by Ned Williams
“I see.” What a gift I was presenting her with – and, in flash, she fully grasped it. The balance of power was now in her favour and I could see that she was relishing my discomfiture. For the moment, she didn’t want to know the reason for my return because she never asked. Not that I expected her to. I knew, eventually, we’d have to talk more. What was I going to tell her? I tried to think of a convincing excuse for my return. I didn’t think that telling her that I’d just broken up with my male lover would go down too well.
Predictably, for a moment she didn’t say anything. What did she have to consider? Deep down, I knew she was being her usual sadistic self. She was attempting to make me squirm and beg. I said nothing but waited for her to declare her verdict.
Getting a little bored with all this foolishness, I asked, “Well?”
“Well, what?” God, was she enjoying this!
For Christ’s sake! “Can I come back?”
Standing up, she announced, “I suppose so. You know, I knew this would happen.” It would seem that my mother managed to know everything about everything. She then moved towards the kitchen. “When do you want to move back in?” And she went out, leaving me alone.
This left me with a difficult choice; should I yell my ‘thanks’ from where I sat or follow her out to the kitchen which is what she was really after? Either way, this was a conscious way of establishing our relationship from the new beginning. What on earth made her feel the need to play these silly games? Why couldn’t she be like other mothers and simply sit down and talk it through in a sensible and civilised way? I thought it best to play the lap dog so I followed her out where we briefly made arrangements.
Before I left to return to the bed–sit, she’d laid down some unconditional extra rules which were even worse than those I had to endure before I left.
Although my housemates said that they were sorry to see me go, I don’t think they were that bothered. There’d be other tenants. Life goes on. I was simply a minor footnote in their busy lives.
As agreed with all concerned, on the following Saturday, whilst Paul was at work, I packed my things and moved out. He was now working back in another supermarket as a shelf stacker but, he assured me, he had good prospects.
Paul and my relationship was obviously so fragile that, although I spoke to him twice more on the phone, I never saw him again. I didn’t miss him in the slightest and, I suspect, the feeling was mutual.
As soon as I knew my departure was imminent, I turned to my fellow rents for transport. The amount of offers for assistance I received was moving. These were valuable friends indeed.
Zenda, who could drive, volunteered to help me shift my gear and borrowed a client’s car for that very purpose. I offered to pay for any petrol.
“Won’t hear of it. You can pay me in kind – and you know what kind I like.”
“You’re on.”
“Now?” He quickly threw at me. So, he wasn’t joking.
I liked Zenda a lot so it was no great shakes to pay that particular debt.
After we had loaded everything into the car and I had posted the keys through the letterbox I found that I was leaving with a heavy heart. I wasn’t especially attached to the flat but it was the symbol of my freedom and I was deserting it. Was I betraying it or myself?
I think Zenda was rather curious about the bed–sit to which, along with the other rents, he’d never been invited. He was profoundly unimpressed.
On the way to the family house he mentioned that he was impatient to meet my mother whose reputation he’d heard so much about. Because I frequently lamented my fate at home, he knew some of my stories and, unbeknownst to me, had been fascinated by what he heard. He knew she could be difficult and wanted to experience this at first hand. He then licked a finger and used it to smooth his eyebrows. “There, that should do nicely. Am I gorgeous or what?”
“Zenda, please don’t take this the wrong way...”
“But that’s the way I like to take it.” He wiggled in his seat and blew me a kiss.
“...be kind and try to ease up on the camp.”
“Dearest, when I want to be, I can be as butch as the next man,” he gave me a glance, “and you’re the next man, Lord help me!”
I also remembered to tell him of ‘Steven’. He didn’t even flicker as he totally understood well, let’s face it, ‘Zenda’? Such was the double life we lived. All the time we were at the house, he went along with this unfamiliar tag.
When we arrived, Zenda’s eagerness to experience my problematic mother was completely satisfied.
