Rory's Boys

by Alan Clark

  ‘Wow, that’s the most beautiful story I’ve ever heard,’ she said.

  A Highways Agency patrol van pulled up behind us. The driver knocked on the window and asked if we needed any assistance. Couldn’t people have a private conversation these days, I asked? He said he’d report me for unauthorized use of the hard shoulder. I told him to bugger off.

  ‘You’ve done it again, haven’t you?’ said Dolores.

  ‘Fucking surveillance society.’

  ‘No, I mean you’ve made somebody else love you,’ she said. ‘Think very hard before you turn your back this time. You’ve got form, remember?’

  We didn’t speak again till the gates of Mount Royal swung open before us. Then she repeated what she’d said earlier.

  ‘Just reposition yourself. That’s all you’ve got to do.’

  *

  ‘The boy has come back,’ said Lord Billy, peering out the window of the Breakfast Room as he heaped scrambled eggs onto his plate.

  I followed his gaze and saw the old Peugeot trundle into the East Court and park bang up against the Merc. Faisal had always done that, even when there was loads of space; an unsubtle dig at what he considered my vulgar materialism. Two suitcases came out of the boot and disappeared into the flat. Shite. And I’d been having such a nice breakfast.

  I’m never exactly great first thing but now, three or four times a week, this was where I started the day. Vic had suggested it and, on the days when I wasn’t there, he’d make sure he was. He’d said it would engender ésprit de corps and demonstrate the management’s commitment to customer care. The Breakfast Room was one of the few spaces in Mount Royal you might have called cosy. On bright mornings, the sun poured itself onto your cornflakes, a factor which had led Robin Bradbury-Ross to ban the hanging of any first-rate pictures. So instead of grim Madonnas or martyred saints, the yellow flock walls were cheered by Edwardian water-colours of seaside resorts. Littlehampton looked particularly nice.

  Most of the guys appeared for breakfast. There were four well-spaced round tables, so those who didn’t want to chat could hide behind their newspaper. Lord Billy often sat alone; he seemed to read Nancy Mitford on a constant loop, splashing coffee on his djellabah and exclaiming how droll it was. Nancy herself had once dubbed him the seventh Mitford Girl; a compliment he treasured above any other.

  Marcus Leigh was always there, in blazer and tie at half past eight, his day meticulously mapped out by lunch at his beloved Reform, an exhibition or a matinee or a trip out to Cheltenham to visit his centenarian nanny. He’d lightened up a bit lately, competing with Curtis Powell to see who could finish The Times crossword quickest. Curtis was nearly always first for breakfast, sweaty and smug from his jog, still in tracksuit, baseball cap and matching heart-rate monitor; though Beau never appeared, because Angela Lansbury had told him a star never faced the public before ten. Mr Lim would sit quietly behind his pebble-glasses, sipping tea and issuing dire warnings to anyone drinking orange juice, slow suicide for the enamel. The Toffee Twins would be side by side as usual, Jacob fussing to make sure Jasper had a full cup and seconds of sausage and bacon, which Jasper always took without thanking him.

  The Archdeacon had just been complaining about a note slipped under his door during the night. It was headed ‘Miss Wishart Suggests …’ and it turned out they’d all been getting them on a regular basis. The notes were eclectic, from reprimands over unfinished meals and alcohol intake to disapproval over returning in the wee small hours, in which case the culprit would be advised to have an early night and perhaps even a purgative. The Archdeacon said his note was of too intimate a nature to disclose, but that it concerned bed-linen. Miss Wishart was a servant he said and perhaps I might like to remind her of that? I tried to imagine myself doing so.

  This morning I’d been sitting beside Gentleman Jim. He was the only one who appealed to my blokeish side. I hated cricket, but we talked about rugby; I’d offered to take him to see the gay team. He loved to go hiking in Scotland too, it reminded him of New Zealand. He’d shyly suggested we might go up there together sometime and I’d surprised myself by agreeing. I’d been away too long. He’d been nattering about a possible itinerary when Lord Billy had looked out the window.

  ‘The boy has come back,’ he said again, louder this time, assuming I hadn’t heard.

