fuhua disconcerting.
Just over an hour later the Tam-Tam announced the serving of pre-dinner drinks. Suan met Fat Fan on the front veranda, where the bare-chested girl he had seen on his arrival at the compound served the drinks. Suan requested a gin and tonic which she brought to him. As she served him she pressed her body up against him suggestively. Suan felt uncomfortable.
“Ching Lan, my Honoured Guest is not one of your customers for this night,” Fat Fan commented, “restrain yourself. Mr Lee will be visiting tomorrow and I have no doubt he will require your services.” The girl giggled and moved off.
The two men sat on the veranda and drank in silence until the Tam-Tam sounded to indicate dinner was served.
The meal was traditional Chinese. Again there was silence as the two men started to partake, until Fat Fan spoke. “You disapprove of me do you not, Mr Reynolds?”
“Iâ€¦”
Fat Fan held up his hand.
“Do not deny it, for I see it in your face. Sometimes I have the same feelings, and I disapprove of myself. However, I have to live in the world as it is, not how I would like it to be. This is 1965, and people depend on me for a livelihood. Yes, I put girls into my houses of pleasure, but I am not one who buys an unwanted girl child from her parents to put her up for auction as a nine-year-old virgin.”
Suan was about to protest but Fat Fan again held up his hand. “No child should have to go into the houses of pleasure... but then, no child should have to suffer hunger or lack medical treatment because their family is without funds.
“When a poor family offers a girl child for sale I will, if I can, buy her and bring her to this place. She will know what her fate is and what is expected of her; it is the fate of many children— girls and boys — from poor families. Here, though, I give them options. I provide education and training, and if they show aptitude in some skill or trade I will support them in that; if not, I provide them with the best training and preparation that I can give them for the houses of pleasure.
“This is the reality of the world which I have to deal with and in which I have to live. Fortunately the world is changing. People like you, Mr Reynolds, will bring about that change.”
“I hope so, Mr Sung, I hope so.”
“So do I... so do I.”
Somehow Fat Fan’s admission had broken the ice between the two men. Suan could not approve of Fat Fan but at least he understood where the man was coming from. Even he had to admit that it was better for a child to go into the houses of pleasure after preparation and training and knowing what was to come, rather than being thrown in, auctioned and raped all in a single night. There was, though, one outstanding question. He looked up at Fat Fan.
“You wonder, Mr Reynolds, if I partake of the pleasure I train them to provide. The answer is no. It would not make good business sense. Virgins, even slightly older ones who are of age, still demand a premium. Even Ching Lan, seductive little minx that she is, is a virgin — and will remain so, even after her night with Mr Lee.”
Suan looked surprised.
“Be assured... Ching Lan, I am told, can do wonders with her hands and mouth, and she will provide Mr Lee with great pleasure, but should he require more release an older sister experienced in the ways will be present to provide such service.”
Suan wondered if there had been an older brother waiting nearby to provide such services if he had taken Fuhua the previous night.
Over the rest of dinner the two men discussed the changes that were taking place in the country, the nativisation of the administration and the civil service, and how even Chinese were being excluded from many positions. Fat Fan expressed the opinion that this would be to the long term detriment of the country as a whole and that it needed a dynamic mixed population. This was something Suan found himself in agreement with.
After dinner they moved to the library where they sat in the cool of the evening behind the mosquito screens, enjoying a single malt whilst playing a local variation on pontoon. The stakes were low, and after about an hour’s play Suan was some ten ringgits up on his original purse. He started to make his excuses to retire, but Fat Fan pressed him for one more game.
“How about if we raise the stakes?” Suan asked.
“And what would you like me to stake?”
“Fuhua.”
“You think the boy is mine to stake like some asset I may dispose of?”
“You hold his indenture no doubt.”
“So it is the indenture that is the stake, not the boy.”
Suan nodded at this differentiation, though both knew it was meaningless.
“And what would you stake against such a valuable item?”
Suan thought for a moment. He had nearly two thousand ringgits on him, but that was company money which he would need if he had to pay compensation to local farmers up at Kamping. Of his own funds he had less than a hundred ringgits. He very much doubted if that would be enough. He had only one thing of value; his mother had given it to him before he went to Oxford, with the injunction to only to use it in an emergency. He wondered if she would class this as an emergency.
Slowly he put his hand inside his shirt and drew out a small draw bag which hung from a corded strand around his neck. Opening the bag, he tipped a single gemstone out onto the table.
Fat Fan could not help but gasp. It was a ruby, a pigeon blood ruby of about thirty carats. Fat Fan reached over to the drawer in the sideboard next to the table and pulled from it a jeweller’s loupe — not that he needed it; he knew this stone, although it had been over a quarter of a century since he last saw it. He picked up the stone and made a play of examining it. “A fine and worthy stake. Clearly, you set much store on the boy.”
Suan nodded.
“Shall we play then, the stone for the boy’s indenture?”
Fat Fan reached into the drawer and pulled out a new, sealed deck of cards. Showing the seals to Suan, he broke them and pushed the pack onto the table, indicating to Suan that he should shuffle.
Suan mixed the pack overhand a few times, then performed a sequence of riffle shuffles and ended with a Hindu one before placing the pack in the centre of the table.
Fat Fan cut the pack and completed the cut, he performed the operation twice more then slid the top card off the pack and drew it over the table felt until it rested in front of him.
Suan slid off the second card and drew it to himself.
Both men glanced at their cards.
Suan’s was an Ace, which he could use as a one or an eleven.
Fat Fan drew another card, as did Suan, and again both men looked at their cards.
Suan had a two: not good. Fat Fan turned his cards over, revealing Pontoon, an ace and a Queen.
Suan’s heart dropped and his mouth went dry. He had lost; only one hand could beat that, and the odds were unthinkable. He drew a third card; another two. Then a fourth; a six, his cards totalled eleven.
Fat Fan looked at him expectantly, his eyes every now and then glancing at the stone that lay on the table.
Suan reached forward and took a fifth card from the deck and pulled it towards him. As he did so he prayed to every god he knew and offered to burn incense at all the shrines in the capital. Slowly he turned the card over looking at it with a sense of disbelief; it was a ten, he had turned a ten! One by one he turned the others... the six, making sixteen; the two twos making twenty; and finally the ace, making twenty one. He thanked the gods they were playing the local variation instead of standard pontoon: here a five card trick totalling twenty one without any court cards beat a pontoon.
Fat Fan looked at the cards, then bowed in acknowledgement to Suan before striking the small gong on the sideboard by the table.
A moment later a servant entered and was instructed to bring the green deed box from the study. Whilst waiting for its arrival Fat Fan took an ink stone and block from the sideboard drawer, together with a set of brushes. With water from the jug that had been provided for the whisky he started to grind the ink. When the servant appeared with the deed box Fat Fan opened it with a key that hung from the chain round his neck and removed an indenture paper. He showed the paper to Suan who confirmed it was Fuhua’s indenture, then wrote an assignment on the paper and marked it with his chop before passing the paper to Suan.
Suan looked at the unused fire pot that sat in the centre of the room. “May I?” he enquired gesturing towards it.
Fat Fan nodded.
Picking up a cigarette lighter from the sideboard Suan walked over to the pot and held the indenture papers over it. He flicked the lighter and applied the flame to the paper.
It was just after midnight when Suan felt the boy slide into bed next to him. “Uncle Fan says I am now yours.”
“No, you are now free. I burnt your papers.”
“Don’t you want me?” the voice sounded frail.
“Of course I want you! I want you with me, but I want you with me because you want to be with me.”
“I do.”
Suan turned on his side and drew Fuhua towards him, their lips met in a kiss.
Next morning the bike was ready for them at the bottom of the veranda steps. Once they had put the panniers on the bike and collected Fuhua’s few belongings, they set off for Kamping.
Up in the Chinese bungalow below the escarpment Fat Fan and Number One Wife looked out over the compound as the two young men pushed the bike down to the landing stage and the ferry. Fat Fan was shuffling a pack of cards.
“So your favourite grandson goes off with his new lover?”
“Yes, Wife, quite a satisfactory outcome.” Fat Fan started to deal the cards: first a King for himself, then an ace for the other hand, followed by another ace for himself. Then he dealt two twos to the other hand, a six and finally a ten.
His wife looked on in amusement. “You always wanted to be a magician didn’t you?”“Am I not one now, Wife? Is not this all one wonderful illusion?” Fat Fan indicated the compound around him, then returned his attention to the two young men disembarking from the ferry. “Why was it you insisted that I should lose Fuhua to him in a card game? Could I not have just sold him the indenture?”
“And how would he have paid for such a valuable indenture? I doubt he would have sold the gem for it. No, whatever price he paid he would have known it was too low; he would have sensed there was a gift in it. Eventually he would have felt he had to return it.
“No, Husband, selling Fuhua’s indenture was not an answer. By having Suan win it at the card table you have given him a victory over you. Even if he should cease to care for Fuhua in the future he will always protect the symbol of his victory over you.”
Fat Fan nodded at the wisdom in his wife’s words. “There is great wisdom in your thinking, Number One Wife! Where would I be without you to guide me?”
“Ah, but I cannot take all the credit... for whose idea was it to put Number One Daughter by Honoured Younger Sister on the last boat to leave for Australia?”
“Yes, that was a gamble that worked well, although it was Number One Daughter who caught Major Duncan. Without that nothing would have come as it has.”
“And my Younger Sister’s daughter in Hong Kong caught the good doctor.”
Fat Fan smiled at the way his wife used the old term for an approved concubines.
“Will they ever know they are cousins?”
“I think so one day... but by then they will be long settled in England.”
“They go to England, you think?”
“Of course, Wife. Suan will insist that Fuhua becomes an engineer, and as he does not speak German he will have to go to England to do his studies. Suan will not want to be separated from him for that long so he will go too. Remember, his professor wanted him to do his PhD; we must make certain that the funding is available for both.”
The old woman took out a notebook and made an entry to remind herself to make the required arrangements through the lawyers in New York.]]> <![CDATA[The Wrong One]]> https://funtailix.com/portal/showthread.php?tid=2348 Tue, 15 Jul 2025 17:17:21 +0000 WMASG]]> https://funtailix.com/portal/showthread.php?tid=2348 After twelve years in the army, Peter had returned to civilian life, not really sure what he wanted to do. All he was certain about was the he had to get out of the army. It was not that he did not like the army; in fact he loved the army. The problem was he also loved men. For an officer in the British Army that just was not on, unless you were in one of the more exclusive regiments.

The problem, which surrounded Peter now, was that there just was not anybody. There were plenty of 'friends' but no one special.

He had left the army because of Trevor. Trevor was everything he had wanted. In fact Trevor was everything anybody could have wanted. Kind, well mannered, good looking and pleasant company, a fact that caused him to be the centre of attention for most of the females in Aldershot. All of whom seemed to disregard Trevor's total lack of interest in them.

It would probably be wrong to think of Trevor as homosexual. If anything he was asexual, the idea of sexual relationships never really entering into his mind, which was something of a pity as they entered into the minds of nearly everybody who was with him.

Trevor was sexually attractive and attracted everybody, male and female. Even those males who would have regarded themselves as being strictly heterosexual, would feel themselves attracted to Trevor, though they would never think of such attraction as homosexual. It was just being a good buddy.

Peter had also been attracted to Trevor and for a variety of reasons Trevor had responded. It could not be said that Trevor felt physically attracted to Peter, but he did feel safe with Peter. If Peter wanted something more than company, that was all right with Trevor. He did not mind one way or another. There were others, however, who did. Word of Peter's relationship with one of the rankers quietly, but quickly, got passed to the commanding officer. In a short interview it had been made very clear to Peter that he should resign his commission and leave the army.

Peter had, regretting the loss of his army life but thankful that he still had Trevor, who the army also found an embarrassment. Unfortunately without the position of rank he held in the army, Trevor no longer found Peter offering safety. He did find it, however, in a rotund, matronly, wealthy American widow.

So that was good-bye to Trevor and left Peter somewhat alone.