Although I’d only been away for a short time, I had managed to collect together quite a lot of extra possessions and more of those damn records! As all my goods came through the door, mother stood and surveyed the procession of items with detached curiosity and utter disapproval. She dug into the bag containing my clothes, fished out the odd, unfamiliar item, held them up between two fingers and sniffed them disparagingly. I’m sure she would have considered these garments as mere contaminated frippery, that is, had she known the word. Though my mother didn’t know Zenda, she felt it her duty to treat him like a skivvy. Although we were all in the same room, she never spoke to him directly but conveyed her orders through me.
“What’s your little friend’s name?”
I decided to tell her. “Zenda.”
“Well, that’s a queer name if ever there was one.” How true.
“Will you tell your little friend here, not to leave that there, it will only get in the way? Tell him to put it over here!” This he did in double time. Behind her back he gave her a mock army salute. I managed to keep a straight face.
“Can you get your little friend to spare a few extra minutes to shift around all the furniture in your bedroom? It hasn’t been used since you left, you see.” The room was perfectly all right as it was but she insisted. Though I cringed at the way he was being treated, Zenda’s eyes were sparkling with mirth.
“Now, what do you want with all this rubbish? You’ll have to pack most of it away you know, I’m not having all this lot cluttering up my home.”
When we’d finished (some four hours later)’ she didn’t even have the civil grace or courtesy to offer Zenda a cup of coffee.
As I saw Zenda off, I thanked him and couldn’t apologise enough for the reception he had received. Luckily, deep down I knew that his keen sense of humour would allow him to ride over the troublesome encounter.
“Think nothing of it. I’ve had a great time. I didn’t even know such bints were about.”
“And thanks for playing it straight.” I had never seen him look, act and talk so ‘normal’.
“Plenty of time to be me later.”
After Zenda had driven off, my mother and I settled down to face and weather our first uneasy hour together.
The moment we were alone and rooted to our chairs, she couldn’t resist it. “Is that it, my son? Are you back for good this time?”
“Yes.” I felt beaten. She was holding the whip and knew it. She was determined to exploit her position of power to the maximum.
“Good. Don’t forget the house rules. There are going to have to be more. Yes, things are going to be a hell of a lot different this time round. You’re not going to treat this place like a hotel anymore! Is that understood?”
“Yes.” I squirmed under the grinding heel.
Satisfied, she predictably went out to make herself busy in the kitchen. This was so she wouldn’t have to face any possible scene. I leaned back in my chair, closed my eyes, sighed and sent up a wish that I would not have to endure this nightmare for too long.
During the next hour, as soon as she thought of something which needed to be pressed home or another clause in the arrangement which needed to be amended, in she would stride, deliver another non–negotiable ultimatum and, before I could either comment or object, she would return once more to her kitchen. By the end of the evening that kitchen should have been a leading contender for inclusion in ‘Homes
and Gardens’. I knew it would be emotional suicide to go outside and join her.
Her edicts soon bit – hard.
One which really shot me in the foot was that I was not allowed to stay out all night. ‘Well’, I thought, ‘there goes a large chunk of my social life – and I was just getting used to it, too.’
My key was not returned and I was only occasionally issued a temporary one and on an absolute need to use basis.
There was a further restriction in that I had to return the key before she retired for the night. As she tended to go to bed at about 10.00, it meant that even my parole was firmly restricted. If, however, I was going to be late, and she magnanimously permitted such an extension then the thing had to be returned as soon as was humanly possible. Every time she knew I was going out, it was amazing how she managed to disappear just at the moment when it was time for me to leave. A sudden visit to a neighbour was undertaken or a long session in the toilet that included a bath with a good long soak. I knew it was a deliberate ploy to keep me in my place and make me even more dependent. When, finally, she could delay things no longer, she was always reluctant to give the precious artefact with a look which said ‘I trust you aren’t going to make lots of copies of this and hand them out to everyone you know?’ It was only when the pantomime of the key became a nuisance to her personal arrangements did she re–think her ‘Chubb’ strategy. After about a fortnight of her pathetic power game, she returned me my key on a permanent basis with a loud sigh to show that she didn’t think I really deserved it. “And, if you abuse this, I’ll take it away from you again – for good. Is that understood?”