  A hush had fallen in the Breakfast Room, broken only by the crunching of toast. I went on talking to Gentleman Jim about the sunset over Loch Maree, till he placed his palm on the back of my hand and rubbed it briskly, as if I’d just come in from the cold.

  ‘Courage, mate,’ he said.

  I smiled and got up. As I passed his table, Marcus Leigh reached out and squeezed my fingers without glancing up from The Times. In the lobby, a voice called down from the top of the East Stairs. Two floors above, Beau and his belly were leaning over the balustrade. He was wearing a bathrobe that was about three sizes too small.

  ‘Hey babe, I saw the midget arrive,’ he shouted. ‘Just wanted to say we all love you. You gotta know that by now.’

  I reached the front door of the flat as Faisal was coming back out to his car. We approached each other, eyes not meeting, like on that first date outside Covent Garden tube. He was sorry for being earlier than we’d agreed but he had a lot to get through today. He’d just get more suitcases from the car and come back in a minute. I went up and put the kettle on.

  He sipped his coffee in a chair as far from mine as possible. He was flying to the Sudan tonight. He’d arranged extended leave from the hospital and was going to work with his friend Ruby. I imagined her, sitting outside a tent with a smirk on her fat face, saying that she’d told him so.

  Things in Slough had gone from bad to worse. His father had been readmitted to hospital and the truth about Faisal’s sexuality had finally exploded into his wider family. His father’s brothers had arrived at Khan’s Tools & Hardware and demanded that his mother leave with them; she’d resisted at first but they’d more or less dragged her off. His uncles intended to look after the business. It had all been pretty awful.

  ‘So I’m running,’ he said. ‘I’ve got a Blue in that, remember? I know it’s cowardly, but I don’t know what else to do. I seem to be the cause of so much grief I think it’s best if I remove myself for a while.’

  ‘Leaving your mother to the bigots?’ I said. ‘I’ll survive without you Faisal, but will she?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I’ve been trying to save her from them for years, but they’re too powerful for me.’

  He got up to get the coffee pot. He tried to tickle Alma’s chin but she leapt away. She’d never taken to Faisal.

  ‘I’m really sorry about the other day,’ he said over his shoulder. ‘I still care very much for you and I always will.’

  He came and sat on the Berber rug at my feet and took both my hands in his. ‘Rory, I just don’t know where I fit,’ he said. ‘It’s not in Khan’s Tools & Hardware, I always knew that. It’s not in this big house with these rich old men. I always knew that too. But I thought that maybe it could be right here, in this flat with you, hermetically sealed against everything and everybody. But that was cloud-cuckoo land. They were all in here with us, weren’t they? So maybe the only place Faisal Khan really belongs is beside a hospital bed with a stethoscope in my hand, a reassuring smile on my face and up to my arse in little black babies. Anyway, that’s how it feels right now, so that’s where I’m going.’

  He stood up and drained his cup. A removal van would be coming in a few days to take his bigger stuff into storage. He looked down at his precious Berber rug, the old coffee stains still visible.

  ‘Shame we couldn’t rescue that,’ he said. ‘Chuck it out if you want.’

  We went downstairs to the bedroom. The glitzy clothes I’d bought him were still on the rails. He ran his hand along the suits and jackets then closed the doors.

  ‘I’ll not be wanting those,’ he said. ‘They were just the props for being Rory Blaine’s boyfr
iend, weren’t they? Or “paramour”, as your devoted Vic once put it. But I guess I was wrong for the part.’

  ‘So it’s life with Ruby from now on then?’

  ‘No, it’s life with Faisal,’ he replied. ‘Just me. Just me and the stuff I do best. For a while, anyway.’

  ‘Don’t wander out there alone for too long,’ I said.

  ‘Well at least you’ll not be alone, will you?’ he said ‘That’s partly what makes it possible for me to leave. You’ll be okay now, Rory.’

  ‘You going to say goodbye to anybody?’ I asked. ‘Elspeth, Dolores and Big Frankie even? I know they’d like it.’

  ‘No, but give them all my very best. I really mean that.’

  I took him in my arms. It was all so familiar; the smell and feel of him, the reflex bending of my knees. It had lasted just over eighteen months.

  Together we filled his cases with more stuff and carried them out into the East Court. He stared across at the house for a moment; figures darted away from the windows of the Breakfast Room.

