“So, Simon, this synaesthesia condition. I understand that letters have colours, and that it’s consistent for any given letter.” He and Mum both looked at me, but I was not feeling conversational. So he asked, “Does it have a genetic component? Is it inheritable?”
I spoke quickly before Mum could say anything. “My father had it.” I glued my eyes to his in a warning: Do not go there. I saw a flash of understanding.
“Do you find that it helps you in any way?”
We waited in silence whilst the waiter placed our main course dishes in front of us. Then I said, “It helps with spelling.”
“Wouldn’t there be too many different colours, though? I mean, for it to be really useful?”
“Not at all. Oxford, for example, is terra cotta overall. There’s also dove grey, pale green, bright red, and dark brown, and if you took out the grey, the shade of terra cotta would be darker. If you don’t have it, I’m not likely to be able to explain it to you.”
“I see.” He took a mouthful of food, and I was hoping he’d turn to Mum next, but he didn’t. “So, on a lighter topic that I’ve been meaning to ask you about, do you have an interest in oceanic subjects? Boston has a historic relationship with the sea just as England does.”
It was everything I could do not to say, My, but we’re trying very hard, aren’t we? Certain that he was expecting me to say something about sea battles or whales, I decided to see how much stomach he has for my doom-oriented interests. “I’m partial to the blue-ringed octopus.”
“I don’t think I’ve heard of that one. What’s special about it?”
“It’s a beautiful creature. Very small for an octopus. You wouldn’t know how beautiful it is unless you annoy it. Then it turns the most gorgeous shades of neon blues and yellows. Its bite carries the most powerful neurotoxin in nature. It kills a human within minutes. There is no known antivenom. The female carries her fertilised eggs in her arms until they hatch, and then she dies.”
As though I’d said nothing out of the ordinary, I bent over my dinner and took a forkful of roast chicken in veal reduction decorated with bits of lardon.
After BM’s outburst, calling me on the carpet and Mum at least to some piece of accusatory furniture, the pace of packing and other preparation increased. And now I’m limited to the music stored on my phone, and most of my personal stuff is wrapped and padded and boxed.
One thing I made sure found its way into my personal baggage was a small, black leather case, with two packets of single-edge razor blades. You never know.
Entry Nine
After BM left for the States that time, saying he’d return briefly to help with the move itself, two things happened. One was that he sent both Mum and me, via e-mail, links to resources where American English and British English terminology is translated. “Please do your best to use American terminology around Persie,” he wrote, “to help keep the peace. She can be rigid about things.”
I nearly wrote back, “Here’s one term I think translates well: Fuck off!”
The other thing was that Mum called me into the sitting room to have “the conversation.” That is, the one about my being gay.
“Simon, I want you to know that I love you, and I will always love you. You are my son, my only child, and I wouldn’t want you to be anything other than what you are. Being gay is just one of those things.” She gave me a chance to say something, but I didn’t take it.
“But there’s no denying that gay people have a harder time of it, so forgive me if my initial reaction wasn’t enthusiastic. And I do need you to know that this changes some things about the way I see you. That is, until I get used to it. I’ve always pictured your future with a wife and maybe children in it.” She smiled. “To be truthful, I’ve imagined you becoming a venerable Oxford don, with a brilliant, beautiful wife who’s distinguished in her field in some vague way I haven’t clarified.” She waited again, and again I didn’t speak.
“You could still be that Oxford don. That might suit you very well. Maybe even with children. I just need to see a man at your side. I have a lot of images of your future that I’ve stored up over the years. Parents can’t help doing this. And in all of them you have a wife. It will take me a while to sift through them and make this change.”
“How very difficult for you.” My voice dripped sarcasm, and on her face I saw it strike home.
She let out an irritated sigh. “What I’m trying to tell you is that this new knowledge—and remember, it is new to me, even if you’ve known it for a while—doesn’t change how I feel about you. I’m merely asking for your patience as I learn how to integrate it. And yes, Simon, it will be difficult, and I will make mistakes and probably say stupid things without knowing they’re stupid. This is fair warning that I don’t want them to be stupid, that I accept you the way you present yourself to me. But I’ll need some time.”
I just stared at her.
“I daresay it took you some time, as you began to realise this about yourself, to get used to the idea. To be sure it was real, and that it’s right for you. I’m not arguing about whether it’s right for you, even if it’s not what I would wish for you. But now it’s my turn. I need some time.” Another pause. “Do I know your boyfriend?”
“If you did I wouldn’t tell you who it was.”
“Why not?”
“I’d never out anyone. May I go now?”
She let out a breath that sent exasperation into the room. “Simon, I’m trying to stay on an even keel with you. I’m trying very hard not to get upset. But you make it very difficult.”
I managed to keep my tone low, but it was still acidic. I have some toxin at my command. “So you’re finding this difficult. Welcome to my world. You’re forcing me to leave my entire life behind me, Mother. My entire life. The only part of my former life that’s still going to be there is you, and it’s you making me go through this horror. Maybe you can force me to do it, but you can’t force me to pretend I accept it. And you’ll never force me to forgive you.” I watched as she struggled to keep her temper, to avoid pushing back, as though BM were watching to make sure she didn’t let me drag her into yet another argument. “Now, do I have permission to leave?”
