Street Kid

by Ned Williams

  One way in which this change was manifested was by instituting weekly parties (more friggin’ parties!) which Adam organised and peopled, much to Henry’s delight. This delight was not shared by his neighbours who suddenly found that their peace and quiet was being rent asunder. As the population of these parties grew – so did the violent reaction from the village. Frequent verbal exchanges and threats spoilt the normal peace and calm of the village with monotonous regularity. As usual, no one could match adrenalin hyped queens.

  I witnessed one such confrontation when a severe looking woman arrived at the house and decided to use the knocker as a battering ram. Adam answered the door – all smiles and charm. Thinking it was another party goer, more of us collected behind him to inspect any potential new meat. She waded in with, “Will you stop all this infernal noise? I can’t even hear myself think.”

  “Why not use that thing you have between your ears,” said Adam.

  “The only thing she’s ever had between her ears is someone else’s prick,” chimed in a voice from behind me. The laughter this produced made the woman retreat vowing vengeance.

  When all this became too much for the neighbours, the local police were summoned who appeared reluctant to get involved. It was almost as if the police were delighted that the snobbish infiltrators’ set were getting some sort of comeuppance. Far from putting a dampener on the proceedings, this attitude from the police only fuelled it and made matters worse.

  The reason I was able to observe the nasty exchange was because, one evening, Adam insisted that Paul and I visit him at Churcham. I think he wanted to show off and boast about his new and wealthy contact. He also gave an example of their method of picking up boys and young men to populate the orgies which took over the house. Their pick–up technique was simple and effective. During the week, they’d drive around the quiet local country lanes, late at night, on the lookout for any lads who appeared to be walking home. They offered lifts to these young men and, once their victims were in the car, they propositioned them with offers of alcohol, food and a bed for the night. They were perfectly fair and, if the potential victim persisted in refusing the somewhat dubious offer, then they graciously gave him a lift to his home with no hard feelings, in any sense of the words. I never thought it would work but, most of the time, it did – on that first visit, they picked us up in a plush car and, on the way back to Henry’s place, they spotted, chatted up and acquired a sweet looking youth of about eighteen. The amount of good looking young men they managed to get made me jealous. There was one time, however, when they got it very wrong. They picked up a small, quiet, puny lad and he appeared to be compliant. When they got him back to Henry’s home and made their move on him, he turned into a wild animal. He threatened blackmail, beat and tied them up then robbed them. Even so, it didn’t put them off. They claimed all their losses on Henry’s insurance, put the whole event down to experience and carried on as before.

  After this flying visit, Paul and I received a standing invitation for every Saturday to attend the now famous parties. We went whenever we were free which amounted to about once a month. Generally, they were on the rowdy side and, during the summers, the whole thing spilled out into the garden and orchard where Adam liked to organise a nude Fairy–Ring. I don’t think I need go any further. All the many bedrooms, except Henry’s own, were open for any guest to use. During the evening either couples or groups of guys sloped off into the house and returned some time later looking satisfied.

  It was at one of these parties that an event happened which greatly disturbed me. It was nothing nasty but something rather traumatic which made me really stop and think.

  When Paul and I arrived for this particular day’s party, I had a weird feeling that something unique was going to happen. There must have been about fifty youths and young men there but my eye kept being drawn to a lad who must have been in his late teens. As soon as I set eyes on this strange, wild figure character, I felt an affinity. I have read about those who were labelled as ‘Romantic Figures’ and I always thought that it was a particularly drippy flight of fancy by the overly sentimental novelists. This was the only time I have ever actually seen one and it slightly changed my opinion of fiction. The lad’s black, tousled hair framed a face of infinite pain and sadness. Most people seemed to be avoiding him. Behind his dark eyes there seemed to lurk an element of danger – a rebellious and free spirit filled with some sort of inner knowledge. Was I reading too much into what I saw? Had I missed my vocation and should I, instead, have become a Romantic Novelist? Though good looking, he was hardly a stunner but there was certainly something hypnotic about him – at least, there was to me. I sought out Adam and asked about this somewhat mystical stranger.

  “He’s new on the scene – his first time here, in fact – and I don’t think we’ll be inviting him back.”

  “What’s his name?” I asked.

  “He calls himself Waffle or Wimple or something like that. I never could quite catch it or get it. Anyway, it’s something zany. Why, do you like him?

  “There’s something about him...”

  “You want him? Please, take him off our hands – he gives us the creeps.”

  The young man must have sensed that we were talking about him as he suddenly turned in our direction. At first, his glare was fierce but it soon softened and he smiled.

  “See what I mean? Creepy,” whispered Adam.

  Adam moved away to play the host and was replaced by Paul who came to drag me off to meet some dreary person he had just met. The conversation was all show tunes and fashion. I feigned listening but as Waffle–or–Wimple was in my eye line, he rather took priority of my attention. I watched someone go up and sit beside him. Fascinated, I wondered what would happen. After a brief exchange, the two went into the orchard. Waffle–or–Wimple had an expression of resignation on his face whilst his companion looked salacious. They were away for about fifteen minutes. On their return Waffle–or–Wimple appeared unchanged but his escort looked smugly satisfied. Waffle–or–Wimple returned to his seat where he was summarily ignored.