  ‘Well I guess Lazarus isn’t going to rise after all,’ he said. ‘But try and watch their diets and get them in the pool a couple of times a week, yeah? All their medical notes are in a file in the desk and you’ll need to fix up another private GP quickly. Now listen, Marcus Leigh has just been for some tests. It’s possible he has the beginnings of Parkinson’s. Results next week, but you don’t know that unless he chooses to tell you. Just wanted you to be aware, okay? He might be needing a lot of support.’

  ‘He’ll get it,’ I said.

  ‘You’d not throw him out, would you? Later on, if things get worse? I know that was supposed to be the rule.’

  ‘No, I’d not do that now,’ I said.

  He promised to email me from the Sudan then handed me his keys to the flat. I refused to take them. There was always a room for him here, I said. But he pushed them into my palm and closed my fingers.

  ‘And hey, thanks for the laughs,’ he said. ‘I’d not had enough of those till I met you. Everything had always seemed too important. Maybe it still does. But I’ll try and do better from now on.’

  He got into his car and, without looking at me again, turned towards the arch below the Clock Tower. As I watched it go, the old Peugeot morphed into another car, in the same place but in another time. A Ford Capri, with seats of cracked beige leather, driven by a sweaty man with long hair, a droopy moustache and wide lapels, hired to take me to Euston to catch the train back to Glenlyon. It’d been a fine late summer morning, just like this one. For a second, I closed my eyes against the image and, when I opened them, Faisal was gone.

  Suddenly the East Court became Dodge City when the gunfight was over. The citizens popped out again and bustled about their business. Doors were opened and windows flung wide. Elspeth shook out her duster and waved down at me. Big Frankie passed with bin-liners of rubbish and a cheery wink. The Post Office van swung under the Clock Tower and one of the Chamber-Laddies zoomed in late on his rollerblades.

  ‘There’s some soggy scrambled eggs still left,’ said a voice behind me. ‘I hear your breakfast got interrupted.’

  It’d been five days since I’d left him in the Wilderness as the dusk came down.

  ‘Thanks. That’d be good,’ I said.

  Vic turned and preceded me into the house, holding open the East Door and ushering me in with a mock bow.

  ‘All right?’ he asked as I passed through.

  ‘Yes thanks, Victor,’ I replied. And I knew that I was. Sort of.

  Hilarity spilled out of the Breakfast Room. Gentleman Jim had been trying to sing a Scottish song for Curtis Powell and failing to remember the lyrics. When they saw me the laughter was replaced by tight smiles, shyly lobbed in my direction. But I knew every daft word of the song, verses and all. It didn’t take long to teach them the chorus and ten minutes later I was leading fifteen elderly homosexuals in an uninhibited rendition of Donald, Where’s Yer Troosers? Amazing the power of community singing to lift the spirits. It had worked for Baden-Powell and his boys and today it worked for Rory Blaine and his.

  ‘Jeez, toots, you can sing,’ said Vic.

  *

  After breakfast I went to check my emails. There was one from Dolores, away on her jaunt to Monte Carlo. It was the dream project, she said. It could make her reputation. Trouble was they were insisting on it being full-time. So with regret she was handing in her resignation at Mount Royal. She’d be back in a few days but had wanted to let me know at once. She hoped I’d understand. She was sure I’d want the best for her.

  EIGHTEEN

  The fire started sometime after midnight. It was Big Frankie who’d spotted it. His spanking new telescope had been sweeping the East Front in the hope, he’d confessed later, ‘of a glimpse of somethin’ tasty’. After Vic’s betrayal with Caravaggio and despite his embryonic affection for Gentleman Jim, Frankie now clearly regarded himself as unattached. The new telescope was amazing, he said. Now he could even see the hair up their noses. Whitey papis look out.

  Tonight, he’d zeroed in on Lord Billy sitting at his window, blowing the smoke from a cigarillo out into the darkness. Smoking in the apartments was strictly forbidden and Frankie, fiercely loyal, had determined to report it to Elspeth in the morning. Then he’d gone for a quick bedtime chat with the Virgin and when he’d looked again Lord Billy had seemed sort of slumped and with a reddish glow flickering behind him.

