The Folly

by Vanessa Mulberry

  Freddy was ostensibly reading the Manchester Guardian, but his feet had found George’s leg and he playfully rubbed it under the table. George met his eyes and saw the smile in them, though the rest of his face was obscured by the cover.

  Their meal arrived and they pushed their things to the side to make room.

  “Wine at lunch,” Freddy said, eyeing a bottle of red that had been placed on the table. “We really are on the continent.”

  “Says the man who lives with a vicar.”

  “Communion wine doesn’t count.”

  They took up their spoons and started on the onion soup, talking quietly of this and that and nothing at all, until Freddy whispered, “I say, I wonder what the bed will be like in our room. Imagine if the springs are noisy. We’ll have to do it on the floor.”

  George froze, spoon halfway to his mouth. “Freddy!” he hissed.

  “No one cares here,” Freddy said, grinning at him.

  “We still need to be discreet.”

  “I didn’t pack my shame in my luggage,” Freddy replied, taking up his paper again. The conversation was over.

  They had both relaxed somewhat by the time they arrived at the hotel that evening. It seemed a place built for their type, with plenty of male couples lounged around in the bar and some renters drinking at the counter.

  “How did you find this place?” George asked as they followed the concierge up to their room.

  “A recommendation from a former friend. It’s better than I hoped.”

  The bedroom was small but well appointed, decorated in the style of Louis Quinze but with a modern iron framed bed. When they were finally alone, George settled down upon it and Freddy joined him.

  “No need to fear here,” Freddy said. “No servants to overhear or walk in on us. No risk of walkers seeing us on the estate.”

  “No.”

  “We needn’t do anything. Not if you don’t want to.”

  George leaned in gently and kissed him. Their lips hadn’t touched since the day in the folly but he hadn’t forgotten how good it felt to kiss Freddy. When he was younger, kissing had been nothing more than a preamble to sex. Now it was a way of expressing love and companionship, but there was desire too, alongside the comfort. George felt himself grow hard.

  “I think I’m ready,” he whispered, taking Freddy’s hand and moving it to his lap.

  “You’re sure?”

  “I want this. I’ve wanted this for so long. I’ve wanted you.”

  “I know.”

  They both stood to undress. Their clothes were removed slowly, trousers carefully laid out over the backs of the chairs, shirts placed on hangers. It was all very civilised, and yet George felt a heat within him that surpassed any he’d experienced before. All previous desire seemed to pale in significance now. Their future would be full of stolen moments, snatched encounters in the minutes of privacy that was their lot. There would be time for passion then. Right now, patience was the key.

  George had already seen Freddy’s upper body, but he could really look at him now. He was well built, fairly trim but for a delightful softness around his middle. Blond fuzz gathered beneath his belly button, waxed and waned until it surrounded his cock.

  He turned to hang his shirt, giving George a glimpse of his rounded arse. Ghost white skin, the darker cleft.

  “Which of us will be...” George left the question unfinished.

  “I don’t like it that way,” Freddy said, padding across to the bed. “It’s such a messy business and it hurts going in. I don’t know how the renters do it every day, all that pain, and they get themselves so clean beforehand. I suppose that’s professionalism isn’t it, and I’m an amateur at that.” His face grew darker and he asked, “Is that alright? You don’t mind, do you?”

  “Alright? Of course it is you silly thing.”

  And suddenly the tension was gone and they fell onto the bed in a tangle of lips and limbs, giggling together like lovers do. Freddy’s hands were upon him, tugging, stroking. He thrust against George’s hip, and George grabbed him, feeling the sticky, seeping wetness of Freddy’s arousal against his hand as he worked him to climax.

  Freddy pulled him closer as they reached the edge, burying his face in the curve of George’s neck, nipping the flesh lightly with his teeth. His hand tightened and when George murmured his name, he grunted in reply. They both came.

  There was tidying up to do, and Freddy fetched a towel and wiped them both down. He was pink, just as George had imagined, hair mussed, a big grin on his face. “I rather enjoyed that,” he said.