She closed her eyes for about two seconds. “As long as you understand what I’ve said.”
I got up and went to my room, shut the door, and leaned against it. I wanted to ring Graeme and tear apart everything she’d just said. The problem was, I was having some trouble finding fault with it, as far as the gay question is concerned. What was awful was that she didn’t seem to understand that I don’t even care whether she accepts me as gay or not. As far as I’m concerned, tearing my life apart the way she’s doing proves that she doesn’t understand any part of me, and that she doesn’t care about me despite her insistence that she does.
Most of the final preparations were a blur to me. One thing that got left to the end was procuring a wardrobe to comply with the dress code for St. Boniface, which is pretty much what you’d expect—not quite a uniform, but close to it: blues from navy to pale sky, red and maroon, white, and khaki, with the odd yellow and pink thrown in. At least, the girls are allowed pink. I’m not. I’m contemplating instigating a protest about this, but it wouldn’t look good with my red hair, anyway.
I’m making an effort not to sulk. Really, I am. But a couple of realisations are making it harder than ever to accept what’s happening. For one thing, I really do believe that it’s Mum’s guilt about Clive that’s pushing her to go and take care of Persie, and for Mum, meeting her own needs obviously means more than what I need. It means so much more that she won’t even let it wait one more year before she starts her penance.
The second thing makes the first one fall into place: She didn’t want children. This might go a long way towards explaining that invisible shield I’d always sensed between us.
The day she’d told me about Clive, she’d said she hadn’t planned to have children. And she never had any other than me. So I
was an accident. And she didn’t want me.
Entry Ten
We’re leaving in a week. And I have only four days left with Tink.
I’m not sure you can understand how much I love my cat. Part of it is that my dad gave her to me, and part of it is that she’s so wonderful, and we have an incredible relationship. You’ve probably heard the expression that goes, “Dogs think you’re God. Cats know they are.” But an attitude like this from a cat happens when the human isn’t treating the cat like a cat. I guess you don’t actually have to be stupid to anthropomorphise an animal, but it probably helps.
A cat is a cat and should not be treated like a human or have human characteristics projected onto it. We’re supposed to be smarter than cats. If that’s true, we should know better than to think the cat should learn how to be like us. On the contrary; the best relationship a human can have with a cat is one in which the human understands the kind of relationship the cat needs, and then provides it. A cat lives by rules it makes for itself, and the smarter human’s job is to figure out how to influence that process so that the rules work for the human as well as for the cat; otherwise you could end up with a demanding, obstreperous cat. And it wouldn’t be the cat’s fault.
Twice I went to visit Margaret, the little girl Tink is going to. I gave her lessons in how to establish her place as Top Cat gently, so Tink will be peaceful and content and won’t think she has to make rules for the humans as well as for herself. I wanted to make sure Margaret’s house is ready for Tink, and that Margaret and her parents know how to take care of her. I’ve made it abundantly clear that the less change they subject her to, the more quickly she’ll adjust, so she needs all the same possessions she’s had here. I’ve told them where her scratching posts and her carpeted perch need to go. I’ve made sure they know where the litter box belongs and what brand of litter to use. I’ve told them where her dishes need to be placed in the kitchen and what kinds of food to buy. I’ve made doubly sure they understand that she is never, ever, ever, under any circumstances to go outside unless they use her harness and leash. I even gave Margaret a lesson, though I had to do it without the cat, about how to trim her claws—how she should do it when Tink is sleepy, or at least very relaxed; how Margaret must be calm and gentle but still firm; and how she must always give Tink treats immediately afterwards.
At least it seemed like Margaret took this all very seriously. She’s only ten, but she’s smart and seems to really want a cat. I’ve told her she’s getting the best possible cat, one who already understands her place in life and is delighted with it. And I’ve told her it’s her responsibility to make sure this doesn’t change. It’s Margaret’s job to make sure Tink never knows how lucky she is.
But all the packing and moving around of things at home, in Tink’s environment, has put a huge amount of stress on her. She began hiding a lot, under things, in boxes, burrowed into piles of clothes or blankets. And yesterday, she stopped eating. This told me it was time.
So this morning I rang Margaret’s mum and asked if I could bring Tink to them this afternoon, instead of waiting three more days. I barely got through the conversation without bursting into tears, and as soon as I rang off the deluge began. I threw myself onto my bed and sobbed. My heart was being ripped out of my chest.
I sat with Tink for half an hour before we left, mourning this horrible, horrible loss. No more soft bundle of love to hold on my shoulder. No more rubbing of her face against the side of my neck. No more of that sweet, singing purr in my ear. I don’t know how I’m going to stand this.
I cleaned out her litter box in the bathroom whilst Mum packed her bowls and the food we’d already bought. When I came out with Tink’s clean litter box, Mum was on the couch, crying. It surprised me, but I was glad. I want her to hurt.
Tink was hiding under my bed. I brought her carrying case in, shut the door, and coaxed her out with chicken-flavoured treats and cooing sounds that kept being interrupted by sobs. Finally she came to me. Such a betrayal.