Gay society has a life style of its own and set of mores which its members accept. There are accepted ways of behaving in that society, just as there are in any other society. Twelve years as a commissioned officer in the British Army is not the place to learn them. Peter made a couple of visits to gay clubs and pubs in the surroundings of Birmingham. He was always an outsider never quite fitting in. Though from time to time he would meet somebody and get into a relationship with them but they never seemed to last long.

He got himself a job as a manager with a Midland's security firm, brought a small house in a somewhat better part of town and acquired a red sports car. In all aspects of his life he seemed to be a perfect bachelor. Comfortably off, in his early thirties with a good secure job and plenty of prospects.

He did not feel like cutting himself off from society and took an active part in local politics. Joining the local party, there was only one effective party in that area of Birmingham. Helping them to canvass at the elections and being a firm supporter of Mr Heath. He was most welcome at the summer garden parties where middle class and rising accounts wives targeted their unmarried daughters at him, wondering why their aim appeared not to by quite right.

It was at one of these parties that he met Joan, dowdy, old before her time, Joan, the stalwart party worker, who always helped out. She even went canvassing in those parts which supported Labour, or worse the Liberals.

As Headmistress of one of the not so better off Primary Schools in the more depressed part of the city, Joan had developed the caring, well mannered personality of everybody's maiden aunt. If anybody had problems it was Joan they would go to talk to. It was not long before Peter found himself taking small problems to Joan. Usually, whilst running her home, in that small red sports car, after party meetings.

He never actually told her he was gay, she just seemed to know. It was an accepted fact and they would often discuss the passing relationships that he had, of which she never seemed to approve.

"You know Peter, that new boyfriend you've got just isn't right for you, " would almost inevitably be her comment the moment a new one arrived on the scene. Not that she had met them. She just seemed to know, but then she knew so many things.

The exact extent of Joan's ability to know things came to Peter's attention when late one evening he met her by accident in the centre of town. Peter had been working very late at the office, as he had for the past four or five weeks and was on his way to the car park when he saw Joan. There she was standing by the bus stop, rather bedraggled under the onslaught of a heavy rain fall, she gave too much of her income to various good causes to afford a car. Tired and irritable as he was Peter could not leave her there, knowing that there was not a bus for another half hour, so he crossed the road and offered Joan a lift. Joan accepted and upon arrival at her small house insisted that he come in for a coffee.

In actual fact it was hot chocolate that she served up, divining that this was what Peter needed more than anything else, especially fortified with a good dash of fine Brandy. She then informed him that he need not think of leaving until he had told her what the problem was. Technically he should not have told her anything, but after two months of increasing pressure on him to find an answer he felt like telling someone. The security firm he worked for had a major contract to supply shop detectives to a large chain of stores around the Midlands. This was a very lucrative contract and for some years the client had been very pleased with the results. Recently though the level of shop lifting had gone up considerably. Far beyond the normal expected and partially accepted level.

They had of course changed all the security staff assigned to that client. They had brought in special experts from outside, so far all to no avail. Now the problem had been put on his desk with the message to solve it or leave. The way things were going it seemed he would have to leave.

Joan listened, then, after pouring him another cup of hot chocolate, with if anything more brandy in it, went over to the small chest on the sideboard, opened it and removed a pack of strangely marked cards. Peter had seen Tarot cards before, but these were very different from the normal Tarot cards you can buy in the shops. Every one had been hand drawn and finely painted.

"Your work?" he asked.

"No dear, a gift from an old friend of mine, awitch down in Exeter." Was the matter of fact answer he obtained from Joan. Followed by instructions, "now dear shuffle the cards and cut them into three piles."

Peter felt a bit foolish but did as Joan told him and half listened to her ramblings about a young man with white hair and empty boxes. He was rather glad to get away. He respected Joan and did not like to see her making a fool of herself like that.

It was not till the following afternoon that he started to think about what Joan had said and also about the store's own internal security staff. Especially about the younger Mr Mallinson, grandson of the owner, who was in charge of internal security. The young man did have very light hair, not actually white, but very close to it.

Maybe he was desperate, maybe he was just prepared to try anything but that afternoon he ordered a round the clock watch on the head of internal security. Five days later the young man was arrested and an elaborate theft operation uncovered which involved nearly half the internal security staff and a few of the warehouse staff.

In the end no charges were brought and everything was hushed up, with the grandfather packing the young man off to the States. Where, incidentally he is now serving a very long prison sentence for trafficking in drugs.
After that Peter started to take the occasional problem to Joan. Sometimes she would help, more often than not she would not. Sometimes it was with cards, at other the crystal or the runes were used. The main thing though was that there was somebody Peter could discuss things with outside of the firm.

Peter came to understand that Joan was a witch and he accepted it. By accepting it he was accepted by them, for through Joan he met many others, a leading local politician and his wife, the minister of a local church. A couple from Sheffield, recognised by many as High Priest and Priestess, and by even more as the Landlord and Landlady of a pub which served some of the best ale and food in the country.

Peter never became a member of the coven, but like many others he became a friend of the coven. At the great festivals he would go along and join the celebrations of life, experiencing the peace and unity which is the way of the witch. He also helped many within the coven. When Sheila opened a shop selling supplies for the many covens in England, he arrived in his little red sports car to whisk her away from a horde of reporters. When Michael walked out on his boyfriend after another major row, Peter offered accommodation for the night, nothing more, just accommodation.

When it was that Sheila and Joan first saw that there was something between Peter and Michael is not known. That Michael's relationship with his current partner was breaking down was clear for all to see. The situation there was impossible. It was not long before they came to an end all together and Michael moved out and took a bed sitting room in a house owned by one of the coven members. After that Peter and Michael started seeing a great deal more of each other. Everybody who knew them agreed they were the perfect pair, even Michael's ex-lover, though he did state it with some venom.

Perfect they may have been but they just did not seem to get it together. For if the truth is to be known they were both a bit scared that if they tried to make it anything more than a friendship they might scare the other one off.

So it was that Joan and Sheila decided to take a hand. Peter was away up in Lancashire, attending a conference on Security. Michael was in London on a project for his firm. It seemed to the two witches an ideal time.

Carefully they collected herbs from the garden and the woods. Wax for the candles from the bees, first asking permission from the Queen. For the earth they used salt, for the air incense, a bowl of water to represent itself and two beeswax candles provided fire. With these things they formed the rite, Peter and Michael together. Michael with Peter, Peter with Michael.

As the candles burned their wax melted and flowed together, forming a union. Making the two into one.

Peter was the first one to arrive back in town and as was his usual practice on a Saturday morning he went to the shop, ready to talk to the many who dropped in for a chat and a coffee. Both Sheila and Joan were there, waiting, ready, expecting.

Michael was later arriving than anybody expected. In fact it was nearly closing time when he walked in, accompanied by the most beautiful young man ever. It only took one look at the two of the for everybody in the shop to know they were deeply in love.

"Hi", greeted Michael generally to all present. He indicated the young man at his side, "this is Peter". The regulars in the shop quickly greeted the newcomer making him welcome, whilst at the back two witches were heard to say, "Oh no, the wrong one."]]> After twelve years in the army, Peter had returned to civilian life, not really sure what he wanted to do. All he was certain about was the he had to get out of the army. It was not that he did not like the army; in fact he loved the army. The problem was he also loved men. For an officer in the British Army that just was not on, unless you were in one of the more exclusive regiments.

The problem, which surrounded Peter now, was that there just was not anybody. There were plenty of 'friends' but no one special.

He had left the army because of Trevor. Trevor was everything he had wanted. In fact Trevor was everything anybody could have wanted. Kind, well mannered, good looking and pleasant company, a fact that caused him to be the centre of attention for most of the females in Aldershot. All of whom seemed to disregard Trevor's total lack of interest in them.

It would probably be wrong to think of Trevor as homosexual. If anything he was asexual, the idea of sexual relationships never really entering into his mind, which was something of a pity as they entered into the minds of nearly everybody who was with him.

Trevor was sexually attractive and attracted everybody, male and female. Even those males who would have regarded themselves as being strictly heterosexual, would feel themselves attracted to Trevor, though they would never think of such attraction as homosexual. It was just being a good buddy.

Peter had also been attracted to Trevor and for a variety of reasons Trevor had responded. It could not be said that Trevor felt physically attracted to Peter, but he did feel safe with Peter. If Peter wanted something more than company, that was all right with Trevor. He did not mind one way or another. There were others, however, who did. Word of Peter's relationship with one of the rankers quietly, but quickly, got passed to the commanding officer. In a short interview it had been made very clear to Peter that he should resign his commission and leave the army.

Peter had, regretting the loss of his army life but thankful that he still had Trevor, who the army also found an embarrassment. Unfortunately without the position of rank he held in the army, Trevor no longer found Peter offering safety. He did find it, however, in a rotund, matronly, wealthy American widow.

So that was good-bye to Trevor and left Peter somewhat alone.

Gay society has a life style of its own and set of mores which its members accept. There are accepted ways of behaving in that society, just as there are in any other society. Twelve years as a commissioned officer in the British Army is not the place to learn them. Peter made a couple of visits to gay clubs and pubs in the surroundings of Birmingham. He was always an outsider never quite fitting in. Though from time to time he would meet somebody and get into a relationship with them but they never seemed to last long.

He got himself a job as a manager with a Midland's security firm, brought a small house in a somewhat better part of town and acquired a red sports car. In all aspects of his life he seemed to be a perfect bachelor. Comfortably off, in his early thirties with a good secure job and plenty of prospects.

He did not feel like cutting himself off from society and took an active part in local politics. Joining the local party, there was only one effective party in that area of Birmingham. Helping them to canvass at the elections and being a firm supporter of Mr Heath. He was most welcome at the summer garden parties where middle class and rising accounts wives targeted their unmarried daughters at him, wondering why their aim appeared not to by quite right.

It was at one of these parties that he met Joan, dowdy, old before her time, Joan, the stalwart party worker, who always helped out. She even went canvassing in those parts which supported Labour, or worse the Liberals.

As Headmistress of one of the not so better off Primary Schools in the more depressed part of the city, Joan had developed the caring, well mannered personality of everybody's maiden aunt. If anybody had problems it was Joan they would go to talk to. It was not long before Peter found himself taking small problems to Joan. Usually, whilst running her home, in that small red sports car, after party meetings.

He never actually told her he was gay, she just seemed to know. It was an accepted fact and they would often discuss the passing relationships that he had, of which she never seemed to approve.

"You know Peter, that new boyfriend you've got just isn't right for you, " would almost inevitably be her comment the moment a new one arrived on the scene. Not that she had met them. She just seemed to know, but then she knew so many things.

The exact extent of Joan's ability to know things came to Peter's attention when late one evening he met her by accident in the centre of town. Peter had been working very late at the office, as he had for the past four or five weeks and was on his way to the car park when he saw Joan. There she was standing by the bus stop, rather bedraggled under the onslaught of a heavy rain fall, she gave too much of her income to various good causes to afford a car. Tired and irritable as he was Peter could not leave her there, knowing that there was not a bus for another half hour, so he crossed the road and offered Joan a lift. Joan accepted and upon arrival at her small house insisted that he come in for a coffee.

In actual fact it was hot chocolate that she served up, divining that this was what Peter needed more than anything else, especially fortified with a good dash of fine Brandy. She then informed him that he need not think of leaving until he had told her what the problem was. Technically he should not have told her anything, but after two months of increasing pressure on him to find an answer he felt like telling someone. The security firm he worked for had a major contract to supply shop detectives to a large chain of stores around the Midlands. This was a very lucrative contract and for some years the client had been very pleased with the results. Recently though the level of shop lifting had gone up considerably. Far beyond the normal expected and partially accepted level.

They had of course changed all the security staff assigned to that client. They had brought in special experts from outside, so far all to no avail. Now the problem had been put on his desk with the message to solve it or leave. The way things were going it seemed he would have to leave.

Joan listened, then, after pouring him another cup of hot chocolate, with if anything more brandy in it, went over to the small chest on the sideboard, opened it and removed a pack of strangely marked cards. Peter had seen Tarot cards before, but these were very different from the normal Tarot cards you can buy in the shops. Every one had been hand drawn and finely painted.

"Your work?" he asked.

"No dear, a gift from an old friend of mine, awitch down in Exeter." Was the matter of fact answer he obtained from Joan. Followed by instructions, "now dear shuffle the cards and cut them into three piles."

