by Ned Williams
When I told the brothers in ‘Alfio’s’, they gave one another a look and simultaneously deserted their places from behind their counter and gave me a united hug and a complimentary cup of coffee.
“Want to go into ‘Calcutta’ – just for old time’s sake?” said Alfio.
Carlo shook the room’s cash box, “We’ll even pay you extra.”
I smiled. “I think I’ll give it a miss, thanks.”
As I was about to leave they blasted out loudly an operatic farewell from a work I didn’t recognise but it did include a lot of addios.
I felt the sudden urge to go and visit ‘Bongos’ and see Simmi for the last time. It was just my sodding luck that he was enjoying a day off. Although I thought that I’d said good bye to the rents, I happened to bump into Andy who was there, sitting on a bar stool and scoping the area for trade. He must have considered his previous reaction to my news for, this time, he was more sympathetic. In front of the whole club he threw caution to the wind and gave me a sincere and warm clinch that included the tenderest of kisses. After wishing me well, he left. I hung on for a while slurping a beer then began to make my way back to the flat. I realised that there was a strange symmetry with this meeting as, all those years ago, Andy was the first rent I got to know and he would be the last I would see.
The last call I made was to see Marti and our Little One. It wasn’t as difficult as I thought it was going to be. On hearing my news she started to laugh.
I smiled back in wonder. “What?”
“Oh, Carl, this is so funny.”
“What?” I repeated.
“My father’s ill and my family want me to go back home to live. I won’t of course but, in a couple of week’s time, I’m moving to London myself so I can catch easy flights back to Italy. I had been wondering how I was going to break the news to you.” In relief, I held on to her for ages. We were both crying with joy. We exchanged addresses. After picking up Dave, I gave the little one a kiss and left.
‡‡‡
As neither of us were drivers, we arranged for two of our avuncular friends to hire a van on our behalf and drive us to London and they would then return with the van and post the deposit on to us. We offered them some money for their efforts but they refused. Perhaps they were glad to see the back of us. (Only joking!)
The morning of our embarkation arrived. On the previous evening Lorna had climbed the stairs and made her only visit to our flat. She was there to wish us well.
“I won’t come out tomorrow to see you off. I hate things like that so this is my good bye.” Even Mickey received and managed to accept a brief kiss from her. My embrace was a little longer but she was obviously too upset to stay and left almost immediately.
I was amazed how much junk we’d gathered in the way of possessions. With great ingenuity, we only just managed to cram everything into the van. After loading and returning the keys to the landlord, we all piled in the van and it moved away. I glanced up at Lorna’s window. The curtains were shut but I’m sure I saw them move slightly.
As we drove through the city centre, I half hoped that there was going to be a surprise farewell from the rents. I’m not sure in what form it could have taken – perhaps a drive pass through a fluttering arch of pink chiffon. But, as it turned out, as we sped down the road towards the suburbs, there was a great fat Zero.
As we drove out, Mickey and I looked back at the receding city. I think we hoped that our friends were going to form an avenue of waving arms. I still clung on to the hope that the boys had found out my route and there would be something – anything to mark this momentous occasion. Still, nothing! It was as if we were creeping away with our tails between our legs.
Thus, Mickey and I left the city, not with a butch bang, but with more of a camp sigh.
The drive to London was light hearted but there was a tinge of melancholy in everything that was spoken.
When we arrived at Sheba’s we were greeted with food, drink and a boisterous reunion. The finality of our decision really hit home. Our two drivers, as soon as we had unloaded everything, left immediately as they had a long drive back.
When we received the deposit for the van hire – there was a short note inside wishing us well. That simple envelope was the last communication we ever received from any of our friends. It was as if that whole part of my life had closed down and received a gigantic full stop. I felt that I was no longer that naïve Street Kid who had ventured out into an unknown world with wide eyes and lack of innocence but that I was now a reasonably seasoned young Man of the World who had some idea of where he was going and what he wanted from life. As ever, I was fooling myself as fate was to deliver many more highs, lows and challenges. But, as someone once commented to me, ‘Carl, whatever happens to you, you always seem to come out smelling of roses.’ How true!
Prologue
19 years and beyond
So, I had well and truly turned my back on all those formative years and I began my new life in London with Mickey.
Sheba’s apparent wild claims about the capital’s gems proved totally founded. Mickey and I had come to a place which made the artistic delights of our home town appear a cultural desert. We went everywhere together and drank deep from the well of culture that was on offer. There were more famous works of art, conductors, actors, singers and historical objets d’art than we could throw a guide book at, all waiting for us to surfeit on. Almost immediately, after finding some gainful employment, Mickey and I began our organised regime of exploration of this new world. We indulged ourselves in a delightful period of playing the ‘rubber necking tourists’. We absorbed like sponges all the city’s museums, theatres, concert halls, galleries, opera houses, places of historical interest. Everywhere most Londoners would not be seen dead looking at, or setting foot in, were imbibed by our hungry souls.