  It was on the next visit to Churcham’s that I managed to talk to him. Paul couldn’t make this party and I arrived early. Paul’s timekeeping was atrocious and he made sure that anyone he was with would suffer from the same disease. Waffle–or–Wimple, I was told by Adam would be coming and, after the last party, he had been asking about me. I was dumbfounded. I had assumed he had hardly registered my presence. Apart from that one softened glare, we never made eye contact the whole evening.

  “So, you couldn’t get rid of him!” I teased Adam.

  “No. It turns out that he’s quite a hit and people have been asking about him. But I’m working on it. Are you sure you won’t take him away?”

  Ignoring this, I asked, “Have you managed to find out his name yet?”

  “It hardly seems worth it.” More guests arrived and Adam went off to meet and greet.

  I deliberately chose to sit where I had seen Waffle–or–Wimple park himself.

  After about half an hour the object of my inexplicable obsession was suddenly there. It was as if he had appeared out of thin air – as if he had magically materialised. Looking around as he walked, he came towards me – or rather, his usual seat. He was about ten feet from me when he looked to where he was heading and realised that his station was occupied. He stopped and stared directly and unashamedly into my eyes. His expression was blank but it managed to say so much. He approached and, without uttering a word, sat beside me. For a while we sat in silence until I decided to make the first move.

  “Look, there’s something I’ve got to ask you.”

  “What is it?” His voice was smooth and resonant and there was a trace of some exotic accent.

  “Please tell me your name. No one seems...”

  “Wiflin.”

  “Wif...?”

  “Wiflin.”

  “What a beautiful name. Where does it come from?”

  In answer,
he then began talking to me in a foreign language which I couldn’t place. As a lover of opera and avid follower of libretti one gets a reasonable smattering of foreign words from various countries but the string of sentences he uttered was totally unknown to me.

  “I’m sorry; I don’t speak whatever language you are speaking. I don’t understand a word.”

  “Really? I thought you were one of us.”

  “One of us?”

  “Yes.”

  “And what might ‘one of us’ be?”

  “In the vulgar parlance: Romany. You should learn our language – all of us should; it’s both beautiful and important that we keep it living.”

  A cold shiver went through me. There was a legend going around our family that we came from gypsy stock. Some aged aunt had attempted to trace back our family tree and she was convinced that we had our roots in the Romany culture. Naturally, most of the family mocked this idea so my aunt rarely mentioned it again. In her absence, the rest of the family held the whole idea up to ridicule. Did Wiflin recognise something in me which, though long buried in my history, was still able to be detected?

  As we talked (in English!), I fell instantly under the beguiling spell of his lilting accent. His voice was quiet and had a sing–song way of expressing himself. One would easily imagine that he could begin, at the merest drop of a hat, intoning some archaic and melancholic folksong.

  During our extended conversation, I discovered that he was even more of an outsider than the rest of us. Being gay, if his family had found out, then goodness knows what would have happened to him. He told me that the Romany people were pretty intolerant over anything which deviated from their norm. They had their own moral code and their own way of dealing with any renegade who didn’t measure up to it.

  When our exchanges had reached an obvious conclusion, he faced me and said casually, “I want us to make love.” His eyes searched mine for my reaction.

  Hesitantly, I said, “Okay.”

  We stood; he took my hand and gently led me towards the house. I hadn’t realised how short he was. He barely reached my shoulder. As we made our way to one of the back doors, I caught Adam’s eye. Laughingly, he was giving me the knowing thumbs–up.

  After a few disconcerting mistakes where we accidently viewed some rather interesting and lewd tableaux, we found a vacant bedroom and, after we entered, Wiflin locked the door.

  “I see you’ve been up here before,” I let slip. Although he didn’t respond, I couldn’t help noticing the momentary shadow of pain that flashed across his face. “Sorry, Wiflin, that was rude of me.”

  “You know, you’re one of the first people who have instantly remembered my name.”

  “To me, it’s very memorable.”

  Without any sexual tension, we lay on the bed, cuddled, caressed and talked. He told me a little of how, because of his feelings, he left his family and travelled his own new path. For my part, I bored him with some of the more mundane aspects of my life. He listened in silence and, in what appeared to be, rapt attention; although there was a flicker of fire in his eyes when I said that I was taking art lessons.

  How things progressed from this state of affairs to the actual act was slow, smooth and natural. Because he fascinated me and I was drawn so strongly to him, I assumed that our love making would be a total disaster. Well, I have met some tender and loving people in my time but never to the degree as he. He made love as if it were a Holy Rite. Each move and touch was full of sensuality and delicious nerve sensitivity. The whole process was slow and he knew exactly what he was doing as he managed to reveal places of ecstasy that even I didn’t know existed – let alone anyone else being able to find. Whilst all this was happening a piece of music kept going through my head – Vaughan Williams’ ‘Fantasia on a Theme of Thomas Tallis’. We didn’t rush to return to the party but lay naked and vulnerable to one another.