Peter felt a bit foolish but did as Joan told him and half listened to her ramblings about a young man with white hair and empty boxes. He was rather glad to get away. He respected Joan and did not like to see her making a fool of herself like that.

It was not till the following afternoon that he started to think about what Joan had said and also about the store's own internal security staff. Especially about the younger Mr Mallinson, grandson of the owner, who was in charge of internal security. The young man did have very light hair, not actually white, but very close to it.

Maybe he was desperate, maybe he was just prepared to try anything but that afternoon he ordered a round the clock watch on the head of internal security. Five days later the young man was arrested and an elaborate theft operation uncovered which involved nearly half the internal security staff and a few of the warehouse staff.

In the end no charges were brought and everything was hushed up, with the grandfather packing the young man off to the States. Where, incidentally he is now serving a very long prison sentence for trafficking in drugs.
After that Peter started to take the occasional problem to Joan. Sometimes she would help, more often than not she would not. Sometimes it was with cards, at other the crystal or the runes were used. The main thing though was that there was somebody Peter could discuss things with outside of the firm.

Peter came to understand that Joan was a witch and he accepted it. By accepting it he was accepted by them, for through Joan he met many others, a leading local politician and his wife, the minister of a local church. A couple from Sheffield, recognised by many as High Priest and Priestess, and by even more as the Landlord and Landlady of a pub which served some of the best ale and food in the country.

Peter never became a member of the coven, but like many others he became a friend of the coven. At the great festivals he would go along and join the celebrations of life, experiencing the peace and unity which is the way of the witch. He also helped many within the coven. When Sheila opened a shop selling supplies for the many covens in England, he arrived in his little red sports car to whisk her away from a horde of reporters. When Michael walked out on his boyfriend after another major row, Peter offered accommodation for the night, nothing more, just accommodation.

When it was that Sheila and Joan first saw that there was something between Peter and Michael is not known. That Michael's relationship with his current partner was breaking down was clear for all to see. The situation there was impossible. It was not long before they came to an end all together and Michael moved out and took a bed sitting room in a house owned by one of the coven members. After that Peter and Michael started seeing a great deal more of each other. Everybody who knew them agreed they were the perfect pair, even Michael's ex-lover, though he did state it with some venom.

Perfect they may have been but they just did not seem to get it together. For if the truth is to be known they were both a bit scared that if they tried to make it anything more than a friendship they might scare the other one off.

So it was that Joan and Sheila decided to take a hand. Peter was away up in Lancashire, attending a conference on Security. Michael was in London on a project for his firm. It seemed to the two witches an ideal time.

Carefully they collected herbs from the garden and the woods. Wax for the candles from the bees, first asking permission from the Queen. For the earth they used salt, for the air incense, a bowl of water to represent itself and two beeswax candles provided fire. With these things they formed the rite, Peter and Michael together. Michael with Peter, Peter with Michael.

As the candles burned their wax melted and flowed together, forming a union. Making the two into one.

Peter was the first one to arrive back in town and as was his usual practice on a Saturday morning he went to the shop, ready to talk to the many who dropped in for a chat and a coffee. Both Sheila and Joan were there, waiting, ready, expecting.

Michael was later arriving than anybody expected. In fact it was nearly closing time when he walked in, accompanied by the most beautiful young man ever. It only took one look at the two of the for everybody in the shop to know they were deeply in love.

"Hi", greeted Michael generally to all present. He indicated the young man at his side, "this is Peter". The regulars in the shop quickly greeted the newcomer making him welcome, whilst at the back two witches were heard to say, "Oh no, the wrong one."]]> <![CDATA[The Secret of Making]]> https://funtailix.com/portal/showthread.php?tid=2347 Tue, 15 Jul 2025 17:16:33 +0000 WMASG]]> https://funtailix.com/portal/showthread.php?tid=2347 En det dnkuura ua, ot jarllen lopt hoget weg und gaat lout kent.
In the dnkuura year, one trainee walks the high way, and the great secret knows.

The prophecy of the Lady of the isles. Made eight hundred years ago.