  George grinned back at him. “I rather enjoyed that too.”

  They dressed in their pyjamas and slipped beneath the sheets together. It would have seemed like nothing improper had ever occurred but for the lingering scents of fresh sweat and come.

  They snuggled together, and Freddy lit a cigarette which they shared. “When was your first?” he asked, watching the smoke curl up towards the ceiling.

  “Ten years ago—fumbles with boys at school. In France I fucked a renter for the first time and then Oxford was a riot of men, some paid, some friends. You?”

  “I never even kissed a boy until I was eighteen. My place at Cambridge was deferred for a year after the war ended so that returning boys like you could take up their places. I visited Paris, then Italy, Greece... It’s easier to meet our sort over here, even if one doesn’t speak the lingo. Get the right tour guide and he’ll do the work for you.”

  “Sounds like quite an education for a young man.”

  “It was. But it didn’t teach me discretion. Sometimes I wish I’d done things differently, but I suppose if I had I wouldn’t be here with you.”

  When the cigarette was done, Freddy rolled over to stub it out and switch off the lamp, then came back for another brief kiss and a yawn. “Sorry,” he said, closing his eyes and leaning back on his pillow. “It’s just too comfortable in this bed.”

  It was comfortable, and George was happier than he’d been in months, body glowing with satisfaction, heart full of hope. There was only one thing he needed to know before he could succumb to sleep.

  “Have you ever been in love?”

  Freddy opened one eye and smiled at him through the dark. “Before you?” he asked. “No.”

  The first day was spent at the games. They bought tickets to see the athletics and were later able to brag they’d seen Harold Abrahams during one of his qualifying heats. George had a fine time eating Raspberry Ice and cheering on the British team, and Freddy was next to him, making the day even sweeter.

  Freddy had seemed handsome back in the village where there weren’t that many other young men to look at. Here in Paris, where youth and beauty seemed to be in abundance, he was still a dream. George noticed young women look at his lover, even the odd young man stealing a glance, and he felt immensely proud.

  After the events, they went back to the hotel and had a light meal in the restaurant. Freddy disappeared to the reception briefly, and thirty minutes later they were brought two tickets to the Folies Bergere.

  “My treat,” Freddy said as George inspected them. “It looks like a bit of fun.”

  They finished up their meal and took a taximètre to the theatre. The Folies Bergere was a little faded, the blue columns and gold detailing in need of an update but inside it had a charm about it. Freddy had got them the best seats available and they had a decent view from which to count the nipples on stage.

  They went for drinks during the intermission. George was waiting at the bar to be served when a loud voice said, “Good Lord, is that you Montfort?”

  George turned to see a man he’d not spoken to in more than a year elbowing his way through the throng to get to him. “Hello Russell,” he said, not believing for a moment a former acquaintance actually wanted to speak to him. None of them had contacted him since he was sent down.

  “I wasn’t expecting to see you here,” Russell said waving a ten franc note at the barmaid and pointing
to a bottle of the best Champagne. She ignored him.

  The unexpected and unwelcome link to his past was like a punch to the gut. George fought the urge to double over or run and instead raised his chin and met Russell’s eyes. He’d been braver than this before. He could do it again. “I’m in Paris for the games.”

  “Oh, everyone is right now, old chap. But I mean here, at the Folies Bergere. I didn’t think you’d be interested in naked girls.”

  The greeting had been a punch but this was a slap to the face. George looked around for escape and realised Freddy was tugging at his arm.

  “Are you going to introduce me, George?” he asked, eyes blazing.

  “Freddy King, Edgar Russell. Russell and I were at Oxford together.”

  “Until you got sent down,” Russell said. He grinned at Freddy. “Has he told you? Unfortunate business that, but it’s not like he needed the degree. He’ll never have to work a day in his life, lucky devil.” Turning his attention back to George, he said, “I’m in the city now. What are you doing these days? Boys in back alleys?” He smiled quite amiably and George realised there was no malice in the question. This was supposed to be teasing between friends. Russell had no idea what he was saying was hurtful. To him, George was the same carefree youth he always was.