After our initial stay of a couple of months in Sheba and Sally’s flat to get acclimatised, Mickey and I moved into a place of our own. It was a cramped double bed–sit (designed for one), about a quarter of a mile away. With all our books, records and my art department, there was very little space to actually live but somehow we managed very nicely. All those doom and gloom predictions of my home town comrades were proved wrong. Mickey and I soon settled down in the Metropolis and made loads of new friends. Almost without exception, they shared our love of the arts. We never did return to live in that Dirty, Old Town.
Naturally, the habits and routines of my previous life were difficult to break. In the very beginning, there were times, even down in London, when I accepted money for favours. Such offers were few and far between because I no longer went out to actively search for any clients. For a start, at nineteen, it wasn’t hard to work out that I was getting a bit too old for the game. In my home town, there was a reasonable but not insurmountable amount of competition – in London, however, with the many youngsters who arrived on a daily basis combined with the anonymity of the place it made a young man’s chances more difficult, if not impossible. Also, to be quite honest, I simply wanted to get away from it all. The whole life style was getting rather too sordid. Drugs were becoming involved more and more in any transaction and, although I’d had an unfortunate, extended encounter with illegal substances in my home town, on the London racks it was starting to become a way of life.
Now that Mickey and I had a place of our own and being, as we were, enjoying our own activities and preoccupations, I neglected Sheba. Generally, Mickey’s antipathy towards her remained reasonably unaltered but, because of all she had done for us, he allowed his frosty attitude to melt a little. With Sheba and I, there was no great bust up. We just simply stopped seeing one other until; finally, there didn’t seem much point. I think Mickey breathed a sigh of relief.
For the next few years, Mickey proved a patient, loving friend and managed to give me most of the emotional needs I still craved. He made it possible for me to have a chance to start a new beginning. I could start afresh. With him, I embraced this new stabili
ty with open arms.
When I left for my new life, I was sincere in my desire to keep in touch with my friends from the racks. There were promises made on both sides to write on a regular basis. It didn’t happen. Our promises and best intentions went for nothing. Not a single letter or phone call was ever exchanged with any of them. Even today, I still think about my friends and clients with all the affection which the passing of time allows. I often wonder how many of them have survived. What has happened to each and every one? Paolo, Jacko, Zenda, Skip and Fallon, Sandy, Ian, Paul, Eric, Adam and all the rest – and, of course, Andy. Where are they now and what are they up to? How many are still alive? Now that the sexual freedom which we enjoyed so openly has been denied by AIDS to everyone, rendering our previous life style impossible, how many ignored the dangers and carried on as before?
As for my Art Teacher... His threat to make my life hell never had to be carried out as I continued with my creative side. The heights of success were never mine to be enjoyed and always eluded me but, with a little subsidy from the odd job, I did manage to earn a meagre but steady income from my artistic output.
Nor did I ever lose my sluttish ways. I may not have looked for payment any more but casual sex with strangers was too much of a habit to break. I still found plenty of lovers, even though I was living with someone. Emotionally, it was a dangerous existence and it was extremely foolish of me to follow this rock strewn trail.
Another step I took was to finally bury the corpse of that child, ‘Steve(n)’. Having effectively killed him off so many years ago, I could see no reason for a resurrection. I retained the name of ‘Carl’ – making it official and legal by the process of deed–poll. I have never had any regrets in doing so.
And mother? Well, I saw her on an uneven basis – about once a year. The distance I had put between us did nothing to help our relationship; in fact, it deteriorated even further, if that was at all possible. To get me to visit more often, she continued to use emotional blackmail – but, after a lifetime of having this technique used against me, it no longer had the effect she desired. We always ended up rowing and, as usual, I was always the one in the wrong. She wanted to know nothing of my new life and refused every invitation to come up to visit me in London – even though I offered to pay her fare. It was expected that I should make the effort of travelling. Any success I had in the world of art, my mother still greeted with either derision or utter lack of interest. In the end, I gave up completely and stopped trying to engage her attention.
As for my father – I didn’t see him again until my twenty first birthday. Even then, it wasn’t through any choice of mine. For my ‘coming of age’, he sent me, through the post, such an enormous cheque (from where did he get the money?), I felt duty bound to go and see him and to thank him personally. One rainy evening, on the next visit to my mother, I went to face him. I knew that it was going to be almost grotesque to become reacquainted with the man who, unknowingly, had influenced so much of my teenage years. After the six year gap, how would he react? How would I? I knocked on his door. I heard approaching footsteps and my heart began to thump alarmingly. He opened the door and stared at the dripping young man with a blank expression. As far as he was concerned, I was going to try and flog him a carpet from a van parked in the street.
“Yes, can I help you?”
“Dad?” I ventured. I watched his eyes focus from formal indifference through curiosity to something resembling recognition and panic. It was as if he was searching for something, anything, recognisable about my face which would prove my claim. “It’s me, your son, Steve.”
“Steve!!” He stepped back in shock. “My God. Come in. My God! How – what – come in. I – er – yes. Come in. Drink? Sit down.” I think the penny had finally dropped. He started to flap about nervously.