Talmad listened to the sound of the scream that reverberated around the walls of the dungeon, aware in some part of his mind that it was his scream. The response to the agony of pain that shafted through his body. He wished it would end. That they would go that little bit too far and release him from his suffering. He did not care if he died, he just wanted the pain to end.
"Tell us," the voices demanded. "Tell us, and it can stop."
Tell them what? They had said, but he could not remember. All he could remember was the pain. The waves of agony that would come up him when he did not answer their question. He wished he could. He wanted that this agony would stop, but he knew that he could not give the answer. It was not that he was a hero, keeping safe a great secret that had been entrusted to him. Though no doubt that is what his tormentors thought. The simple truth was he did not know what the answer was.
"Can't push him more, we would lose him," the questioning voice stated.
"Fine, do what is needed to keep him alive, we will resume at the third hour." That was spoken by the velvet voice. Talmad knew that the questioning voice belonged to a small man, firmly built and dressed in executioner's leathers. That man's face had been the last image he had seen as they had put out his eyes with red hot irons. An event of agony that had taken place three or four days ago, if he had been able to keep track of time. Though he was not confident that he could. In the depths of his memory, he recalled Master Rican telling that during the questioning, it was common practice to deliberately mislead the victim as to the passage of time. So, Talmad thought, it maybe three days, it may be more, it could even be less. Not that it really mattered. It had all been a period of constant agony, an agony that had started with him regaining consciousness and finding burning iron fellers holding his body.
Iron fetters, to bind the prisoner but also to bind magic. Only a sorcerer, or if the legends were true a Magus, could resist the draining force of iron. All lower magicians were drained of their power by its touch. Not that Talmad's power would have been much use. It was weak, and his skills were limited. If things had gone as normally ordained in the School of Magic, he would not have taken the high path to the White Temple in an attempt to become a sorcerer. Only the most successful students upon graduating were offered that privilege, and all within the School had known that Talmad would not be amongst their number.
It had been a surprise to many that he had even managed to stay in the School with his limited skills and little awareness of the lore. Each year when they had stood for examination Talmad had barely scraped through with the minimum of marks required to stay. There had been many times when his teachers had openly suggested that he would be better leaving and taking up as a Hedge Wizard or even as a Healer, roles for which he appeared to have some skills.
Then had come the day of the final testing. Each student had to complete three magical tasks. As was the tradition, they went to the Grand Hall and had drawn three lots from the silver goblet. Only those students who could complete all three tasks drawn would be allowed to walk the high path to the White Temple and the chance to become a sorcerer.
Three times Talmad had walked up to the chalice. Three times he had drawn a lot from the chalice. Three times the number he had drawn had been recorded. When Talmad had matched the numbers to the descriptions of the tasks to be performed, he could not believe his luck. To bring a live frog from a lump of clay, to draw a butterfly from the wind and to call a wolf to his side. They were all Earth Magics, the one class of magic in which he excelled. In each task, he could perform perfectly.
Of course, there had been mutterings that it was unfair that he had drawn three lots of the same class. Then again, there had always been mutterings about his luck. From the day he had presented himself before the doors of the School of Magic, a twelve-year-old orphan with no right to be there and no connections to give him entrance.
Sharma, the wise woman in his village, who had nursed him through the red fever, had told him to go there. It was during that fever that he had first displayed the indications that he was one of the gifted. She knew that there was no place for such a one in the village. As it was the villagers resented the burden of an orphan whose vagrant mother had decided to give birth amongst them, then die, leaving a fatherless child for them to raise. For that was the King's law, any child made orphan must be raised by the community in which they were born until their thirteenth year. The resentment of the village had led to a hard life for Talmad, he was used more like a slave than treated as an orphan. The villagers regarded him and treated him as slightly worse than the feral dogs.
For the boy to be gifted would be too much for the village, Sharma knew. Once the gift was revealed, the village would be required to send the boy to the School and then support him until he entered one of the guilds, be it magician, healer, maker or slayer. It was a cost the village could not afford and one it would resent having to meet. She strongly suspected that the village would not meet it. That once it became aware of the boy's talent, the boy would be disposed of. It was a hard but true fact of life that villages like her's would deal with such probably expenses by removing the cause.
There was though another way that the village could be saved the expense. He could become a runaway and seek sanctuary at one of the guild houses. They then would have the responsibility for him and the costs. Once Sharma had realised that this solution existed, she had spent the night by his bed as he slept off the end of the red fever. In those hours of darkness, she had whispered in his ears words which suggested this to his mind. It was a suggestion he had readily accepted and, as soon as he could walk again, he had slipped out of the village and departed on the month-long journey to the City of Guilds. A journey he preferred not to think about, but one which had deposited him dirty, weak and lost, on the steps of the School of Magic, before the gilded doors.
By rights, no such supplicant for sanctuary should enter by those doors. There were clear signs and messages to all that supplicants should go to the rear of the School where the bursar would deal with them, assigning such to menial jobs that needed doing for the support of the scholars. Only those sponsored by a guild member or one of the nobility could enter by those doors. He could not read the signs and notices, for no one had ever bothered to teach the boy his letters. As such, he knew not the meaning of the symbols which told him to go to the rear of the building.
An agony of pain, swamping the throbbing aches from the rest of his body, pulled him back from his thoughts, as his broken jaw was forced open and bittersweet liquid poured down it. The sharp acid sweetness proclaimed it to be yangalan juice mixed with honey. He knew it would sustain him and induce sleep, but also that it dulled the ability to perform magic. As if he could have done much even when he was not half torn apart. If it had not been for his form of entry into the School, he would not have been accepted with his weak skills, but as it was luck or fate had intervened for him.
Arriving at the City after two sleepless nights, fearful as he had been, after that first night aboard, of the attentions of the barge captain who had offered him passage down the Great Ricer to the City. The moment the barge had docked, he had fled its presence and ran to the first significant building that he could find. It could have been any, indeed if the barge had docked at its usual place, it would have been the Guild of Slayers that he sought sanctuary with. However, the barge master, knowing those who would pay well for a boy who would not be missed, had docked lower down the wharves, and so Talmad had come to the Guild of Magicians. There it was that he saw the great bronze doors, and the great men in their fine robes going in and out. He also saw the guards, fierce and angry, stopping with force all those who should not enter that place.
Not knowing how to approach the Guild and being unable to read the sign instructing all mendicants to proceed to the door at the rear of the building, Talmad had looked round, seeking help. In doing so he spied an old man, in rags and dirty from ashes, coming towards the steps. Talmad ran up to him and asked, "do you go into the Guild?" The boy did not see the look of horror upon the faces of those around.
Upon being informed by the old man that he was indeed going into the Guild, the boy asked, "take me in, that I may be given sanctuary and teaching." The old man reached out his hand and took the boy's hand and guided him up the steps and through the great doors of the Guild. Once within he presented Talmad to the masters of the Guild as one who had sought admission and to whom admission had been granted. For the old man was the Guild Master, on this day returning from the funeral of his father. A day where, by tradition, no man can refuse a request honestly made, which is why no one speaks to such a one returning from the funeral rites so that no burden may be placed upon the mourner. Talmad, though, in ignorance of the custom, had spoken, had made a request and in doing so set a burden upon the Guild Master. So, it was that the Guild Master took him in and sponsored him for entry unto the Guild of Magic. The fact that the boy's performance of the basic skills was weak was of no import. By tradition, all those sponsored by the Guild Master were admitted. Thus it was that an unlettered peasant boy, with no connections and no noble backer, had become not a supplicant upon the Guild of Magic but an apprentice to its arts.
Talmad felt the soporific effects of the yangalan taking hold on his body. They did not kill the pain, that was now a constant ache from within him. It told him he still lived, though he knew that it would not be for much longer. If only he knew what they wanted, then he would tell them and free himself from this agony. The problem was he did not know. They kept asking him for something of which he had no knowledge. There being nothing else he could do, he allowed himself to drift down into the pain-racked drug-induced sleep and dreamed of suffering.
Not the agony of the torture he was now being subjected to but the drip drip suffering of a boy, bullied and despised within the Guild. From the moment he was in, he knew he had made a mistake. He was no Lord's son, nor the spawn of some wealthy merchant, coming to obtain an education in the Magic Arts. Neither was he one of the wild talents that the Guild sent out its seekers to find, who would be nurtured within its walls to become the sorcerers and teachers of the future. He was an unlettered peasant of little skill who should not have been amongst the apprentices. The apprentices knew this, and they let Talmad know it. Even the Guild servants, who were of his own kind, resented him, for he had got what had been denied them. Forced to seek sanctuary within the Guild, they had come as supplicants to the Guild. In return for food and shelter, they worked for the Guild. Undertaking menial tasks for the apprentices, including Talmad, while often having higher inherent skills in the Magic Arts.
Throughout all his years at the Guild it had been made clear to him that he was a misfit. One of the lower orders, who by an unforgivable breach of etiquette, had obtained access to that which was only for those who were fit for it. Not that the Guild Master was of that opinion. He and his wife took Talmad under their wing, regarding him as the son they did not have, and it was for them that Talmad worked on his studies. By doing so he managed to pass the end of year exams each year, often by not much, but he did pass them.
He even passed the finals. Not that he had much chance of getting any benefit from them. To do that he would have needed good connections or good mastery of one of the higher magical arts. He had neither. His only gift was some affinity for the magic of the earth and those things that lived upon it.
Being amongst the top ten in his final year, he was given the chance to attempt to try for the right to go to the White Temple, where one could learn to be a sorcerer. Not that anyone expected him to try. Many who went through the mountain gate and followed the path to the temple did not make it. Some who did would have been better off if they had not. They arrived at the steps of the edifice with their bodies broken and their minds shattered. For those that did make it to the White Temple, the rewards were great. They became the sorcerers, bound to the king. In return for the greatest of powers, they gave their service to the king, totally and absolutely. With their protection, the king was safe from any who would plot against them, for they controlled all magic.
The effects fo the yangalan juice wore off, and Talmad woke, his racked body full of pain. It could not yet have been the third hour for there was no sound of preparation in the dungeon. He could feel the faint heat of the fire, which no doubt had been banked against its need. In the silence of that place, he could hear the constant drip of water, which suggested to him that the place where he was held was probably underground. The probing of those senses left to him confirmed this to him. He was in a deep dungeon, somewhere in the City. This surprised him as he had presumed that he was being held at some country estate of a Noble Lord. Yet, when he thought of it, there was a sense about it. He had been captured on the mountain path. They had been waiting for him as he had climbed the first steep incline and entered the forest. From there, they would have had to take him either over the mountain or through the City, to get to the vast expanses of the kingdom, where the nobles had their estates. Why take the risk? Every noble in the kingdom had a palace in the City, where he could safely be held.
Talmad allowed his mind to wander back to the morning before he started the walk up the mountain path. As was the custom, the candidates for the White Temple had spent the night in seclusion with the Guild Master and the Apprentice Master, Master Ricin. Legend had it that this was where they were taught the secret that would enable them to become sorcerers. In fact, they spend the evening talking about the most fundamental aspects of magic. So basic in fact that many apprentices had forgotten them before they finished their second year. The skill of being self-aware and at one with that which surrounds you. How being at one with the wildlands of the mountain path would allow you to find your ways past the perils of the trail. Then they had slept as students of the Guild house, before being taken out to the mountain gate. Each had then drawn lots to decide the order of their going. A candle's burn to be between each of them setting off on the trail so that one could not follow and benefit from the skill of the other. Talmad and drawn last, and was the last to leave the shelter of the gatehouse and walk through the gate onto the path.
Though legend filed the mountain path with great dangers, the area close to the City was just wildland. Open grasslands rising up to the forest. The young bloods from the City often hunted here, and its ways were well known to them. It was once you got beyond the tree line that the land got hard and dangerous. So, it was that Talmad, who had on occasions accompanied hunts out into the wildlands, set off at a run. The long lolloping run that proclaimed him to be a peasant from the grasslands. The morning had been warm, the sun shining, and he had quickly made his way across the open meadow into the trees of the forest. He had made no attempt to extend his self-awareness into the forest around him. This was an open forest, hunted and used by man, like the forests of his home village. There was little here that would endanger him. That would come later when he passed into the wild forest. So, he missed the knowledge of those that lay ahead. The first he had known had been the choking red powder that had surrounded him and taken his strength, masamalan, the thief's herb. He knew it the moment he had inhaled the first confusing grains of it, but there was nothing he could do. As he fell back upon the path, he had heard the velvet voice, "see I told you he could not ward."
The memory of those words brought Talmad back with a vengeance. Pain racked his body. He could not ward. Of course, even the most junior of magicians could ward, but he could not. It was air magic, magic in which he had no skill. That, though was unimportant, it was the fact that velvet voice knew. Such knowledge would only belong to somebody within the Guild. Somebody who knew him well, but who? And why had they taken him? What was it that they wanted? The questions danced within his head, and he knew there was no answer there for them. There was only the knowledge that he had been blinded and crippled. No more would he run across the grasslands, no more would he look upon the shadows dancing in the sunlight of the forest.