  “Excuse me,” Freddy said. “We need to get back to our seats.”

  George murmured his agreement.

  “Oh, don’t be like that.” Russell clamped a hand on George’s arm. “I’ve not seen you in an age. Let me buy you and Freddy here a drink and we can catch up.”

  “We can have a drink together in London one day,” George said, pulling himself free.

  Russell’s smile faltered. “I’d like to but, well, it’s not really the done thing is it?”

  Freddy pulled George from the bar and they left, ignoring Russell’s shouts of best wishes and good luck and all that.

  Freddy steered George outside and bundled him into a taximètre. They travelled back silently, with the sounds of the engine and the rowdy Parisian streets filling the gap that conversation might have if they were there in happier circumstances.

  They were dropped off at nearest Metro to their hotel. George wasn’t sure how Freddy knew not to give the name of the place, notorious as it must have been, but he was grateful for it. The anxiety of even a perceived judgment was too great right then.

  “We shouldn’t have come here,” George said as they approached the hotel. His eyes met Freddy’s and saw such pain there.

  “Let’s go inside and talk about this.”

  “It’s not safe here.”

  “Of course it is.”

  “I never should have left the estate. Tomorrow we go home. This has all been a terrible mistake.”

  Freddy stopped abruptly, pulled him aside. “You can’t spend your whole life cooped up there. You don’t have to. There are plenty places for men like us.”

  “What? Like this, where I can rub shoulders with former friends who wouldn’t speak to me in the street in London? Can’t you see we’ll never escape? You might not care what everyone thinks but I do.”

  Head shaking, fighting back tears that might have been anger or sadness, Freddy said, “I’m going for a walk.” He turned on his heel and hurried back up the road.

  “Freddy!”

  “No George. Not now. I need to think.”

  Back in their shared room, George took up his suitcase and carelessly threw his clothes in, making sure not to touch a stitch of Freddy’s. When it was full he upended the whole thing onto the floor and kicked it until the side caved in, damaged beyond repair.

  The destruction was so unlike him, George knew right then he was on the verge of losing himself completely. Fear had turned to anger and destruction, but neither of those things served him well. He wanted to wake up and find himself back in the days when none of this mattered, when he felt honoured to be in the company of Zeus, Oscar, and Shakespeare. When youth and vanity made him believe he was untouchable.

  He slumped down at the desk and took up his pen and pad.

  Dearest Freddy

  I’m returning to England. Please stay and make the best use of your time here in Paris. Be who you were meant to be and I will be who I am.

  I love you. I’m sorry you had to hear it this way.

  Please don’t follow me now or come back to the estate if you return to the vicarage. It’s better you forget me.

  Yours forever

  George

  He put down the pen and glanced across at his broken case. He’d need to buy a new one in the morning, but it would likely manage the journey to another hotel.

  Slowly, carefully this time, he packed his things back in and sat waiting on the bed, letter in hand. He would give it to Freddy in person. His lover had earned that.

  It was an hour before Freddy arrived. George stood when he heard the key in the lock, holding out the letter he clutched in his hand, intending to thrust into Freddy’s palm and run before he saw the shock on his face. But he was the surprised one.

  “I bought you these,” Freddy said, entering with a bedraggled bouquet.

  “Flowers?”

  “Green Carnations. I saw them at the tables in a restaurant and begged the waiter to sell them to me.” He offered them to George, beautifully embarrassed by his own gesture, as if it no longer seemed as good an idea now he was seeing it through. “I know it’s not quite the fashion these days but I thought they’d fit. There’s a nice one in here. It would look lovely in your buttonhole.”

  They hadn’t been the fashion since the 1890’s and they’d proved dangerous then. George couldn’t accept them. Could he?

  He took the bunch from Freddy over to the desk where he lay them down gently.

