The Folly

by Vanessa Mulberry

  George watched him. Freddy was quite a dainty eater, taking small bites of food and sips of his drink. It was as if he savoured every mouthful before taking another and he seemed to find everything agreeable. But that didn’t really tell George any more about Freddy than what he already knew.

  “You’re looking at me very intently. What are you thinking?” Freddy asked, putting down his sandwich and giving him a lopsided smile.

  “Nothing bad.” George’s hand searched his cheek for the heat of a blush that had thankfully not appeared. “I was just thinking how little I know about you yet here we are. Quite content.”

  “Yes. Funny isn’t it, how it’s easier to feel like that with some people than others.” When George made no comment, Freddy added, “I’ve only been here in the village a few weeks and there aren’t many men our age. Perhaps I’ve been overeager to court you. So to speak. I’m sorry if I’ve imposed my friendship.”

  “You’re no imposition.”

  Freddy began on his sandwich again. “I suppose you want to hear all my secrets now.”

  “Actually, I’d rather not if that’s alright.”

  “I know I’m brother to a vicar but my secrets aren’t that dull. I’ve got one that’s ever so scandalous.”

  “I’m sure you have, which is why you must never tell me it. If you share your past then I will feel compelled to share mine. I don’t much feel like reciprocating.”

  Freddy laughed. “A reciprocal arrangement would be welcome, but by no means necessary for me to have a good time.”

  It felt like flirting. George had done it often enough with friends at Oxford, with the well practiced renters he hired for companionship, and even with girls he knew. But with all those people he understood the situation, the implications of what he did. Freddy was an unknown.

  They ate the picnic, conversation flowing freely as they talked about literature, politics, and motor cars. The rhubarb tart was left untouched while Freddy brought out two slices of Simnel Cake, smaller than the previous morning, and a little drier, but still delicious.

  “Sweets during lent,” Freddy said. “What a pair of sinners we are.”

  Two hours passed as they lay on the blanket together. When they finally left, George returned his picnic basket to the house while Freddy walked ahead to the folly. George found him inside, leaning against the stone wall of the window, looking out on the countryside beyond.

  “It’s beautiful here,” Freddy said, not taking his eyes from the view.

  “Yes.”

  George hung in the doorway and waited for him. When Freddy didn’t move, he asked, “Shall we walk?”

  “In a moment. Come stand with me.”

  George approached the window and leaned his hand on the ledge alongside Freddy’s. He was startled a moment later when Freddy’s hand moved to explore his own.

  The touch was feather light, chaste, yet it felt like the warmest kiss and the most passionate embrace. It was everything he wanted, but George was not about to give into that desire again. He’d ruined his life simply by living it. Freddy might have a chance of better.

  “Stop,” he said, pulling away.

  Freddy withdrew, slipping his hand into his pocket. “I’m sorry.” He kept his eyes fixed on that remarkable view. “It’s ironic isn’t it, that it’s here, in your folly, I choose to show you mine. I should go.”

  George followed him to the door and watched him leave. This time Freddy didn’t look back.

  The touch haunted George. He lay in bed that night, hand burning where Freddy’s fingers had sought his. He brought it to his lips, kissed it, rubbed it against his face. He brought it down, slipped it beneath the waistband of his pyjamas.

  He’d had no desire to touch himself for months. That had left with his anger when the misery of his fate became truly apparent. He wasn’t even sure he wanted to now. But he could still feel Freddy’s soft caress, and it stirred feelings of affection and desire that he had not felt for so long.

  Picturing Freddy on the blanket, collar unbuttoned, white throat displayed like an invitation to be kissed. If they had come together, would Freddy still be here now, lying in this bed? That got George hard—the thought of Freddy undressed next to him. Would he give himself? Or would he take? Perhaps there would be none of that at all and it would be all hands and mouths and sweet kisses. Yes. That was a pleasing thought.