Within his mind, he saw the play of light upon the path, he felt the warmth of the sun playing on his tortured body. He was aware of it. He was aware of it, this was not a memory, it was knowledge. It was an instinctive knowledge of how things were and what they should be. It had been there all the time, but he had never used it, never acknowledge it, but now he needed it. He required that awareness and what it could bring. The knowledge of sunlight playing on his body allowed him to know how his body would react to the sun and how he could start to rebuild that which had been injured. For that though he needed power, but he was bound by iron.
Slowly he reached out with his mind, to become aware of the fetters that bound him. Ready at any time to pull back. The moment he felt the drawing presence of iron. That element that drew magic back to the earth.
But if it drew magic into the earth, he could follow that magic into the earth. He gave his awareness to the iron, allowing it to be drawn down into the ground, to expand into the rocks below. There he felt it. The immense power of the earth. The seat of earth magic. All there, just waiting, waiting to be called upon by one who was aware of it. No wonder iron drained magic, it opened the path to the earth magic. Magic far more extensive than any that was taught by the Guild, and all paths were two way. To make the connection you would have to put your magic into it, and on a path that wide it would drain you, but it had not drained him because he was already empty!
Coldwater splashing him dragged his mind back into his body and dragged the connection back with it.
"He's still alive then," commented the velvet voice.
"Amazingly yes," the gruff voice replied. Talmad reckoned that must belong to the torturer. "Though for how long I would not like to say, the others have all died."
So, Talmad thought, they had taken the others.
"Let's hope that this one knows then, though I doubt it, he's a peasant whelp," commented velvet voice.
A new voice intruded, with the sharp twang of a Karg Lord.
"Peasant or not, does not the fact that he has survived tortures that have killed the other two not suggest there is something special about him?"
"Only that he is more animal than they were and has an animal's instinct to survive."
"Maybe," responded the Karg, "or maybe he is the one. The prophecy was precise, one who this year walked the mountain path would know the way of the Magus and free the people."
"I think my Lord, you place too much emphasis on the prophecy, none has attained the status of magus for over two thousand years, no one knows how it was done."
Talmad did though. Deep down within himself, in that small piece of being he had pushed into the depths to escape the pain, he realised he knew. It was so simple. The Magus was the magician who had been driven by desperation to go beyond the bounds that restricted the normal exponent of magic. There was no way that any magician would seek to follow the flow within the iron. They would feel it draining them before they ever found that which could feed them power. Talmad had been driven beyond caring and had followed the path, he had touched the power that lay deep within the earth, and he knew it and knew what to do with it.
That was all that was needed. As Master Ricin had taught, once you knew the nature of something, it was yours to use. Talmad knew, he knew the nature of the pain that tortured his body, he knew the despair of the darkness that the burning out of his eyes had brought upon him. He knew the loneliness of the boy who had stood before the Guild and realised that he had no place there. He knew all these things, and he could use them.
Above all, he knew the reason why. A thousand years before the Kargs had conquered the kingdom, putting their own king on the throne. They had established the White Temple, that offered the gift of sorcery to those who had the magic skills. In getting that gift, the magicians had been bound to the service of the king. In the offering of that gift the Kargs had year on year removed the best of the Guild to their service and kept the Guild weak. But a magus, one who was outside their control, would endanger all of that.
"Tell us, what has to be done to make a magus?" velvet voice asked.
"You have done it!" Talmad's voice thundered throughout the dungeon as he drew strength from the depths of the earth. He felt the heat of the iron and expanded his mind to become aware of the heat, drawing it from the metal and into himself, then releasing it in a blast of energy. Screams and the smell of burning flesh filled the dungeon. Talmad stood, the chains of bondage falling away like dust as he drew the essence of iron into himself. He remembered the healing light of the sun and extended his thoughts to it. A great roar of agony erupted from the stones above as they fell away to allow the sunlight down into the pit of despair. He drew its power into himself, healing that which was damaged. Rebuilding that which needed rebuilding. Remaking that which had been destroyed. In his remaking, he went beyond that which had been there and made that which was now required. So, it was that the eyes that now looked out of that face were eyes of fire that saw in colours far beyond those known to mortal man.
"You have done it," he whispered in a voice that echoed throughout the City. "You have made the Magus." He looked down upon the huddled forms that lay blasted against the dungeon walls. The torturer he ignored, for he was just a peasant, such as Talmad, doing a job for which he had been trained. The Karg Lord he ignored, for now, such as he were of no importance, there was a greater force in the land. It was the young man in the robes of a magician that Talmad sought. He knew him. He recalled that at one time, he may have liked him. Now, though, there could be no forgiveness, not for what he had done to him, but for the man's betrayal of the Guild and the people with it. For what? The Magus expanded his awareness, letting it seep into the mind of the magician. The later became aware of the presence in his head and looked up at the form standing above him with horror. This was beyond anything that he knew.
"So you wanted power, they would let you become a magus," the Magus laughed. "So, have it." Deep from within the earth, he drew upon the forces of magic, drawing them up into himself and allowing them to flow down into the magician. Opening the paths so the magician could feel the flow and feed upon it.
At first, there was a touch of wonder upon the magician's face. Never in his life had he conceived of power anything like this. Then there was fear, for the power kept one flowing, and he knew he could not hold it. Finally, there was terror, as the power started to consume him. His screams reverberating around the City, announcing that now there was a Magus.
Note: With the rise of the Magus the rule of the Kargs failed, and the people once more ruled the lands of the North. In the Guild of Magic, there was much discussion about the way that the Magus came into being. It was Master Ricin who pointed out that the word kent which the Karg Lords had read as 'know' can also be read as 'understand'. In such a case, the prophecy reads:
En det dnkuura ua, ot jarllen lopt hoget weg und gaat lout kent.
In the dnkuura year, one trainee walks the high way and the great secret understands.]]> <![CDATA[The Right Genes]]> https://funtailix.com/portal/showthread.php?tid=2346 Tue, 15 Jul 2025 17:15:41 +0000 WMASG]]> https://funtailix.com/portal/showthread.php?tid=2346 Lee, sensing he no longer had Steve’s undivided attention, rolled off him and put his arm around him, drawing the younger boy tight into him. “Worried about the morning?”
Steve nodded. Lee kissed him on his forehead, adding, “Look, there is nothing we can do about it. Our genes are what they are, we’ll just have to accept that.”
“Yeah,” Steve replied, “there is nothing we can do about it, but can you cope with everybody knowing you’re gay?”
“Christ, Steve, it’s not like we are in the 2020s still, or even the 2030s. Everybody knows that being gay is not something you have any control over, it is all down to your genes.”
“There are still some who think we are an abomination, Lee.”
With this Lee had to agree. That view was still held by some, especially the Church of the Unified Prophets of Allah, which had quite a strong following in some parts of the American Confederation. Fortunately it had little or no influence in the area where they lived.
After the Jihadist wars of the early decades of the twenty-first century there had been a major disillusionment amongst the majority of followers of the Abrahamic religions. The finding of Koranic texts in the carbonised scrolls from the Villa of the Papyri had also been a blow to Islam. If these verses had been known in 79AD -- half a millennium before the Prophet -- how could the Prophet have received them from God?
The fundamentalists on all sides who still clung to their beliefs found that they had more in common with the believers of the other side than they did with people on their own. Ali ben Israel, as he was known (Peter Schmit being a bit too common for a new prophet), had preached the doctrine of Unification, that all the followers of the God of Abraham should unite in one movement. So it was that the Southern Baptists, Ultra-Orthodox Jews and radical Muslims found themselves united in a common cause, which appeared to be to upset everybody else as much as possible.
The work of Mitchell and Clay in the 2040s had really overturned a lot of ideas, for not only had they found the final evidence proving that homosexuality is passed down through the generations, they had also shown the evolutionary reason for its existence. Not that their views were new -- Bryan Magee had touched on the same ideas in the 1960s. What was new was that Mitchell and Clay had found positive proof of the evolutionary role of homosexuality.
“I know, Steve, but there is not much we can do about it. We are what we are,” Lee responded, looking up through branches of the tree above.
“Yes, but what are we? We’re lovers aren’t we? So we’re gay; that’s it, there is nothing we can do about that?”
“Do you want to do anything about it?” Lee asked, a hint of uncertainty in his voice.
“No, it’s just…”
“It’s just what?”
“Well at times I find myself thinking about girls.”
“What do you mean, ‘thinking about girls’?”
“Well, you know, sometimes I think about girls, like I think about what we do.”
“I don’t know, I never think about girls that way, just boys.”
“Oh shit! That probably means I’m not gay.”
Lee stood and held out a hand to Steve. “Come on, we need to get back for tea. You know the old lady will be upset if we’re late again.” Steve took Lee’s hand and allowed himself to be pulled up. The two of them started to walk down the hill back towards town.
They walked in silence for a bit, Lee placing his arm across Steve’s shoulders, Steve responded by putting his arm around Lee’s waist. “Steve, this test tomorrow has seriously got you worried hasn’t it?”
“Yeah, I don’t know why they have to do it. All of us were genetically scanned at birth, so they know what our gene maps are. They should know if we are gay or not.”
“Remember what Miss Simmonds told us in Social Biology last year, when we did the module on genetic testing?”
“I didn’t take that much notice of it, it did not seem important at the time, as we knew it was not in the exams. It was being taught too close to the end of term.”
“You should have done, Steve; it was important.” Lee paused to see if Steve would have any comment on the rebuke.
“I suppose I should have, you’ll have to recap it for me.”
“I’ll try to, but I’m not Miss Simmonds. I can’t explain it like she did.”
“I should hope you’re not. Don’t fancy being in love with Miss Simmonds, even her girlfriend avoids her.”
“Steve, that’s not very nice.” Despite that, Lee had to smile at the idea. “Anyway to summarise the lesson, we all have a unique set of genes. If we have a certain set of variants, especially the GIG on the X chromosome…”
“What’s the GIG?” Steve asked.
“Didn’t you listen to any of the lesson? It’s the Gay Indicator Gene. You have to have that gene variant in place to be gay. Without it there is no way you can be gay. With it you might be.
“The GIG is only an indicator that you may be gay. You also need to have a number of specific gene variants in your DNA. That is still not the end of things, though. Even if you have all the gay gene variants -- and very few people have them all -- you still might not be gay. You also have to have the correct epigenetic characteristics to be gay.”
“Epigenetics... aren’t they the switches on the genes?”
“Well, it seems you listened to something! Yes, they are like a set of switches on each gene, which tell the gene if it is switched on or off, and if it is switched on which mode it is operating in. They are an important factor in the operation of the genes.
“Your gene set is determined at the moment of conception; you either have a certain set of genes or you don’t. However, the epigenetics can be, and are, influenced by environmental factors. For instance, if your mother experienced famine during the early stages of her pregnancy that might result in some changes to the epigenetics of the baby.”
“Come on Lee, how likely is that?”
“Actually, if you had been paying attention to Miss Simmonds you would have known it was a famine, the Dutch Hunger Winter, that gave rise to the first set of results that indicated the existence of epigenetics. A large proportion of the children who had been in the womb during that period showed the same set of characteristics in a way that appeared to be genetic, but which researchers knew could not be. After the structure of DNA was worked out and then DNA Fingerprinting came in it became clear that there was something else at play. A major area of research was studies of identical twins, who have identical genes but can still have different outcomes with respect to factors that are considered to be genetic.
“Why does one twin go down with a hereditary disease whilst the other, who has the same set of genes, doesn’t? Actually, that was something that puzzled the medical profession right up till the 2050s. The fact that one twin in a pair of identical twins could go down with a medical condition whilst the other didn’t was regarded as proof that the condition could not be hereditary. It was only when they started to fully understand how epigenetics work that they realised that a lot of conditions that they thought weren’t hereditary in fact were.”
“So, Lee, what you are saying is that we may have the genes to be gay... but unless the right switches are turned on, we won’t be gay.”
The two boys got to the bottom of the hill and climbed over the fence onto the tramway. Steve pulled out his communicator, looked around for a station pole and spotted one about twenty meters down the line. They walked along to the pole and scanned its identifier into the communicator, then entered their destination code. A message appeared saying that a carrier unit would be with them within ten minutes.
“Steve, it is a bit more complicated than that but you have the gist of it. When they tested your genes at birth they would have identified the potential, now they want to find out what has actually developed.”
“So they’ll find out about us in the morning, and tell us if we can to go into one of the designated professions for gays?”
Lee dropped his head in despair, wondering exactly what Steve had been doing in Social Biology classes.
Steve continued, “What I can’t understand is that, if they can tell that we have the potential to be gay at birth, why didn’t the Unifiers wipe us out when they had control of the old United States in the 2040s?”
Lee looked at Steve with a sense of bemusement. Then he remembered that Steve was not doing modern history. “They tried but hit a problem.” “When? What problem?”
“In 2041, just after they seized power, they brought in the compulsory genetic testing, but they got a shock …”
Just then they heard the hum of the approaching carrier. Lee was disappointed to note that it was a multi-occupancy unit. “Look Steve, we can’t discuss this on the carrier; let’s go to my place, we can talk about it there.”
“OK, Lee, but can we do more than talk?”
“Maybe.” Lee responded, jumping onto the carrier and pulling Steve on with him.
The vehicle accelerated away from the stop. Lee looked around and saw that it was a ten person unit. There were six on board already, including himself and Steve, so he guessed there would probably be two or three more pickups. The trip into town took just over fifteen minutes, then it was a ten-minute walk from the drop off point to Lee’s house.
Unsurprisingly, Lee’s mother was not at home when they got there. The auto-concierge let them in, Steve’s profile having been entered long ago, and informed them that there was a message for Lee. They went through to the family room and Lee pinged the information centre. “Hi Lee,” his mother’s voice announced, “I’ve gone over to your Aunt June’s for an afternoon with the girls. I don’t know when I will be back. No doubt you will have Steve with you so I have programmed the fridge to stock up on some pizzas for you.”