I can’t even write about what it felt like to leave Tink at Margaret’s. Driving back without her, my arms already aching—aching!—to hold my cat again, I tried to console myself with the knowledge that Mum could have done much worse for Tink’s new family. But—she’s not my cat any longer. I won’t be able to have a cat at all, at least until I’m on my own. Not with Persie around, itching to pull tails and yank ears and generally mistreat an animal.
I will miss Tink so much. And I don’t want her to miss me at all.
At home, I glared at Mum through my tears. As I turned to head towards my room I told her, “I hate you.”
There’s no way to describe what it felt like to part with Graeme. There were kisses and hugs and tears and screaming about what’s happening and promises we don’t know how we’ll keep. We talked about how we’ll both see the same sun, the same moon and stars, how we’ll text and write and try to arrange visits. None of it helped.
Part II
Exile
Boston, Day One, Saturday, 25 August
We’re here. And I wish there were something good to report.
Actually, the house itself is pretty nice. It’s a large townhouse on Marlborough Street, with more bedrooms and (though I hate to admit it) more bathrooms—and nicer ones—than we had in our detached house on Hermitage Lane, which was pretty nice itself. BM never exactly bragged about how much money he has, or makes, unless you count that comment about how he can afford to give Persie all the care she needs, but a house like this in London would have cost many millions of pounds.
BM wanted to give us the grand tour right away, mumbling something about how it would be easier for Persie this way, so he could go to her sooner and stay with her until dinner, despite the fact that Mum and I were both nearly falling over with exhaustion. It was mid-afternoon Boston time, but of course that’s much later London time, and we’d been working ourselves to the bone to get ready. Yes, that included me; I’ve decided that my only realistic option is to go along with things until I can make the changes I want (read: Get back to England).
Mum convinced BM that we needed to collapse someplace comfortable and have some refreshments before trying to take everything in. I was just glad that the place was air-conditioned; the wave of moist heat that hit me getting into the car at Logan Airport was like nothing I remember experiencing at home. So much for the Northeast US having cool weather. I gather it sometimes snows quite a bit here in winter, but you’d never know it in August.
As we passed through the various rooms on our way to the kitchen, I did take note of some things, and I have to say that whoever decorated the place has good taste. Hand-knotted Pakistani rugs everywhere, which I recognised because I helped Mum shop for a few replacement rugs at home last year. The muted pastel wall colours don’t interfere with the furniture upholstery, and there are beautifully restored ornate ceilings in the formal rooms. BM turned conspicuously to me as we passed the music room, where there’s a baby grand Steinway along with shelves and shelves of CDs.
In the kitchen, which is large and very modern, BM had us sit at the table for six at the far end of the room, in front of a large window that overlooks a small bricked patio at the back of the house. He served us himself, though it was all laid out—no doubt by someone else—and Mum and I could have served ourselves: chilled San Pellegrino with lime in stemmed wine glasses, pâté, cheese, carrot sticks, light crackers, and olives.
Mum and I were both pretty quiet, though not for all the same reasons. She was hot, exhausted, and overwhelmed; I was hot, exhausted, and bitter. As I said, I’m going along, for now, but I don’t have to like it.
BM took us upstairs next. The master suite is here, running front to back of the house and taking up rather a lot of space. With its own sitting room and the sliding glass doors in the back onto its own large balcony with a weatherproof table and two chairs, it’s really its own flat; all it lacks is a kitchen. Someone had already brought Mum’s baggage up.
&nb
sp; “Oh, thank God! Brian, I’m going to have a bath immediately and then maybe a nap.”
“You don’t want to see Simon’s room first?”
She hesitated, like she’d already started drawing her bathwater. “You’re right, of course.” But I could tell she’d much rather not.
Persie’s rooms—bedroom, bath, and playroom, BM told us—are on this floor, too, I guess where BM can keep an eye on her. He pointed towards the closed door that leads to them but didn’t approach it. His voice low, he told us, “Persie is in there now with Anna Tourneau, her live-in tutor.”
I couldn’t resist. “Her tutor lives here? Isn’t that a little pre-Victorian ?”
“During the week, she stays here. As I mentioned before, it takes a lot to care for Persie. Anna has her own apartment elsewhere, and usually she has weekends off. She’s here this weekend to help Persie adjust to your arrival.”
From behind the door I could hear what must have been Persie having some kind of tantrum that Anna was apparently unable to control. She was screaming “Nevermore!” rather like Poe’s raven. Shrieking it, actually. Over and over. Mum turned to BM, her face white and strained. “Is that my fault because of insisting we wait for the tour? Oh, Brian, I’m so sorry!”
BM didn’t quite say it was or it wasn’t. “She knows I’m home, and the rule—her rule—is that I go to her immediately and spend some time with her. We’ve upset the rule. I’ll be able to calm her down soon.”
My eyes flew to BM’s face. He’d just told me, essentially, that Persie is a cat, and he’s let her decide for herself what all the rules are. So she’s a misbehaving cat, a cat that’s been given too free a hand. Suddenly I was more interested in Persie than before. But I must say I didn’t especially want to meet her right then.
Educating Simon Page 5