  And Freddy would be quite pink and breathless, just as he was the first time they met. And then he would... He would... Oh God, he would, wouldn’t he? He would definitely do that. And George would clutch Freddy’s golden hair in his hand and push him down further, let him have it all.

  Fresh pyjamas were required. Then sleep.

  It was Easter Sunday when he next saw Freddy.

  After a few lonely days hanging around the folly hoping to apologise, George had given their friendship up as another good thing he had lost and retreated back into his manor to be alone. He could have gone to the vicarage but that meant entering the village, and he wasn’t ready for that. He couldn’t stand to see people look at him with distaste, or worse, pity. Better to be alone than face that.

  But come Easter, he felt he had no choice but to visit the church. It was a miserable grey day, which certainly didn’t help, but seeing the staff walking down the drive he felt it would be poor form not to show his face when they were unveiling the new memorial.

  He arrived late, hoping to slide into a pew at the back so he could make a quick retreat, but was greeted by a wave from Walter King who was already at his lectern. He directed George to a space at the front.

  The congregation turned their heads to see him walk the aisle, and there were a few murmurs, though George couldn’t make out what they said. He was too nervous to listen, too agitated by the spectacle he felt, and the realisation that the space saved for him was next to the one person who must hate him more than any other—Freddy.

  “Don’t look so worried,” Walter teased. “Tardiness is not mentioned in the commandments.”

  There was a pleasant sound of laughter and George looked around. Various villagers smiled and nodded at him, including Mrs Moyes who was on the opposite side of the aisle. He looked back to Walter, who smiled warmly at him, but he couldn’t lift his eyes to Freddy’s face.

  Church always lasted for an eternity and the Easter service was particularly unrelenting. All the while, George was acutely aware of the presence of the man beside him. He could feel the heat of Freddy’s body, the friction of their jackets as they brushed together occasionally. He stole glances at Freddy’s hands, the shape of his thigh, the ripples in the material of his trousers as it bunched around his groin.

  Finally it was over, and with many kindly greetings and no awkward questions, he made it out into the churchyard. Freddy was behind him, pressed too close in the jostling church but now free to step away. He did so quickly, gifting George a watery smile when their eyes briefly met.

  “Looks like rain,” he said.

  George nodded.

  Everyone filed over to the new war memorial. It had been covered with a black sheet, which Walter removed before leading the gathered in a short prayer followed by a minute silence, through which sobs and sniffs could still be heard.

  The memorial was the first thing George bought with the money his father left him, hoping the sour-faced old bastard turned over in his grave at the thought of his son honouring other young men. He was grateful Walter didn’t mention the donation.

  Afterward the crowd began to disperse. George received a few more smiles and hellos as he tried to get through, then found his exit blocked by Walter, who was dragging Freddy along by the arm. “It has been a pleasure to see you here Lord Montfort,” he said, grabbing George’s hand and shaking it.

  “Please Vicar, call me George.”

  “So tell me, George, is it lamb or chicken at the manor today?”

  “Chicken. And there is plenty to go around. Will you come to lunch?”

  Walter grinned
. “That’s a very generous offer and it would be splendid, but I believe Mrs Moyes will be disappointed if I miss her lamb. I think we could spare Freddy though. I expect you two have some catching up to do.”

  He excused himself, ushering Freddy into the space he formerly occupied before disappearing off to talk with someone else.

  “You don’t have to take me,” Freddy said, looking acutely embarrassed. “My brother is well meaning but he doesn’t know what happened. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

  “Hush. Anyone might hear. You may come, but please, walk ten paces behind me until we are away from the crowd.”

  He set off at a pace, Freddy hurrying along beside him, ignoring his warning to hold back. They were a hundred yards from the church before George felt ready to speak at even a mutter.

  “You shouldn’t be seen with me,” he said quietly. “Promise me you will never do that again.”

  “Why?”

  “People will talk. They will suspect you because of your association with me.”