  Frankie had called the Fire Brigade then pounded on my door. We charged into the house, both of us still half-naked. I smashed the nearest fire alarm and flew up to Lord Billy’s apartment. He lolled in his chair, a rug near him well ablaze, the curtains on the four-poster starting to crinkle and smoulder. On the quilt lay a dismantled smoke alarm, its guts spilling out.

  I told Frankie to haul him out and sprinted off to bang on more doors. Anxious faces in dressing-gowns appeared; we’d not got round to a fire drill yet. I ordered them to leave everything, get outside and assemble on the grass. Once I’d got round all the bedrooms, I ran outside myself. The Vampire had opened the gates for the Fire Brigade, but where the hell were they? I ordered him to call them again. Lord Billy was sitting on the grass, coughing violently and asking for brandy. I told him he could have his brandy later, but that there would be strychnine in it. I started doing a head count.

  ‘Boss, where’s Mr d’Orsay?’ yelled Big Frankie.

  My eyes raked across the flustered faces. Nobody else had seen him. Christ.

  The Vampire raced back, mobile in hand. It was the first time I’d ever seen him move quickly; his piercings were jangling and there was even some colour in his cheeks. There had been a huge fire in Kilburn and a bomb scare in Swiss Cottage. All other fires were being graded according to danger to life. If everybody were out of the building, they’d get to us as soon as they could. I told him to inform them that inside Mount Royal was a much-loved national celebrity and if he fried it wouldn’t look good in the papers. Curtis Powell grabbed my sleeve, his eyes awash with panic.

  ‘The pictures and the furniture. We have to get them out,’ he said.

  ‘Agreed. But how?’

  ‘I know every item. I can prioritize. We’ll start a human chain.’

  ‘Ok but lots of it’s heavy. We need more people,’ I said.

  Elspeth was beside me now, fully dressed, but her hair still in pins.

  ‘I’ll get us more people,’ she said. ‘Frankie, where are the keys to your scooter?’

  ‘But doux-doux, you’re not ready…’

  ‘The keys, laddie. Now!’ she said.

  Frankie and I hurried back up the main staircase. At the top, the smoke was drifting from the direction of Lord Billy’s apartment. When I opened Vic’s door, Alma flew past my ankles and vanished. Inside, the smoke invaded my eyes, my throat, my lungs. These rooms abutted Billy’s; somehow it must have seeped through a vent.

  Vic was sprawled in the doorway to his bedroom. His breathing was rapid and shallow with a scary
wheezing from his chest. He seemed semi-delirious, tried to fight us off and it took a good minute to get him out onto the landing. But now Big Frankie had begun to cough violently, his face soaked with sweat and with water from his streaming eyes. I barked at him to get back out into the air; I didn’t need two casualties instead of one. He’d started having hysterics about Vic and was useless anyway. Vic’s wheezing had got worse and fluid dribbled from his mouth. I tried to drag him towards the stairs, hoping that his legs might kick in but it was impossible. Fuck knows how, but I got him up into a fireman’s lift. Step by careful step, I staggered down the staircase, terrified I’d slip and that, by some grim irony, we’d both suffer the same fate as Caravaggio. Then the fear of the thing brought it about. I lost my footing and Vic went flying forwards. But the Vampire and Gentleman Jim had come in search of us and Vic was netted in their arms, neat as a trapeze act.

  By now, old men in dressing gowns were scurrying in and out of the Gilded Hall with small pictures, candelabra, vases, chairs, anything they were able to carry. Curtis Powell ran around directing operations but he was a wee wizened David attempting a Goliath of a job.

  Out on the grass, beneath the statue of Father Thyme, Vic lay covered by a blanket, somebody’s jacket folded under his head. The ambulance was on its way. He’d started coughing now, so fiercely that I thought his whole frame might break like a ship on the rocks. Nobody could agree if giving him water was a good idea or not. Alma nuzzled against him while Beau mopped his brow and Big Frankie sat at his feet, in no great state himself. Vic’s eyes focused in on me. His face was blackened and puffy; the white hair streaked with soot. He tried to speak but couldn’t. I gave him my hand and he gripped it fiercely. He tried to speak again. I put my face closer.

  ‘Cold,’ he said in a parched whisper.

  ‘Somebody get another blanket. Anything. Now.’