“Fucking pizza, why does she always leave us pizza?”
“Probably because she thinks it is what we want, Lee.”
“Well, I don’t like pizza and I have told her that enough times.”
“Yes, Lee, but you’re not a normal sixteen-year-old.”
“No I’m not, I’m seventeen, I suppose you are?”
“Yes, I’m sixteen and I love pizza!”
“OK, you can have mine later. How about we go down to my room and continue where we left off before the carrier unit arrived?”
Steve followed Lee down the stairs to the lower levels of the house. He had always envied Lee in having parents rich enough to afford a house with an above-ground presence. Steve lived in an apartment in a multi-level underground complex closer to the centre of town, where only commercial buildings were above ground level.
Being close to the surface, as it was, Lee’s room was illuminated by light pipes that channelled light falling on the roof of the house down to the lower rooms. Steve was aware that the simlight found in most homes was, as its name suggested, an accurate simulation of the wavelengths and tones found in natural light, but there was something different about sunlight, even when it was piped twenty feet down.
One problem with being underground, even if it was only one level, was the ambient temperature. At this depth the surrounding substrate was at a constant five to ten degrees Celsius and any unoccupied room quickly dropped to that temperature. As they entered Lee’s room he commanded the house manager to raise the temperature to twenty degrees.
“Sorry, Lee, that option is not currently available. Your mother put the residence into energy saving mode before she left. I do not have sufficient energy capacity to raise your habitation area to twenty degrees; the maximum I can do seventeen degrees.
“I have logged your arrival and notified your mother that you are back in the residence.”
“Thanks,” Lee responded, quietly cursing his mother. At least she could not complain about his being out late, because she had been notified that he had returned. He just wished the old lady was not quite so paranoid about where he was and what he was doing. He turned to Steve. “Well, it looks as if we have to keep each other warm for a bit.”
Steve smiled and nodded. Lee led him over to the bed and pulled him down onto it, then drew the thermosheet up over them.
“You know, Lee, sometimes I wonder if you have not hacked the house manager to report power restriction whenever we arrive here and your mother is out -- just so you can get me into bed with you.”
“You know, that might not be a bad idea! I’ll have to think about doing that.”
“You had better not, Lee. My security systems would certainly catch you and you know what happened last time.”
Steve was startled by this interjection. He had forgotten that Lee’s parents had a top-of-the-range house manager -- one with full AI capabilities. Most people avoided these, fearing that they might take over as Hawking had predicted about a hundred years earlier. It had not happened, of course, but there was still a feeling that if there were enough full AI units around it could, so most people preferred to avoid them.
“So... what did happen last time?”
“You don’t want to know, Steve.”
“Yes I do.”
“No you don’t. You want to know about the problem the Unifiers faced in the 2040s.”
“If you say so,” Steve responded, making a mental note to raise the matter again later when Lee did not have an excuse to wriggle out of it.
“Well, Steve, with the destruction of both Jerusalem and Mecca in 2029 the Jihadist war fizzled out. There were certainly no winners and an awful lot of losers. Ali ben Israel started to preach his doctrine of unification and the Unified Church of the Prophets of Allah was born.
“The collapse of the Jihadists was seen by some of the Christian Fundamentalists as proof that God was on their side. As you know, from the mid-twentieth century there had been a strong evangelical movement in the old United States. By the start of the twenty-first century about a quarter of the population of the U.S. was part of one evangelical church or another. By that time most of the evangelical churches had taken something of a extremist line.
“The collapse of the Republican party due to the split during the third Bush presidency resulted in the formation of the Christian Alliance. Nobody gave them any chance of success, but by 2039 the infighting in both the Democrats and the New Republicans meant a whole mass of the population was disillusioned. The result was that the Christian Alliance managed to get control of both the Presidency and Congress in 2040 on a vote that represented just over fifteen percent of the population. It turned out that the majority of people had just not bothered to vote.
“The first thing they did when they took office was to introduce compulsory genetic testing to identify ‘those morally at risk’. It came as quite a shock to them when it turned out that not only their President but half of their members of Congress qualified as being ‘morally at risk’.”
“What!” Steve interjected, “you mean those religious bigots were gay?”
“No, but they carried the same gene marker sets as the gays.”
“I don’t understand. If they had gay gene sets, surely they were gay?”
“That’s the problem they ran into. The set of markers that indicate you might -- and I mean might -- be gay is the same set of markers that indicate high achievers and risk takers. It seems the two sets of characteristics are closely linked. Haven’t you ever wondered why it is that whilst we only represent about five percent of the population we make up over twenty percent of the high achievers?”
“No, I’ve never thought about that.”
“You should, Steve.
“Anyway, as I was saying, the Christian Alliance got a shock, although they did try to turn it around and argue that it was proof that being gay was a lifestyle choice. Epigenetics disproved that, though. The thing is that, although your epigenetic potential is established at birth, it is not fixed, and many factors can change it. Research done in the 2040s, showed that everybody with the gay gene set is essentially gay, but in some people the gayness has been switched off. Worse still -- they found out that it can also switch back on. The Christian Alliance were not very happy with that result and tried to stop publication of the research, but it got out. It might explain the sexual antics some of their ministers got into at middle age.”
Lee got out from under the blanket and moved over to his bookcase. Steve had always been intrigued by Lee’s love of physical books; nobody else he knew owned a physical book.“This,” Lee said as he pulled an old book from a shelf, “is over a hundred and fifty years old.” He returned to the bed and crawled back under the thermo blanket, putting his arm around Steve. “It contains a reference to a study done almost two hundred years ago, on rabbits.”
“What has that to do with us?”
“A lot, Steve. It showed that there were identifiable rabbits within the warren population that showed a clear orientation to same sex activities. Up till then it had been argued that homosexual activity in animals was simply instances of mistaken mounting. This study showed that there were specific individuals in the rabbit population that were constantly homosexual.
“What is more important is that it was realised that these individuals were also the ones taking on the more risky activities in the warren. They would be the first to come above ground and, when an alarm was given, would be the last to go below ground. It was hypothesised that having a group of individuals who were not part of the breeding community was of evolutionary value to the warren in that by taking risks they provided a benefit to the warren, but their loss did not impact on the breeding ability of the warren.”
“You mean, we are sort of sacrificial goats for the good of the community?”
“I’m not sure that is a very good analogy, Steve, but you could think of it that way. The thing is, Mitchell and Clay started a research program to look into the gay gene and its purpose. Their research was initially funded by the Christian Alliance, who wanted to prove that being gay was a lifestyle choice. However, that quickly backfired on the Christian Alliance because early on Mitchell and Clay showed there was an evolutionary advantage to social animals having a gay population within them. In fact their work went further; they were able to show that if you removed the gay element from a population of social animals the overall population suffered.
“They ended up showing that, not only was a gay presence within any group of social animals -- and man is a social animal -- useful, it was in fact essential to the survival of the group. Mitchell and Clay’s research also showed that anyone born with the gay gene set was essentially gay, but that in some people the epigenetic set they were born with was switched in such a way as to disable the gay gene.”
“Surely,” Steve asked, “that meant they had a way to switch the gay gene off? They could stop us being gay.”
“They tried it, but there were problems again.” Lee responded.
“What?”
“When some doctors, sponsored by the Christian Alliance, experimented on volunteers, they ended up changing some of the subjects into psychopaths. It turned out that the incentive to lead, to take risks, etc., that was conferred by the gay gene set was limited by the emotional aspects of being gay. If you turn off the ‘gay switch’ that limitation is removed and you get a very anti-social person. That might also explain the behaviour of some of the Evangelical ministers, in their ranting against sinners, especially gays, and their misuse of power.”
“Sounds like they had a problem.”
“They certainly did.” Lee leaned over and kissed Steve, then pulled back. “Suppose I better sort out those pizzas for you.” Steve reached up and pulled him back down, “Leave it, I have a better idea.”
* * * * *
The following morning Steve and Lee joined the mass of sixteen- and seventeen-year-old boys making their way towards the civic centre. On the way they passed mobile offices of firms that employed people in the prescribed occupations. Steve looked at them with a sense of foreboding. “Don’t worry Steve, you’ll be OK,” Lee commented.
“But what if I’m not?”
“You will be, let’s get it over and done with.”
Entering the building the two boys passed through the main concourse and into the clinic, to join the queue of boys waiting to be tested. Fortunately there were plenty of testing stations and they didn’t have to wait long. Each boy in turn went forward and his identification chip was scanned. Once his ID had been confirmed he was given a numbered ticket and asked to provide a sample of DNA, which was placed in a sample tube. That was sent by conveyer belt to the processing systems at the back of the clinic.
Lee remembered reading that in the old days it took five or six days to generate a complete DNA profile, but now it could be done in as many minutes. Hence, he was not surprised when his number appeared over one of the counselling booths. “Well, Steve, now I find out what I already know. Meet you outside in a few minutes.” He walked across the room and entered the booth.
The counsellor was an elderly woman, her silver hair pulled back and fixed in a bun at the nape of the neck -- a style which Lee thought had gone out of fashion a hundred years earlier. The woman looked up as he entered. Once again his identification chip was scanned, then he took a seat opposite her. She looked at him with a hint of disgust in her eyes. Lee noted the small pin in her lapel indicating she was a member of the Unified Church of the Prophets of Allah. He wondered how such a person could hold a counselling job.
“Well, young man, it appears you are another deviant.” She almost spat out the words.
“Yes, I am.”
“You don’t seem surprised.”
“Madam, I am a seventeen-year-old fully functional male. It would be surprising if I was not aware of my sexuality.”
“You people disgust me! Here,” she pushed a sheet of printed information across at him, “these are the prescribed occupations. Your classification makes you eligible to enter any one of them.”
Lee took the list, although he knew it off by heart already, and thanked her. She did not seem very happy to be thanked. With that he left the booth by the exit door and made his way out to the main concourse.
There was no sign of Steve, so Lee sat on a low wall by the steps down to the main concourse and waited. He had only been there for a few seconds when Martin, a classmate from school came out, tears pouring down his face. Lee stood up and walked over to him. “Martin, what’s up?”
“This is fucking up,” he held up a copy of the notice he had been handed. “I can’t be a space pilot. Both my dads are pilots on the lunar run, and I wanted to join the family business. Now I can’t.” He started to sob even more. Lee put his arms around the boy and pulled him into a hug.
“Listen Martin, it’s not the end of the world. There’s a lot of things you can do.” Lee tried to sound convincing.
“I know, but I can’t work with my dads.”
Just then Steve came out and saw the two together. He looked at Lee, a question in his eyes. Lee looked back with his own question; Steve nodded.
“Look, Steve, can we take Martin somewhere quiet? He’s a bit upset, he just got some bad news.”
“Oh...”
“Yes, I’m fucking bi. A bloody breeder!”
“I thought you and Phil were a couple?” Steve asked.
“We are -- or we were -- don’t know if he will want to stick with me once he knows I’m bi.”
“I’m sure he will,” Lee commented, guiding Martin off the main concourse and down a side passage to a smaller atrium where he knew there was a decent coffee shop. Inside, he sat Martin down at a table and slipped Steve ten credits with an instruction to get three hot chilli chocolates.
Once Martin had sipped his chocolate for a bit he calmed down, and Lee was able to get him talking. The first question was how had Phil done?
“Don’t know, he’ll not get tested till next year. He missed the cut-off date by one day. You knew he had been jumped ahead at school by a year?”
“No, I didn’t,” Lee responded. “So... Phil won’t know for another year what his classification will be?”
“Right, and do you think he will stick around with me once he finds out I’m bi?”
“Don’t see why not; you’re still the same person.
“Look, Martin, you are bi so you are classed as a breeder. All that means is that you cannot enter the prescribed occupations. It doesn’t really affect the way you interact with Phil. You still love him, don’t you?”
Martin nodded.
Lee continued. “I don’t think you have any interest in girls at the moment.”
“No fucking way, tried it once with Tracy Simmons to find out what it would be like. It made me feel sick.”
“See, Martin... you might be classed as bi, but I think it is clear you are on the gay end of the bi part of the spectrum. In fact, if you are that far on the spectrum it might be worth getting a second opinion on your test results. It is not totally automatic; there are some manual judgements made on the borderline cases, and they tend to err on the safe side. Ask for a re-evaluation of your results, and see what comes out of that. Who knows... they might decide you’re gay.”
Martin looked up and smiled. “I can ask for a second opinion?”
Lee nodded.
“I did not know that. Thanks for telling me.”
“Didn’t you read all the bumf they sent us about the test?”
“No, I was so certain I was gay I did not think there could be any doubt about it.”
“Well, go home and download it and go through it with a fine-tooth comb. With a bit of luck it will turn out that you’re gay after all. I read somewhere that about thirty percent of borderlines that are re-evaluated are determined to be gay. Of course, in few cases, where someone is really on the border they might ask that you confirm your non-breeding status by having a vasectomy, but you have to have that if you are going into space anyway so that is not a problem.”
The boys left Martin outside the coffee shop and made their way back to the main concourse, where they decided to grab some lunch. Over lunch the pair of them started to discuss their plans for the future. Steve told Lee that now his gay status was confirmed he would think about signing up with one of the prescribed occupation employers who would offer to fund his college course.
“There’s no need, Steve,” Lee responded. “Dad’s already agreed that he will fund you to go to the same college as me, so we can be together.”
“You never told me that.”
“Was going to tell you tonight. The ’rents want to take us both out to dinner to celebrate our gay status, now that it’s official and we have a choice of jobs.”
“Lee,” Steve asked, “why is it that the prescribed occupations are only open to homosexuals?”
“Steve, didn’t you listen to any of Miss Simmonds’s lectures?”
“No, not really.”
“Oh... well, if you check the list you will see that most of the prescribed occupations are associated with space work -- specifically, space work which requires activity in low-shielded or unshielded environments. Back in the 1950s there had been suggestions that exposure to radiation in space could have damaging effects on a person’s DNA, especially in the reproductive cells. Early space flights seemed to discount this, as no such damage was observed.