  “Suspect I am your friend? I wouldn’t be ashamed of that.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  They continued in silence up the lane until they reached the cover of the wood. Twenty feet in, George reached out to touch Freddy’s hand as they walked beside each other but he found only empty air. Freddy’s hands we shoved firmly into his pocket.

  George stopped midstride, watched Freddy walk on a little further before he too paused and turned around to look at him.

  “They don’t talk about you, you know,” he said. “They don’t know what happened. They think you have survivor’s guilt after the war and that’s what keeps you up in your manor. Now your parents are dead, Walter is the only one who knows. He told me.”

  The choking, aching weight George had been carrying lifted just for a moment, when he realised he was safe, free from condemnation here, at least for now. Then he remembered it changed nothing at all about what had happened. His future was still lost.

  “Thank God,” he whispered without feeling.

  Back at the house they ate their Easter lunch alone. Freddy saved George from another invite to the kitchen and they sat at the end of a table that could seat twenty and dined on enough food to feed ten, serving themselves from great silver platters while the staff ate equally well downstairs. The talk was easy, and they were soon chuckling quite merrily, as if nothing awkward had ever passed between them before.

  The staff had been given a day off, and to a woman they disappeared off to the church hall for a party after their lunch. He and Freddy watched them file out from around the side of the house and then walk down the drive in twos and threes, Cook leading the way. They were a cheery bunch of girls, and George envied them their friends and their quarrels, and the pleasure of an afternoon of tea and conversation with so many others. But it was not so bad. He wasn’t alone today.

  He and Freddy retired to the smoking room, more out of the habit of having a male guest than need on George’s part. When the tobacco was found to be stale, neither of them minded. George poured them both brandies and took a seat on the sofa while Freddy prowled the room, looking at the masculine decor with some amusement.

  “I assume this was your father’s taste,” he said, inspecting a scimitar that hung on the wall.

  “Yes. Shocking isn’t it?”

  “Rather. I do quite like this chap though.” Freddy pointed to a portrait of some long forgotten ancestor looking extremely proud in his overlarge codpiece. “He’s got something, don’t you think?”

  “Venereal Disease probably if he needs to be bandaged up like that.”

  Freddy laughed. “So you have a bawdy sense of humour beneath this sweet exterior. I’ll drink to that.” He raised his glass and drained the brandy, licking the residue from his lips when he was done. “You too George. Drink up.”

  George put the drink aside and fiddled with his hands. “Please don’t,” he muttered. “I don’t need any encouragement. I do stupid things when I’m drunk and if I am safe here I’ll not risk this peace now. I destroyed my life for ten minutes with a man that seemed cheap at a shilling. I can’t lose my home too.”

  “From what I gather, you’ve been living like you’ve lost it since you returned.”

  “I know no other way.”

  Freddy approached slowly, easing into the seat next to George and leaving only the merest inch between them.

  “Did you love him?” he asked. “The lad that ruined you.”

  “No.”

  “Would it have been less of a waste if you did?”

  A loud clap of thunder outside startled them both, shaking the glass in the windows. George stood abruptly and went to draw the thick velvet curtains against the sudden pelting rain. “Listen to that. I better telephone the vicarage and make sure the staff can stay until the storm has passed. I don’t want them trudging back through this.”

  He left the room to make the call. On his return he found Freddy lounged on the sofa, collar undone just as it had been on the day of the picnic. He was a fantasy brought to life but one George could not afford to indulge. Gaining a lover now might lose him a friend later, and there was his position in the village to think of. Now he was certain of his safety, he shouldn’t jeopardise it.

  “Will we be alone a while?” Freddy asked.

  “At least until the rain stops.”

  He nodded, and there was a wicked glint in his eye. “I hope it thunders all night.”

  George sat down on the sofa, near to him, but not as intimate as Freddy had been. “I think we should try just being friends first. Would that be alright? I like you too much to risk spoiling this for a fuck.”