  After Wiflin had made his excuses and left the party, I shrugged off Adam’s uncouth insinuations. All I wanted to do was to sit quietly and try to gather some sort of comprehension over what had just happened.

  We met three more times and the Rite was continued. The third time was wretched. Before we went down to join the others he confessed that he was leaving the area as he had decided to return to his family. He felt the pull of his life on the road and, although he desired to resist it, the pull was too strong. I was dumbfounded. Tears filled my eyes and, as he looked at me, I could see he was also crying.

  “What will you do about being gay?” I sniffled.

  “I am good at keeping secrets. I’ll manage and if not, well...” He simply shrugged.

  Our farewell was highly charged and painful. I tried to take it all philosophically but there was more than a touch of regret. Had he asked me, I would have chucked everything in and followed him to where ever he felt the need to go but the place to which he now travelled would be too alien and onerous for me.

  “I can’t stay here any longer. I must go,” he sobbed and we stood.

  “If you are ever around here again – or if you decide to part with your family again, please, please, please let me know.”

  “I promise.”

  He gave me a brief kiss and was gone. Left alone, I cried into the eiderdown. After about ten minutes I went downstairs and discreetly left without saying any goodbyes to my hosts. The long walk to the bus stop helped me to control my emotions – well, almost. All the way home tears threatened and occasionally broke through. Still, I thought, you never know, he might come back into my life again and then we will make plans – great plans – epic plans – plans that will change the world.

  I never saw him again.

  There was one memorable event which almost gave me a metaphorical heart attack. It began after one all night session at Churcham. The gang, all of whom I had both got to know and been with intimately decided that they wouldn’t drop me off at a convenient bus stop but, instead, give me a lift all the way home. There was a small convoy of three cars which set off and continued with much driving madness including blaring horns and shouted happy obscenities between the cars and unsuspecting pedestrians. Paul was particularly vocal and funny in these exchanges. When we arrived at my mother’s place, I got out and thanked them when, to my utter horror and consternation, they decided, without consulting me, to invite themselves in for coffee.

  “Well, we are very thirsty.” They weren’t. They began to pile out of the car and gather in a noisy cluster on the pavement near my mother’s gate.

  The occupants of the other two cars wondered what was going on and they too, got out.

  “We’ve been invited and we’re all going in for a coffee.”

  “No, you haven’t,” I hissed.

  “This is the house, is it?” They opened the gate and began to filter into the front garden. I stared at the neighbours’ windows to see if any surreptitious spectators were surveying our antics.

  Terrified, I dashed to the front of the little procession and tried to stop them. I should have known that it would be to no avail. I recognised that look in their eyes. They were intent on mischief.

  Each of them now knew of my mother’s reputation from some of the anecdotes that both Paul and I had given. Paul had never actually met her but had repeated some of my stories to them with great relish. In such close proximity, they began to show a morbid curiosity in meeting the battleaxe in person. Although I desperately advised against it and continued to thwart them, they ignored me, brushed me aside and stomped up the path towards the front door.

  “Please don’t say anything to let me down.”

  “Don’t worry, Carl.” I did. I was horrified. I’d forgotten about my change of name.

  I whispered, “At home, I’m called Steven.”

  “Understood.” The message was then passed on in their form of Chinese Whispers. The whole thing was beginning to fall to pieces and we had yet to go into the house. From every direction came snatches of hurried updating.

  “He’s called
‘Steven’”

  “What?”

  “’Steven’. Here, we have to call him ‘Steven’”

  “Who?”

  “Him.”

  “Why?”

  “Don’t ask, just do it.”

  “I thought his name was Carl”

  “It is, but now it’s Steven.”

  “Who is?”

  “Steven.”

  “Who?”

  “Him!”

  “Oh, you mean, Carl”

  “Yes, it’s Steven.”

  “But I thought you were Paul.”

  “Not me, you clod – him. Him, over there. Steven! Open your eyes. Just while we’re here, call him Steven.”

  “Well, why didn’t you say that in the first place?”

  “Say what?” said another.

  “Oh, fuck!” said yet another.

  “Oh, God!” said I.

  The stench of disaster saturated the air. What if the message was mangled in the telling and retelling? The memory of a previous clanger made years before smashed into my mind.

  I had spotted my mother moving her landing curtains to see who the invasion force were and what they were selling. All I could envisage on my domestic horizon was total humiliation. I felt a terror at the prospect of what could happen. They were a fairly outrageous bunch and capable of any form and number of scurrilous stunts.

  With one last look at all the young bucks who were straining at the leash, I opened the front door and the gang piled in. Descending the stairs, my mother shot livid looks at the hoard of strangers who had dared to invade and were quickly taking over the ground floor of her precious home. Faced with such a vast onslaught, she couldn’t rule the roost but instead, had to be blown along with the situation. Besides, I had the feeling that she was hoping that she could gather more information about my very private life to restock her arsenal of weapons to use against me.