It took about three days for my resentment to take over in my home life. I didn’t know how much longer I’d be able to stomach it. I had tasted freedom. I knew what it was to eat, get up, entertain, and not be beholden to anyone. It suited me down to the ground. For the moment, I knew I must play along with all she said. But, inwardly, I resolved to escape again as soon as possible.
My mother’s new set of rules were designed, once again, to clip my wings. She invented all sorts of reasons with which to hold me down. Her ingenuity knew no bounds. It was a wonder I could manage to get out at all. Even the precious family began to criticise her draconian administration. Naturally, she defended her actions with all the tenacity of the proverbial dog in the manger.
Although my bedroom was returned, I wasn’t given back my old downstairs room into which I used to retire to get away from everyone. Whilst I was away, it had been converted into a dining room which was then never used. Because I didn’t have my own room, I had to wait until she went out before I was allowed to play any of my cherished records. She certainly would not allow any of ‘that racket’ to be bashed out when she was anywhere near. Even so, I still had to ask permission, “While you’re out can I put some music on?”
“Yes, but don’t play it too loud!”
It also made reading and drawing difficult. Every time I settled down with either a book or a sketch pad, her normal tight lipped silence was broken as she decided to hold forth on a subject of utter trivia just in order to jam my concentration. She showed an enormous glee at my presence. I think she thought that I had failed – miserably. She was confidently triumphant. It came out as filial generosity but there, around my wrists and ankles was that ball and chain again. She even began to want to know everywhere I went, who I was with and how long I’d be. It was intolerable. My life was now being totally hog–tied.
Did she now think I would be staying at home for the rest of my life? Did she honestly believe that, by treating me this way, I would want to stay around? Couldn’t she get it into her head that by dealing with anyone in this manner, it was enough to send them rushing for shelter elsewhere?
A highly fraught month passed slowly.
As I was leaving for work one morning, I met our charmingly sour faced postman who handed me a few missives. I casually glanced through the small wad and found that there was a letter for me. I didn’t recognise the somewhat childish handwriting. I shoved the remainder of the post through the letter box and, on the bus on my way into work, opened it. It was a short note from Mickey. Even his letters were direct and minimalistic. Why on earth had he contacted me? I was both surprised and pleased.
He was asking me to go out with him on Saturday. We should meet up at El Dorado’s at seven. “Be there!” I was charged. He wanted to talk. Mickey? Talk? An oxymoron if ever there was one.
That morning I took a little time off from pushing my hated bits of paper around and wrote a short note back to him saying that I would be there.
When we met, we didn’t go inside the coffee bar, nor did we move on to somewhere else. Instead, we went back to his home.
‘Oh, so that’s why he wanted to meet me. Talk, indeed!’ I couldn’t have been more wrong.
It was no surprise to me that, walking back to his place, he said very little but there was a significant change in his manner. Although he was usually fairly sober in his demeanour, he was always ready with a smile or a laugh. At the moment, his eyes were bright but he had an almost comically serious face.
After being ushered into the family lounge through which one had to travel to get to the stairs, I made the usual short but polite greeting. Mickey’s parents and brothers, both of whom were just a little younger than he, always gave me an enigmatic look. I think they believed that I was ‘clever’ so I deserved some deference. They needn’t have bothered.
Up in his room, we started to talk – well, I say talk, actually, for him, he was quite verbose. What follows is a sort of translation of all he said.