“However, those early space flights, even the ones to the Moon, all took place within the Earth’s magnetosphere. That provided a measure of protection from solar and cosmic radiation. The 2020 flight to Mars threw up a whole new set of problems. Although tests showed no damage to the DNA in the sperm or ova of any of the crew members on those missions, when they later had children all types of problems arose.
“As a result of this, by the 2040s space flight work was restricted to mature men or women who were either sterilised or past breeding age. However, this meant that the pool of men and women available were not at the top of their physical abilities, which was often required for space work. Mark Clay pointed out that there was a group of young fit males and females who were not part of the breeding population and who had the psychological aptitude to take the risks involved in space exploration. In 2055 space work was opened up to the under 40s who were homosexual, on the condition that they were sterilised and therefore unable to pass on any mutations which might occur as a result of their exposure to cosmic radiation. That’s why space jockeys deposit their sperm or ova before going off into space. They can have children later using uncontaminated material.
“The rest is now history. If you want to be a space jockey you must be gay. Let’s admit it... what boy does not want to pilot a space transporter, or fly one of those fast courier ships? We gays can live and work in the low-shielded areas of the ship, and any damage to our DNA will not be passed on. The poor breeders have to be packed deep inside the shielded cores. Because of the need to tightly pack them they are put into suspension before being taken on board, and not woken until after they are unloaded at their destination.
“Over 70% of the GDP of the Earth system is generated by space activity, which means that it is generated by gays and lesbians, just five percent of the population. We are important to the system. Without us it would not work. You know what the space jockeys call breeders don’t you?”
“No, what?”
“Cargo!”
Their lunch finished, the two boys headed out of the civic centre into the town square. The moment they stepped outside they were surrounded by touts wanting to know what their status definition was. Lee told them it was gay for both of them, putting his arm around Steve. The moment he said it voices all around him started to call out the details of jobs and benefits they could offer. The crowd of touts pressed around the two boys until a security guard came down and pushed the touts back.
“Come on now, you lot, you know the mayor’s instructions about not mobbing the boys,” he stated.
“But they’re the first gays of the day,” someone commented.
“Yes, and if you are lucky there will be some more,” the guard responded, guiding the boys through the pack.
Once they were clear Lee and Steve jumped into a carrier that had stopped at the edge of the square, not noting where it was going. It moved off quickly, leaving the mob of touts behind.
Steve looked Lee and smiled. “You know, Lee, one thing about being gay is that it is nice to be wanted.”
Lee returned Steve’s smile and leaned over to kiss him. “Steve, you are always wanted.”
“I know that, and no doubt you will prove it when we get to your place. However, first you have to tell me what happened last time you tried to hack the AI unit.”
Lee looked at him and groaned. “Do I have to?”
“Yes you do! I want to know everything, in detail.”
“OK, but you mustn’t tell anyone else.”
Steve nodded and leaned against Lee, smiling to himself. It looked as if he was going to have an enjoyable afternoon, and he now knew he could be a space jockey. It was so nice to be gay.]]> Lee, sensing he no longer had Steve’s undivided attention, rolled off him and put his arm around him, drawing the younger boy tight into him. “Worried about the morning?”
Steve nodded. Lee kissed him on his forehead, adding, “Look, there is nothing we can do about it. Our genes are what they are, we’ll just have to accept that.”
“Yeah,” Steve replied, “there is nothing we can do about it, but can you cope with everybody knowing you’re gay?”
“Christ, Steve, it’s not like we are in the 2020s still, or even the 2030s. Everybody knows that being gay is not something you have any control over, it is all down to your genes.”
“There are still some who think we are an abomination, Lee.”
With this Lee had to agree. That view was still held by some, especially the Church of the Unified Prophets of Allah, which had quite a strong following in some parts of the American Confederation. Fortunately it had little or no influence in the area where they lived.
After the Jihadist wars of the early decades of the twenty-first century there had been a major disillusionment amongst the majority of followers of the Abrahamic religions. The finding of Koranic texts in the carbonised scrolls from the Villa of the Papyri had also been a blow to Islam. If these verses had been known in 79AD -- half a millennium before the Prophet -- how could the Prophet have received them from God?
The fundamentalists on all sides who still clung to their beliefs found that they had more in common with the believers of the other side than they did with people on their own. Ali ben Israel, as he was known (Peter Schmit being a bit too common for a new prophet), had preached the doctrine of Unification, that all the followers of the God of Abraham should unite in one movement. So it was that the Southern Baptists, Ultra-Orthodox Jews and radical Muslims found themselves united in a common cause, which appeared to be to upset everybody else as much as possible.
The work of Mitchell and Clay in the 2040s had really overturned a lot of ideas, for not only had they found the final evidence proving that homosexuality is passed down through the generations, they had also shown the evolutionary reason for its existence. Not that their views were new -- Bryan Magee had touched on the same ideas in the 1960s. What was new was that Mitchell and Clay had found positive proof of the evolutionary role of homosexuality.
“I know, Steve, but there is not much we can do about it. We are what we are,” Lee responded, looking up through branches of the tree above.
“Yes, but what are we? We’re lovers aren’t we? So we’re gay; that’s it, there is nothing we can do about that?”
“Do you want to do anything about it?” Lee asked, a hint of uncertainty in his voice.
“No, it’s just…”
“It’s just what?”
“Well at times I find myself thinking about girls.”
“What do you mean, ‘thinking about girls’?”
“Well, you know, sometimes I think about girls, like I think about what we do.”
“I don’t know, I never think about girls that way, just boys.”
“Oh shit! That probably means I’m not gay.”
Lee stood and held out a hand to Steve. “Come on, we need to get back for tea. You know the old lady will be upset if we’re late again.” Steve took Lee’s hand and allowed himself to be pulled up. The two of them started to walk down the hill back towards town.
They walked in silence for a bit, Lee placing his arm across Steve’s shoulders, Steve responded by putting his arm around Lee’s waist. “Steve, this test tomorrow has seriously got you worried hasn’t it?”
“Yeah, I don’t know why they have to do it. All of us were genetically scanned at birth, so they know what our gene maps are. They should know if we are gay or not.”
“Remember what Miss Simmonds told us in Social Biology last year, when we did the module on genetic testing?”
“I didn’t take that much notice of it, it did not seem important at the time, as we knew it was not in the exams. It was being taught too close to the end of term.”
“You should have done, Steve; it was important.” Lee paused to see if Steve would have any comment on the rebuke.
“I suppose I should have, you’ll have to recap it for me.”
“I’ll try to, but I’m not Miss Simmonds. I can’t explain it like she did.”
“I should hope you’re not. Don’t fancy being in love with Miss Simmonds, even her girlfriend avoids her.”
“Steve, that’s not very nice.” Despite that, Lee had to smile at the idea. “Anyway to summarise the lesson, we all have a unique set of genes. If we have a certain set of variants, especially the GIG on the X chromosome…”
“What’s the GIG?” Steve asked.
“Didn’t you listen to any of the lesson? It’s the Gay Indicator Gene. You have to have that gene variant in place to be gay. Without it there is no way you can be gay. With it you might be.
“The GIG is only an indicator that you may be gay. You also need to have a number of specific gene variants in your DNA. That is still not the end of things, though. Even if you have all the gay gene variants -- and very few people have them all -- you still might not be gay. You also have to have the correct epigenetic characteristics to be gay.”
“Epigenetics... aren’t they the switches on the genes?”
“Well, it seems you listened to something! Yes, they are like a set of switches on each gene, which tell the gene if it is switched on or off, and if it is switched on which mode it is operating in. They are an important factor in the operation of the genes.
“Your gene set is determined at the moment of conception; you either have a certain set of genes or you don’t. However, the epigenetics can be, and are, influenced by environmental factors. For instance, if your mother experienced famine during the early stages of her pregnancy that might result in some changes to the epigenetics of the baby.”
“Come on Lee, how likely is that?”
“Actually, if you had been paying attention to Miss Simmonds you would have known it was a famine, the Dutch Hunger Winter, that gave rise to the first set of results that indicated the existence of epigenetics. A large proportion of the children who had been in the womb during that period showed the same set of characteristics in a way that appeared to be genetic, but which researchers knew could not be. After the structure of DNA was worked out and then DNA Fingerprinting came in it became clear that there was something else at play. A major area of research was studies of identical twins, who have identical genes but can still have different outcomes with respect to factors that are considered to be genetic.
“Why does one twin go down with a hereditary disease whilst the other, who has the same set of genes, doesn’t? Actually, that was something that puzzled the medical profession right up till the 2050s. The fact that one twin in a pair of identical twins could go down with a medical condition whilst the other didn’t was regarded as proof that the condition could not be hereditary. It was only when they started to fully understand how epigenetics work that they realised that a lot of conditions that they thought weren’t hereditary in fact were.”
“So, Lee, what you are saying is that we may have the genes to be gay... but unless the right switches are turned on, we won’t be gay.”
The two boys got to the bottom of the hill and climbed over the fence onto the tramway. Steve pulled out his communicator, looked around for a station pole and spotted one about twenty meters down the line. They walked along to the pole and scanned its identifier into the communicator, then entered their destination code. A message appeared saying that a carrier unit would be with them within ten minutes.
“Steve, it is a bit more complicated than that but you have the gist of it. When they tested your genes at birth they would have identified the potential, now they want to find out what has actually developed.”
“So they’ll find out about us in the morning, and tell us if we can to go into one of the designated professions for gays?”
Lee dropped his head in despair, wondering exactly what Steve had been doing in Social Biology classes.
Steve continued, “What I can’t understand is that, if they can tell that we have the potential to be gay at birth, why didn’t the Unifiers wipe us out when they had control of the old United States in the 2040s?”
Lee looked at Steve with a sense of bemusement. Then he remembered that Steve was not doing modern history. “They tried but hit a problem.” “When? What problem?”
“In 2041, just after they seized power, they brought in the compulsory genetic testing, but they got a shock …”
Just then they heard the hum of the approaching carrier. Lee was disappointed to note that it was a multi-occupancy unit. “Look Steve, we can’t discuss this on the carrier; let’s go to my place, we can talk about it there.”
“OK, Lee, but can we do more than talk?”
“Maybe.” Lee responded, jumping onto the carrier and pulling Steve on with him.
The vehicle accelerated away from the stop. Lee looked around and saw that it was a ten person unit. There were six on board already, including himself and Steve, so he guessed there would probably be two or three more pickups. The trip into town took just over fifteen minutes, then it was a ten-minute walk from the drop off point to Lee’s house.
Unsurprisingly, Lee’s mother was not at home when they got there. The auto-concierge let them in, Steve’s profile having been entered long ago, and informed them that there was a message for Lee. They went through to the family room and Lee pinged the information centre. “Hi Lee,” his mother’s voice announced, “I’ve gone over to your Aunt June’s for an afternoon with the girls. I don’t know when I will be back. No doubt you will have Steve with you so I have programmed the fridge to stock up on some pizzas for you.”
“Fucking pizza, why does she always leave us pizza?”
“Probably because she thinks it is what we want, Lee.”
“Well, I don’t like pizza and I have told her that enough times.”
“Yes, Lee, but you’re not a normal sixteen-year-old.”
“No I’m not, I’m seventeen, I suppose you are?”
“Yes, I’m sixteen and I love pizza!”
“OK, you can have mine later. How about we go down to my room and continue where we left off before the carrier unit arrived?”
Steve followed Lee down the stairs to the lower levels of the house. He had always envied Lee in having parents rich enough to afford a house with an above-ground presence. Steve lived in an apartment in a multi-level underground complex closer to the centre of town, where only commercial buildings were above ground level.
Being close to the surface, as it was, Lee’s room was illuminated by light pipes that channelled light falling on the roof of the house down to the lower rooms. Steve was aware that the simlight found in most homes was, as its name suggested, an accurate simulation of the wavelengths and tones found in natural light, but there was something different about sunlight, even when it was piped twenty feet down.
One problem with being underground, even if it was only one level, was the ambient temperature. At this depth the surrounding substrate was at a constant five to ten degrees Celsius and any unoccupied room quickly dropped to that temperature. As they entered Lee’s room he commanded the house manager to raise the temperature to twenty degrees.
“Sorry, Lee, that option is not currently available. Your mother put the residence into energy saving mode before she left. I do not have sufficient energy capacity to raise your habitation area to twenty degrees; the maximum I can do seventeen degrees.
“I have logged your arrival and notified your mother that you are back in the residence.”
“Thanks,” Lee responded, quietly cursing his mother. At least she could not complain about his being out late, because she had been notified that he had returned. He just wished the old lady was not quite so paranoid about where he was and what he was doing. He turned to Steve. “Well, it looks as if we have to keep each other warm for a bit.”
Steve smiled and nodded. Lee led him over to the bed and pulled him down onto it, then drew the thermosheet up over them.
“You know, Lee, sometimes I wonder if you have not hacked the house manager to report power restriction whenever we arrive here and your mother is out -- just so you can get me into bed with you.”
“You know, that might not be a bad idea! I’ll have to think about doing that.”
“You had better not, Lee. My security systems would certainly catch you and you know what happened last time.”
Steve was startled by this interjection. He had forgotten that Lee’s parents had a top-of-the-range house manager -- one with full AI capabilities. Most people avoided these, fearing that they might take over as Hawking had predicted about a hundred years earlier. It had not happened, of course, but there was still a feeling that if there were enough full AI units around it could, so most people preferred to avoid them.
“So... what did happen last time?”
“You don’t want to know, Steve.”
“Yes I do.”
“No you don’t. You want to know about the problem the Unifiers faced in the 2040s.”
“If you say so,” Steve responded, making a mental note to raise the matter again later when Lee did not have an excuse to wriggle out of it.
“Well, Steve, with the destruction of both Jerusalem and Mecca in 2029 the Jihadist war fizzled out. There were certainly no winners and an awful lot of losers. Ali ben Israel started to preach his doctrine of unification and the Unified Church of the Prophets of Allah was born.