After a few preliminary, embarrassed pleasantries and my stammered thank you, he began filling me up with cheap sherry and started hinting at ‘having a bit of fun’! I couldn’t believe it – he was trying it on again. After all this time, did he really think I’d want to calmly pick up and carry on at the same point where we’d left off all those years ago? Verbally, I managed to side step all his suggestive suggestions and came away slightly tipsy from his sherry but unscathed and unmolested.
Strange to say, as I walked away, I wasn’t angry. I merely felt painfully sorry for him. I don’t think pity is the sort of reaction he would have expected or wanted – but that’s all I felt. He was now stooped and looked so much older. He had transmuted into a pathetic, but dangerous old man. I felt strangely satisfied. Seeing what he had turned into, my desire for revenge had finally left me. I felt purged and clean.
A few years later, during a brief visit to the city of my birth, I decided to go down to the town’s centre for a walk around the place. My intention was, once again, to look over all the places of my youth. With all the building work being hastily completed, I wanted to see if there was anything left. After a couple of hours of futile searching, I was running out of cigarettes. I casually wandered into the nearest newsagent that was new, small and busy. As soon as I walked through the door, I stopped and stared. Serving behind the counter was none other than Sheba. She must have left her London playground and returned to her hated citadel. Instinctively, my heart wanted to leap forward and greet her with open arms, but my head made me hold back. Instead of marching up to the counter, I concealed myself behind an enormous pile of crisp boxes in order to watch. She had aged, put on weight and looked weary, careworn and deeply unhappy. Should I bite the bullet and go up to reacquaint myself? There came a sudden shrieking sound. A demanding, childish yell emanated from behind the counter which caused her to bend down and pick up a sweet little toddler. She looked flustered. Sheba’s customers were becoming impatient. The busy shop covered my quiet, sad departure. I decided to go elsewhere to purchase my cancer sticks. I have never seen her since that painfully tragic sighting.
Eventually, after a four year relationship, Mickey and I split up. The reason for the breakup was both trivial and entirely my fault. It could have easily been resolved and avoided but, at the time, it appeared an insurmountable rift. I told Mickey that I would be moving out and we set about dividing up the ever growing record collection. All this was done with good grace. Mickey thought it amusing. I believe that he thought it was a dramatic gesture on my part and I would stay with him – little did he suspect how wrong he was.
Within two days of splitting the LPs and with the help of a sympathetic friend, Richard, who was unknown to Mickey, I made some secret plans and waited for the time to put them into operation.
The morning of my departure, Mickey, still ignorant of my designs, went innocently off to work. Just down the road, watching and waiting, Richard was sitting in his car waiting for me to give the signal that all was now clear for him to approach. He helped me pack and load his car and, after three trips, I moved into the temporary home which another friend had offered. When Mickey came home, I had gone. He tried, a few times, to call me at work. I refused to speak to him. I quickly made some new gay friends and when Mickey finally insisted that I visit him as there were some records which I had ordered that had arrived and they needed to be collected, I went to see him with two of the better looking lads in tow. I know this was insensitive but I needed the emotional support to meet up with an ex for whom I still had feelings. When we left the forlorn looking Mickey, I looked back to see him wave from the doorstep. This was the last time I was ever to see him. Again, he phoned me at work to try and arrange another meeting but, this time he wanted it to be just the two of us. I refused. After a couple more attempts, he gave up and I never heard from him again. Sadly, Sibelius wasn’t forever. At the time it didn’t occur to me that this was the final piece of emotional baggage I’d brought with me from my home town. I, with a plethora of regrets, cast it aside. Now, all ties to my old life, all reminders, were finally axed.
Having said that, there was one situation which – well, that isn�
��t strictly true – there were two threads that remained to remind me of my past – Marti and Dave.
Over the years the lad grew into a handsome young man who inherited Marti’s blonde hair and our olive coloured skin. He thought of work as something to fund his social life so earned his keep as a jobbing labourer. This gave him a physique to die for. Marti’s job at bringing up an open minded and confident child had worked wonders. He was popular and, in case you are wondering – totally straight. Girls, and I suspect many gay men, found him irresistible. From what both he and Marti told me, many girls took one look at him, fell on their backs and spread their legs. He once asked “Carl, how would you feel about being a Grandfather?” I was just over thirty for God’s sake. Grandfather? I shuddered.
“Why, am I?” I was on my guard.
He grinned. “You never know.”
One evening we were in a pub having a drink when, across the bar, Dave spotted a pretty girl who drew his attention. She was with her good looking boyfriend.
“She is something else,” he mumbled. “Come on Carl, let’s go over and introduce ourselves.” Damn his confidence! “I can have her and you can have the boyfriend. What d’you say?”
“No!” was my firm reply.
“Suit yourself but it looks like he’d be up for it and she certainly would be.” We remained seated and didn’t embark on that particular adventure.
In our own way, the relationship between the three of us was ideal so it was a devastating shock when Dave was involved in a car crash. He was hospitalised with head and brain damage. As I looked at the unconscious figure, I could hardly recognise the bouncy, good looking and humorous young man I knew. We were told that, if he recovered, the lad would probably have to survive in a vegetative state (my words). Both Marti and I knew that this would be the last thing Dave would have wanted so it was with some relief when he slipped away from his life without ever gaining consciousness.