  “I don’t think I can wear it,” he admitted, handing Freddy his letter. “I’m not the man you want me to be.”

  He returned to his suitcase while Freddy scanned the page. As he picked it up, he heard the paper scrunch and then a moment later felt it bounce off his back.

  “What the bloody hell do you think that is?” Freddy demanded. “I don’t want you to be anything but mine in your heart and soul. And if that means being a prisoner of your damned estate day in, day out, then I’ll do it. I’d do anything for you.”

  “It wouldn’t be fair.”

  “What’s not fair is telling me you love me and then leaving me. You should have told me you hate me.”

  “But I don’t hate you. I never could. I hate myself right now, not you.”

  “Well I love you. I love you enough for both of us. You may hate yourself all you wish but you’ll damn well do it with me at your side.” He grabbed George, and kissed him, hard and possessive. “Don’t think I’m giving up on you that easily.”

  George felt the strength of him, felt himself succumb to it. He was weak, so weak, and he needed Freddy. He hadn’t the will to send him away, even if it was for Freddy’s own good. It wasn’t fair, but it was how it would be. “Why are you so eager to be with me?” he asked, melting into the comfort of Freddy’s embrace.

  “Why are you so eager to be alone?”

  “I'm broken.”

  Freddy sighed. “We're all broken these days. I don't want to fix you, George. I love you just as you are.”

  “But I don’t want to feel like this. It’s so hard.”

  “I know all too well. But these things take time and effort and you can’t always do them alone. I’m here for you, at your pace. I’m sorry if I’ve put you under any pressure.”

  “I think being the only person in my life is probably a lot of pressure for you too.”

  Freddy stepped back and looked George in the eyes. “We’re getting this all wrong. It’s not you, and it’s not me. It’s the rest of the world that is the problem. And it’s not even all of them.”

  It was the truth. Nothing was changed by it being spoken aloud, but George felt a little of the weight ease off of him. “I think you’re right,” he said.

  Fred
dy smiled gently. “I reserve the right to remind you of that. Now, I’ll I ring down to the bar and get them to bring us up a pot of tea. We can sit out on the balcony and relax.”

  He led George to the bedside phone, holding his hand all the way, and made the call. “Ten minutes,” he said when he replaced the receiver.

  Freddy was arranging the chairs outside when it arrived and George went to fetch the trolley. He opened the door to the sound of joyous giggling and the sight of two young men kissing and fumbling with the key to the room next door. The maid who’d brought the tea was already halfway up the hall, and George found she was still laughing when he caught up with her to give her a tip.

  “Lapins,” she said, pointing over her shoulder. She made bunny ears and hopped.

  They had made it into the room when George returned but hadn’t quite managed to close the door behind them. George closed it discreetly and wheeled the tray into his own suite.

  “Sounded like a bit of a commotion out there,” Freddy said.

  “It was nothing,” George said, smiling for the first time in a few hours. “It really didn’t seem to be anything at all.”

  The morning took them to the Louvre. Freddy hadn’t pushed him to leave the hotel but George was used to a larger cage and had felt much braver after some spirited love-making that morning.

  Their taximètre dropped them at the Carousel gardens and they began the walk up to the Louvre’s entrance. George’s nerves were manageable but he was anxious enough to be on a constant look out for people he knew. Everyone they passed was scrutinised intensely.

  He might have missed them otherwise. Two men sat on a bench together, arm in arm like a courting couple. In broad daylight. In the centre of Paris.

  “Freddy!” he hissed, pulling his lover to a standstill. “Do you think they’re together?”

  Freddy looked up from his guide map and glanced about, spotting the couple after much nudging and nodding from George. “Those two men?” he asked, staring rather more obviously than George would have liked.

  “Yes those two. Don’t look at them. Do you think they’re like us?”

  A smile played about Freddy’s lips as he stole another more surreptitious glance. “This is a place where homosexuals meet, but I don’t know about them. I’m not sure it’s any of our business to go up and ask.”