“The collapse of the Jihadists was seen by some of the Christian Fundamentalists as proof that God was on their side. As you know, from the mid-twentieth century there had been a strong evangelical movement in the old United States. By the start of the twenty-first century about a quarter of the population of the U.S. was part of one evangelical church or another. By that time most of the evangelical churches had taken something of a extremist line.
“The collapse of the Republican party due to the split during the third Bush presidency resulted in the formation of the Christian Alliance. Nobody gave them any chance of success, but by 2039 the infighting in both the Democrats and the New Republicans meant a whole mass of the population was disillusioned. The result was that the Christian Alliance managed to get control of both the Presidency and Congress in 2040 on a vote that represented just over fifteen percent of the population. It turned out that the majority of people had just not bothered to vote.
“The first thing they did when they took office was to introduce compulsory genetic testing to identify ‘those morally at risk’. It came as quite a shock to them when it turned out that not only their President but half of their members of Congress qualified as being ‘morally at risk’.”
“What!” Steve interjected, “you mean those religious bigots were gay?”
“No, but they carried the same gene marker sets as the gays.”
“I don’t understand. If they had gay gene sets, surely they were gay?”
“That’s the problem they ran into. The set of markers that indicate you might -- and I mean might -- be gay is the same set of markers that indicate high achievers and risk takers. It seems the two sets of characteristics are closely linked. Haven’t you ever wondered why it is that whilst we only represent about five percent of the population we make up over twenty percent of the high achievers?”
“No, I’ve never thought about that.”
“You should, Steve.
“Anyway, as I was saying, the Christian Alliance got a shock, although they did try to turn it around and argue that it was proof that being gay was a lifestyle choice. Epigenetics disproved that, though. The thing is that, although your epigenetic potential is established at birth, it is not fixed, and many factors can change it. Research done in the 2040s, showed that everybody with the gay gene set is essentially gay, but in some people the gayness has been switched off. Worse still -- they found out that it can also switch back on. The Christian Alliance were not very happy with that result and tried to stop publication of the research, but it got out. It might explain the sexual antics some of their ministers got into at middle age.”
Lee got out from under the blanket and moved over to his bookcase. Steve had always been intrigued by Lee’s love of physical books; nobody else he knew owned a physical book.“This,” Lee said as he pulled an old book from a shelf, “is over a hundred and fifty years old.” He returned to the bed and crawled back under the thermo blanket, putting his arm around Steve. “It contains a reference to a study done almost two hundred years ago, on rabbits.”
“What has that to do with us?”
“A lot, Steve. It showed that there were identifiable rabbits within the warren population that showed a clear orientation to same sex activities. Up till then it had been argued that homosexual activity in animals was simply instances of mistaken mounting. This study showed that there were specific individuals in the rabbit population that were constantly homosexual.
“What is more important is that it was realised that these individuals were also the ones taking on the more risky activities in the warren. They would be the first to come above ground and, when an alarm was given, would be the last to go below ground. It was hypothesised that having a group of individuals who were not part of the breeding community was of evolutionary value to the warren in that by taking risks they provided a benefit to the warren, but their loss did not impact on the breeding ability of the warren.”
“You mean, we are sort of sacrificial goats for the good of the community?”
“I’m not sure that is a very good analogy, Steve, but you could think of it that way. The thing is, Mitchell and Clay started a research program to look into the gay gene and its purpose. Their research was initially funded by the Christian Alliance, who wanted to prove that being gay was a lifestyle choice. However, that quickly backfired on the Christian Alliance because early on Mitchell and Clay showed there was an evolutionary advantage to social animals having a gay population within them. In fact their work went further; they were able to show that if you removed the gay element from a population of social animals the overall population suffered.
“They ended up showing that, not only was a gay presence within any group of social animals -- and man is a social animal -- useful, it was in fact essential to the survival of the group. Mitchell and Clay’s research also showed that anyone born with the gay gene set was essentially gay, but that in some people the epigenetic set they were born with was switched in such a way as to disable the gay gene.”
“Surely,” Steve asked, “that meant they had a way to switch the gay gene off? They could stop us being gay.”
“They tried it, but there were problems again.” Lee responded.
“What?”
“When some doctors, sponsored by the Christian Alliance, experimented on volunteers, they ended up changing some of the subjects into psychopaths. It turned out that the incentive to lead, to take risks, etc., that was conferred by the gay gene set was limited by the emotional aspects of being gay. If you turn off the ‘gay switch’ that limitation is removed and you get a very anti-social person. That might also explain the behaviour of some of the Evangelical ministers, in their ranting against sinners, especially gays, and their misuse of power.”
“Sounds like they had a problem.”
“They certainly did.” Lee leaned over and kissed Steve, then pulled back. “Suppose I better sort out those pizzas for you.” Steve reached up and pulled him back down, “Leave it, I have a better idea.”
* * * * *
The following morning Steve and Lee joined the mass of sixteen- and seventeen-year-old boys making their way towards the civic centre. On the way they passed mobile offices of firms that employed people in the prescribed occupations. Steve looked at them with a sense of foreboding. “Don’t worry Steve, you’ll be OK,” Lee commented.
“But what if I’m not?”
“You will be, let’s get it over and done with.”
Entering the building the two boys passed through the main concourse and into the clinic, to join the queue of boys waiting to be tested. Fortunately there were plenty of testing stations and they didn’t have to wait long. Each boy in turn went forward and his identification chip was scanned. Once his ID had been confirmed he was given a numbered ticket and asked to provide a sample of DNA, which was placed in a sample tube. That was sent by conveyer belt to the processing systems at the back of the clinic.
Lee remembered reading that in the old days it took five or six days to generate a complete DNA profile, but now it could be done in as many minutes. Hence, he was not surprised when his number appeared over one of the counselling booths. “Well, Steve, now I find out what I already know. Meet you outside in a few minutes.” He walked across the room and entered the booth.
The counsellor was an elderly woman, her silver hair pulled back and fixed in a bun at the nape of the neck -- a style which Lee thought had gone out of fashion a hundred years earlier. The woman looked up as he entered. Once again his identification chip was scanned, then he took a seat opposite her. She looked at him with a hint of disgust in her eyes. Lee noted the small pin in her lapel indicating she was a member of the Unified Church of the Prophets of Allah. He wondered how such a person could hold a counselling job.
“Well, young man, it appears you are another deviant.” She almost spat out the words.
“Yes, I am.”
“You don’t seem surprised.”
“Madam, I am a seventeen-year-old fully functional male. It would be surprising if I was not aware of my sexuality.”
“You people disgust me! Here,” she pushed a sheet of printed information across at him, “these are the prescribed occupations. Your classification makes you eligible to enter any one of them.”
Lee took the list, although he knew it off by heart already, and thanked her. She did not seem very happy to be thanked. With that he left the booth by the exit door and made his way out to the main concourse.
There was no sign of Steve, so Lee sat on a low wall by the steps down to the main concourse and waited. He had only been there for a few seconds when Martin, a classmate from school came out, tears pouring down his face. Lee stood up and walked over to him. “Martin, what’s up?”
“This is fucking up,” he held up a copy of the notice he had been handed. “I can’t be a space pilot. Both my dads are pilots on the lunar run, and I wanted to join the family business. Now I can’t.” He started to sob even more. Lee put his arms around the boy and pulled him into a hug.
“Listen Martin, it’s not the end of the world. There’s a lot of things you can do.” Lee tried to sound convincing.
“I know, but I can’t work with my dads.”
Just then Steve came out and saw the two together. He looked at Lee, a question in his eyes. Lee looked back with his own question; Steve nodded.
“Look, Steve, can we take Martin somewhere quiet? He’s a bit upset, he just got some bad news.”
“Oh...”
“Yes, I’m fucking bi. A bloody breeder!”
“I thought you and Phil were a couple?” Steve asked.
“We are -- or we were -- don’t know if he will want to stick with me once he knows I’m bi.”
“I’m sure he will,” Lee commented, guiding Martin off the main concourse and down a side passage to a smaller atrium where he knew there was a decent coffee shop. Inside, he sat Martin down at a table and slipped Steve ten credits with an instruction to get three hot chilli chocolates.
Once Martin had sipped his chocolate for a bit he calmed down, and Lee was able to get him talking. The first question was how had Phil done?
“Don’t know, he’ll not get tested till next year. He missed the cut-off date by one day. You knew he had been jumped ahead at school by a year?”
“No, I didn’t,” Lee responded. “So... Phil won’t know for another year what his classification will be?”
“Right, and do you think he will stick around with me once he finds out I’m bi?”
“Don’t see why not; you’re still the same person.
“Look, Martin, you are bi so you are classed as a breeder. All that means is that you cannot enter the prescribed occupations. It doesn’t really affect the way you interact with Phil. You still love him, don’t you?”
Martin nodded.
Lee continued. “I don’t think you have any interest in girls at the moment.”
“No fucking way, tried it once with Tracy Simmons to find out what it would be like. It made me feel sick.”
“See, Martin... you might be classed as bi, but I think it is clear you are on the gay end of the bi part of the spectrum. In fact, if you are that far on the spectrum it might be worth getting a second opinion on your test results. It is not totally automatic; there are some manual judgements made on the borderline cases, and they tend to err on the safe side. Ask for a re-evaluation of your results, and see what comes out of that. Who knows... they might decide you’re gay.”
Martin looked up and smiled. “I can ask for a second opinion?”
Lee nodded.
“I did not know that. Thanks for telling me.”
“Didn’t you read all the bumf they sent us about the test?”
“No, I was so certain I was gay I did not think there could be any doubt about it.”
“Well, go home and download it and go through it with a fine-tooth comb. With a bit of luck it will turn out that you’re gay after all. I read somewhere that about thirty percent of borderlines that are re-evaluated are determined to be gay. Of course, in few cases, where someone is really on the border they might ask that you confirm your non-breeding status by having a vasectomy, but you have to have that if you are going into space anyway so that is not a problem.”
The boys left Martin outside the coffee shop and made their way back to the main concourse, where they decided to grab some lunch. Over lunch the pair of them started to discuss their plans for the future. Steve told Lee that now his gay status was confirmed he would think about signing up with one of the prescribed occupation employers who would offer to fund his college course.
“There’s no need, Steve,” Lee responded. “Dad’s already agreed that he will fund you to go to the same college as me, so we can be together.”
“You never told me that.”
“Was going to tell you tonight. The ’rents want to take us both out to dinner to celebrate our gay status, now that it’s official and we have a choice of jobs.”
“Lee,” Steve asked, “why is it that the prescribed occupations are only open to homosexuals?”
“Steve, didn’t you listen to any of Miss Simmonds’s lectures?”
“No, not really.”
“Oh... well, if you check the list you will see that most of the prescribed occupations are associated with space work -- specifically, space work which requires activity in low-shielded or unshielded environments. Back in the 1950s there had been suggestions that exposure to radiation in space could have damaging effects on a person’s DNA, especially in the reproductive cells. Early space flights seemed to discount this, as no such damage was observed.
“However, those early space flights, even the ones to the Moon, all took place within the Earth’s magnetosphere. That provided a measure of protection from solar and cosmic radiation. The 2020 flight to Mars threw up a whole new set of problems. Although tests showed no damage to the DNA in the sperm or ova of any of the crew members on those missions, when they later had children all types of problems arose.
“As a result of this, by the 2040s space flight work was restricted to mature men or women who were either sterilised or past breeding age. However, this meant that the pool of men and women available were not at the top of their physical abilities, which was often required for space work. Mark Clay pointed out that there was a group of young fit males and females who were not part of the breeding population and who had the psychological aptitude to take the risks involved in space exploration. In 2055 space work was opened up to the under 40s who were homosexual, on the condition that they were sterilised and therefore unable to pass on any mutations which might occur as a result of their exposure to cosmic radiation. That’s why space jockeys deposit their sperm or ova before going off into space. They can have children later using uncontaminated material.
“The rest is now history. If you want to be a space jockey you must be gay. Let’s admit it... what boy does not want to pilot a space transporter, or fly one of those fast courier ships? We gays can live and work in the low-shielded areas of the ship, and any damage to our DNA will not be passed on. The poor breeders have to be packed deep inside the shielded cores. Because of the need to tightly pack them they are put into suspension before being taken on board, and not woken until after they are unloaded at their destination.
“Over 70% of the GDP of the Earth system is generated by space activity, which means that it is generated by gays and lesbians, just five percent of the population. We are important to the system. Without us it would not work. You know what the space jockeys call breeders don’t you?”
“No, what?”
“Cargo!”
Their lunch finished, the two boys headed out of the civic centre into the town square. The moment they stepped outside they were surrounded by touts wanting to know what their status definition was. Lee told them it was gay for both of them, putting his arm around Steve. The moment he said it voices all around him started to call out the details of jobs and benefits they could offer. The crowd of touts pressed around the two boys until a security guard came down and pushed the touts back.
“Come on now, you lot, you know the mayor’s instructions about not mobbing the boys,” he stated.
“But they’re the first gays of the day,” someone commented.
“Yes, and if you are lucky there will be some more,” the guard responded, guiding the boys through the pack.
Once they were clear Lee and Steve jumped into a carrier that had stopped at the edge of the square, not noting where it was going. It moved off quickly, leaving the mob of touts behind.
Steve looked Lee and smiled. “You know, Lee, one thing about being gay is that it is nice to be wanted.”
Lee returned Steve’s smile and leaned over to kiss him. “Steve, you are always wanted.”
“I know that, and no doubt you will prove it when we get to your place. However, first you have to tell me what happened last time you tried to hack the AI unit.”
Lee looked at him and groaned. “Do I have to?”
“Yes you do! I want to know everything, in detail.”
“OK, but you mustn’t tell anyone else.”
Steve nodded and leaned against Lee, smiling to himself. It looked as if he was going to have an enjoyable afternoon, and he now knew he could be a space jockey. It was so nice to be gay.]]>