by David Rees
‘Paul has a boy-friend — Steve. They live together; they share a flat. Steve is away in America; he’s been there nearly four months.’
‘So what does that make me?’ Paul said angrily. ‘A monster? A bloody monster? Does it? Don’t come the holier-than-thou bit, Jason!’
‘I’m not! I wouldn’t! Del and I aren’t always faithful. What people of our age are when their lover’s away for four months? I’m not condemning you for that! But you should have told Ewan. At least you could have been honest!’
‘Stop it!’ I shouted. ‘I don’t want to hear!’
‘How could I tell him?’ Paul said. ‘I wanted to. I tried. . . but it stuck in my throat. He’s never met anyone else. . . He thinks the sun shines out of my arse. It was beautiful. And now it’s ruined.’ He buried his face in his hands. ‘I didn’t want to hurt him!’
‘You have hurt him,’ Jay said.
‘You have! You have!’
‘He had to know!’
‘It’s not ruined,’ Del said. He was speaking to me: it was the first time in this conversation anyone had thought me worth including. Paul and Jay had been arguing as if I wasn’t in the room. ‘And it’s still beautiful,’ he added.
‘I’m sorry, Ewan,’ Paul said. ‘I’m so sorry!’
‘It’s all right,’ I answered, trying to put on a brave face. ‘I still love you.’
But it certainly hurt. As much as the fact that he wasn’t there any longer. The days were an aching, yawning, lonely emptiness. The weather broke, and there was no more surfing. And no jobs, anywhere. I spent a lot of time writing in my diary. I’d been duped: it had been just another bloody holiday romance. September. October, November. I felt almost suicidal at times. Then, just after Christmas, I experienced another shattering blow.
Five: The Diary
I kept my diary in a record case — my only possession that had a lock and key. There it stayed, between two albums, Deep Purple and Pink Floyd. My parents would never find it there. One evening I forgot: I left it where I’d been reading it, on my bed, and went out to see Louise.
‘We found this,’ my mother said, holding it up, when I came in.
My heart nearly turned over. ‘And you read it?’
‘Yes.’ Her voice trembled. My father sat on the sofa, looking utterly bewildered.
After a long silence during which they both stared at me, and I gazed at the floor, wishing I could die that instant or at least have a stroke or an epileptic fit, I said, quietly, ‘You shouldn’t have done that. You had no business.’
‘I went to your room, just to put some clothes away,’ my mother said. ‘I saw it and picked it up, wondering what it was. That’s all. It was open. . . September the fifth. . . ’ She began to cry.
‘So you couldn’t resist reading it from cover to cover.’
‘You’re taking the wrong attitude, Ewan,’ my father said, heavily. He filled his pipe with elaborate slowness. ‘We shouldn’t have read it; that’s true. You’ve as much right to your own privacy as we have, and that’s a difficult thing for a parent to learn. But the fact is we have read it. We’re extremely upset. Upset. . . the word’s ridiculous! Your mother’s beside herself.
Devastated!’
‘And you?’
He didn’t answer; just shook his head and made a helpless gesture with his hands. I stared at the clock on the mantelpiece, the Christmas cards, the blank television screen, and tried to concentrate, to hold on to these trivial props of everyday life as if they could prevent my whole world from drowning. The Christmas cards were the same as they had been a few hours ago; this room was the same. And I was engulfed in quicksand.
‘I can’t believe it,’ my mother said, drying her eyes. ‘I can’t believe you’re. . . like that!’ She couldn’t bring herself to say any of the words that gave me a label. ‘How could you be? We’ve brought you up as decently and honestly as we know how. . . We must have done something wrong somewhere!’ Her hands were shaking. ‘I don’t know what! I wish I did, then perhaps we could put it right. . . It must be our fault!’
‘It’s not your fault,’ my father said. ‘It’s not mine, either.’ I was about to say it wasn’t anyone’s fault; I was like that and probably always had been. Maybe from birth. But he added ‘There’s always one rotten apple in any barrel.’ The shock of those words was like having a bucket of cold water thrown in my face.
‘Perhaps it’s just those dreadful people you’ve met,’ my mother went on. ‘This. . . Paul. He should be behind bars! Teaching children in a school! But. . . how could you? And Leslie! I’d never have believed it!’
‘Leslie is not homosexual,’ I said.
‘But he started you in these. . . practices. And all this time I thought there was something between you and Louise. . . When I thought you were out with her, you were doing. . . How could you deceive us like that!’ Her left eye had begun to blink uncontrollably, a nervous tic that always happened when she was in great stress. ‘The lies, the deceit. . . I just can’t understand it!’
‘I haven’t deceived you. You merely assumed.’
‘I want you to promise you won’t ever see these people again. . . Paul and the others. . . and Leslie. Thank God he’s not at home! What on earth would his mother say?’