It turned out that he had been constantly monitoring my relationship with Paul. He was a patient person and somehow knew that it wouldn’t last. As soon as he heard through his grapevine that Paul and I had broken up, he wanted to be sure that he would be on my scene. He told me that he’d missed out once before and was determined not to let it happen again. He continued to open up in a way that piled surprise on surprise. He told me that ‘Adam’s Evenings’ were about the only times he ventured out. When he wasn’t there, he stayed at home listening to his record collection. At Adam’s, he admitted that he liked talking to me because I often spoke about classical music. It turned out that every composition I’d ever mentioned which he hadn’t known, he went out and bought a record of it. As proof of this assertion he went over to a large cupboard and opened it. One shelf was filled with LPs and he flourished the odd disc I must have spoken about and he actually remembered when I had mentioned it and exactly what I’d said. I only had the faintest memory of these earlier conversations. The other thing he valued and loved was that brief interlude when we made the occasional visit to the local Concert Hall. Although it had slipped from my memory, he remembered one concert where we were joined by two queens. These two guys had hired me on a few occasions and they were merely being polite but Mickey immediately spotted them as being gay and thought they were homing in on his evening. “Concerts was our thing not their’s.”
“Mickey, I’m very flattered and...”
“’ang on. I wonder if your remember this...”
He then relived something which was obviously painful to him. He reminded me of the things I said to him months ago when I told him to find someone else. He had taken the rebuff badly. I knew I had wounded him but hadn’t considered how much because, as he told me, it wasn’t in his nature to reveal his deeper emotions to anyone. He had actually decided to take my advice and tried going out with others which proved fruitless as he couldn’t get anything out of it. When this attempt at dating failed, he gave it all up and, instead sought comfort by spending his free time in doing what he enjoyed – sitting in his bedroom, listening to music. The only break he took from this simple timetable was when he came to Paul and my evenings which, once again, upset him. In short, he moped – constantly. He told me how hurt he had been when I became involved with Paul. “He wasn’t for you.” Well, he was bang on with that one. I noticed that there w
ere tears in his eyes. I had never seen him like this before. I placed a comforting arm round his shoulders and he snuggled in.
He was opening up so much; I began to think it was someone else talking. The taciturn lad was suffering from the verbal runs – or, for him, the nearest thing to it. It was so strange to hear him ramble on. Although Sheba had spotted it as soon as she met him, I had no idea that he was this keen on me. I certainly felt a great deal of affection for him, and had always felt that Mickey returned it but this was something for which I was totally unprepared.
When he finally came out with, “Can we go out – often? Serious. I want to know you.” Another change came over him. He was now sporting a shy but constant grin.
“I’d like that – very much.” Satisfied, he pulled me in a closer embrace which was full of affection. We didn’t consummate our new relationship and neither of us would have wanted it as the moment was too tender to be spoiled by anything which could smack of the sordid. I looked at his bedside clock and realised that I needed to go so that I could beat my curfew. Our goodbye was hasty and we made arrangements to meet up two days later. He stood on his doorstep and waved as I went up the long lane which connected his place with the main road. His waves were filled with boyish enthusiasm.
Not only did I meet up with him for, what I guess, was our first proper date ever but we began to see one another regularly. In his room, the bedroom’s lockless door appeared to turn him on and he seemed to like having sex when his family were downstairs. After a while I got used to it but it felt like we having sex in a busy public toilet. The slightest noise and we had to leap apart.
One day Mickey, for some reason, was not in a hurry to go up to his room and, for a while, we socialised downstairs. I had the feeling that the family were curious about me and that Mickey wanted to show off his ‘friend’. They were a down to earth lot with a great feeling of love. What jarred was that, unlike the reserved Mickey, his family were a right noisy crowd. His mother, a delightful, jolly and somewhat plump lady must have had her trio of boys in quick succession for there was only about a year between each of them and Mickey. The father was sitting by an open fire and looked on his brood with obvious pride. Mickey’s brothers were almost a double act. They joshed one another and their mother would happily yell at them which made them laugh even more. There was something vaguely Dickensian about the whole family. Mickey didn’t say a word. I have often wondered what they made of their eldest son and his reserved demeanour. His brothers seemed to respect him and one could easily think, apart from his youthful looks, that he was the true father of the household. They made me feel very welcome and insisted I sit in the ‘best’ chair whilst coffees were made. One rather sweet event happened which I think shows the sort of family they were. Mickey’s mother, thought that she had to show off her best manners and tried, unnecessarily, to put on airs and graces for me. Me? With my background!