  Freddy sighed but he smiled too. “Alright. You know I was about to suck you silly though, don’t you?”

  “I do now.”

  Freddy laughed and let himself relax back until his head rested on George’s leg, golden hair splaying across his thigh. “Can I do this?” he asked, grinning up at George.

  “Can I stop you?”

  “Any time.”

  “Then you may remain.”

  George tentatively raised his hand and stroked it through the soft blond strands that lay on his lap. Freddy’s hair was silky and clean, bearing no trace of product to tame it. It was slightly longer than the fashion too, much like George’s own dark tresses. He’d grown it out, too nervous to visit the village barber.

  Freddy closed his eyes and sighed happily. “I might seem a randy bugger but you don’t know how often I’ve wanted to be touched just this way. Nothing beastly, just a caring hand from someone I like.”

  “I understand.”

  “I suppose you do. Have you ever been with a man like this before?”

  George paused to consider. There had been many lovers, but he was young, and he’d never felt anything like this. “Nothing quite so intimate,” he said.

  Freddy opened his eyes and gave him an incredulous look. “You shan’t convince me your a virgin,” he snorted and they both chuckled.

  “Believe me, I had no intention of that. I suppose we have different definitions of what it is to be intimate. If you mean sex, well, I’ve had lots of that. But I don’t think I’ve ever felt this way before.”

  A faint pink suffused Freddy’s cheeks and his smile became boyish and hopeful. “Are you sure you just want to be friends?”

  “For now.”

  Their friendship was new but it continued to be an intimate affair. Now that everything was out in the open they met daily, walking on sunny days and keeping each other company inside the manor during the inevitable drizzles. Freddy often worked, drafting his light-hearted country vicarage farce while they lay on the grass in the sunshine or scribbling fiercely at it in the study at the manor. George would jot a few notes into his journal then read a book, stealing occasional glimpses of Freddy as he wrote.

  One unseasonably hot day they wandered to the shallow stream that flowed around the northern perimeter of the grounds.<
br />
  “Shall we take a dip,” Freddy asked, kneeling down to unlace his shoes.

  George peered into the water, which was clean and fresh, and certainly inviting on a hot day. He’d not splashed about it in since he was a boy, when it had seemed a little deeper. Currently it appeared ankle deep. “I don’t know,” he said. “It’s hardly enough for a paddle, let alone a dip.”

  Shoes already off, Freddy was now tugging at quite a nice pair of silk socks, enthusiasm undimmed. “We can walk in it a bit. Let the minnows nibble our feet.”

  Freddy had beautiful feet. George certainly wouldn’t have been above nibbling them, were he a minnow. Long and wide, with tidy toenails and well buffed heels, they were quite charming, as feet went. Not that George was a connoisseur of feet, but they were attached to Freddy.

  Sitting down on the grass, George removed his own shoes and socks, paying more attention to Freddy than himself. His friend—best friend, only friend who should not be jeopardised—was now busy rolling his trousers up to his knees, revealing pale but shapely calves with a decent covering of blond hair.

  George put the image away in his mind for later and set about tucking his socks into the toe of his shoes when he felt Freddy’s hands upon the cuffs of his trousers.

  As he rolled up one trouser leg, Freddy said, “Hurry along old chap.” But he worked slowly. His knuckles brushed against George’s skin, each touch almost an invitation to take his hand and stop him. George let him be and rolled up the other leg himself.

  They both skidded down the crumbling bank, hands resting on the grassy lip as they eased their way into the stream. The water was cool but not cold, and the pebbled bed gave way to a silky mud below, oozing between George’s toes as he dug them through the stones.

  Freddy kicked his feet up playfully, splashing the clear water up around them both. “This is a lark,” he said, cackling with laughter as George dodged the spray.

  George bent down and trailed his fingertips in the shallow water, coming up suddenly with two handfuls of it to toss at Freddy. “Yes, quite a wheeze,” he agreed. “You’ll be soaked before we’re done.”