Mrs Radford, I imagined, would be inclined to be more tolerant than my parents. What she would think of me I didn’t know, but, as far as Leslie was concerned, while she would not exactly approve of her son having sex with another boy, she’d probably regard it as something that happened occasionally in the maturing process: mildly reprehensible, but not the end of civilisation as we know it. And the girls in his life she’d feel were his business, not hers. We were, both of us, only a few months off eighteen, for God’s sake! ‘If you tell Mrs Radford,’ I said, ‘I’ll never forgive you.’
‘We’ve no intention of doing so,’ my father said. ‘It’s you we’re worried about. You’re not homosexual! How could you be? It’s impossible. You’ve come under all sorts of bad influences; that’s what the trouble is. You just imagine you are. You’re far too young to have any real ideas about it. I think. . . you ought to find some help.’
‘Help?’
‘Your mother says she’ll have a word with Doctor Pearce. He might know someone.’
‘I am not going to see a psychiatrist!’ I said, very firmly. ‘I am not!! I’ll work out my own problems, thank you very much. I’m not mentally ill. I thought, oh, a year ago, that maybe I was. . . but I know now that I’m not!’
‘I didn’t say you were mentally ill,’ my father said, patiently. ‘Just extremely muddled. And you’ll do what I tell you! You’re my son; you live in this house, and you’re not yet eighteen. I won’t have you seeing this Paul again. You won’t go out alone with Leslie. And you’ll be back here by ten thirty at night. Those are orders!’
‘If I refuse to obey?’
‘You can get out. For good. You’ll be no son of mine.’
Did he really mean what he said? I couldn’t believe it. He was a loving, caring person. Or he had always seemed to be. I never went round thinking other dads were better than mine. And would I disobey him? I might deceive and lie perhaps, but I wouldn’t openly rebel. Cowardice? Because I was afraid of him? Couldn’t face the idea of being cast out into the world, absolutely alone and penniless, at the age of seventeen? Yes, partly. But more than that, I loved him. And Mum. I wanted the relationship I thought I’d always had with them to continue. How could I live with myself if they threw me out of the house?
‘I’m not likely to see Paul,’ I said. ‘I don’t know where he lives; I don’t even know his phone number.’
‘Well, that’s something.’
‘But you can’t stop me seeing Leslie. I mean, how can you? I know he’s not at home, but when he does come back, what then? Suppose he speaks to me over the fence? Do I ignore him? He’s my mate, my best friend!’
‘I didn’t say you weren’t to speak to him. I don’t want you spending long
periods of time together, that’s all.’
‘I wish we’d never set eyes on him!’ my mother said.
‘Mum, that’s silly! I told you, he isn’t gay. That happened ages ago.’
‘Yes. . . and look what it’s done to you!’ She burst into tears. ‘I wish you’d never been born! Oh God! I wish I was dead!’
My father moved to her, protectively. He looked at me, and said ‘See what you’ve done?’
I ran out of the room and out of the house, slamming the front door. It was raining, and there was a chill wind. I had no coat, but I hardly felt how cold it was. I walked for miles, just hoping a car might drive carelessly round a corner, run over me and kill me. Eventually I found myself on the cliffs. The sea boiled and churned, tossing up columns of spray, dashing itself repeatedly, senselessly, against the rocks. How was I able to see it so clearly? I looked up and was surprised to find that the moon was shining. The rain had stopped. When? I hadn’t noticed. I was soaked to the skin and shivering, my hair plastered to my head, water dripping into my eyes. I touched my face. Wet, lifeless flesh. Clouds tore across the heavens, but they didn’t obscure the moon. I looked again at the sea. It wouldn’t feel any colder than I was already. Seething, boiling, churning. Did I dare? ‘Don’t be so fucking stupid!’ I said aloud, and walked away.
I passed Louise’s house. If there had been a light in her bedroom I would have thrown stones at the window and made her come down; told her everything. Been mothered, soothed.
But the house was in darkness.
I went home, let myself in, and went straight up to the bathroom. They were still in the lounge, talking. I undressed, dried myself, and stared in the mirror. If I was, morally, such an ugly person as they thought, I’d surely look ugly. Paul had found me beautiful.
It’s not designed and created for the sole purpose of producing descendants, I told myself. If it was, then after the acts of procreation it would drop off.
In bed, I hunched up into a foetus; I was petrified with cold. Later, when I’d thawed out, I started to feel randy. Extraordinary! After all the emotion of the past few hours I should have been completely exhausted. But the impulses obey no rules. I pretended I was Paul, and my pillow my own face.
Louise said ‘If I were you I’d leave home.’
‘I’ve been thinking about it.’ Hardly surprising that I had: if for no other reason than being out of work. Surely there was more chance of a job in London, particularly in the winter when Bude was dead, from the neck up as well as down! A ghost of a place! Old ladies and their dogs, both animals and humans looking as if the end was nigh. I hated being on the dole! Hated it more and more! Not only because it meant no one wanted you, that you were consigned to a scrap-heap — a midden was the image that often occurred to me, a midden lousy and crawling with teenage rejects — but on the dole there was nothing to test myself against, nothing to stretch my mind or my body. It was as if some god had said ‘These shall not grow up; these shall not be adults.’ The crippling financial dependence on parents: another way of preventing growth. And that third barrier; the world of straight people, the law, that said ‘Homosexual: thou shalt not touch another; thou shalt not learn to love.’ At least not till the magic age of twenty-one. Though I didn’t care a damn about what the law said. That wasn’t going to stop me.
But how many rampant gays were likely to be flaunting themselves in the streets of Bude on a wet Wednesday afternoon in February? Dad’s belief in corrupting influences was somewhat misplaced. Nevertheless, he and Mum made my life pretty miserable. On the few occasions I received a letter, her eyes almost drilled holes in the envelope. When someone telephoned for me, she always wanted to know who it was. I felt guilty doing the smallest thing, even a trip to Mrs Radford’s shop for a bar of chocolate. I crept about at home, quiet as a mouse. The ten thirty curfew had to be strictly observed. And I didn’t keep a diary any more. It wasn’t worth it. I wondered how much longer I could stand it all. To leave seemed the only right course of action: I had nothing, absolutely nothing to lose by doing so. My parents had driven me to think of them as nothing worth losing. Appalling, that.
So I would leave. But not for a bit. I’d wait till the dust settled, till I could convince Mum and Dad that the reason I was going was to find work and not because I wanted to rush off, as a result of their discoveries, to some den of lascivious homosexual vice. It was the only way of keeping a link with them. I’d be welcome back. In spite of everything, I still wished them to love and admire me. And I still believed it was possible. Fortunately, they made no reference to what had been said. Not a single word. It was as if they had blotted it all out, erased it from their minds as the aborigines in New South Wales are thought to have done when they first saw Captain Cook and his ship: it can’t be, therefore it isn’t.
‘I told my mum about you,’ Louise said. ‘And what happened.’
‘You shouldn’t have.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because. . . ’ I was at a loss for an answer. I stirred the sugar round and round in the bowl, as if it might uncover the reason. We were in the Wimpy bar. The last day of February. Rain streamed down the windows; wind roared and funnelled along the streets. The epitome of depression. John fiddled about behind his counter, putting baked beans in a saucepan, just for something to do. Nobody was going to come in and eat them. ‘I’m reconciled to being gay,’ I said. ‘It’s stopped worrying me. I’m just as happy, inside myself, that I’m gay as you are not being gay. I want to love a man, live with another man. . . and I want sex with men.’
She was amused. ‘I like the way you alter man to men when you mention sex.’
I laughed. ‘Slip of the tongue. I don’t know how to find what I want; I —’
‘Are you sure? If you were really happy about it, you’d get on and do it.’
‘Would I? There are other considerations.’
‘Such as?’
‘My parents. Now you’ve made me forget what I was going to say ! Why I wish you hadn’t told your mother. . . I’m quite happy about being homosexual, but I don’t want other people to know. I’m not ready, I guess.’
‘They won’t kill you for it. Mum was very sympathetic.’
‘That’s difficult to believe!’
‘I wouldn’t have mentioned it if I thought she wouldn’t be. If you were her son, you’d find life rather different.’
‘Well, I’m not her son, am I? Lucky old non-existent male child of Louise’s mum and dad!’
‘Don’t be so bitter.’
‘I’m angry. The whole bloody business makes me very, very angry.’
Louise’s boy-friend arrived. Did he know? Hell, what did it matter if he did? What did it matter if everyone in town was sniggering behind my back? She was right. They wouldn’t kill me. I was going to leave Bude anyway. I chatted for a few more minutes, then I thought I’d better depart. I didn’t want the absurd complication of Martin feeling jealous! I said goodbye, and went out into the rain.
As I neared home, I saw a familiar figure inserting a key in the lock of the house next door. ‘What are you doing here?’ I cried.
‘Ewan! It’s great to see you!’ He seemed thrilled I was there, laughing and smiling and gripping my shoulders. ‘Come inside, for God’s sake! I was afraid you’d be off working somewhere. I’m here for a couple of days. . . I haven’t let on to Mum; I thought I’d make it a huge surprise. . . Cook the tea so it’s ready when she’s back from the shop.’ He laughed again. Take off that wet coat. I’ll put the kettle on.’
Alone with Leslie. What would my parents think? They wouldn’t know, of course; they were out at work. That made it all so ridiculous: every day, from nine till half past five, I could be having orgies in my bedroom and they’d never guess.
He was still marvellously good-looking.
‘What’s happened in Bude since Christmas? Who’s run off with whom? Surprise winner at Women’s Institute bingo session? Anyone dead, married, born?’
‘Not
hing. Nothing.’
‘That’s what I thought.’ He poured out the tea, and lit a cigarette. ‘Still unemployed?’
‘Yes. I’ll have to follow in your footsteps and go to London.’
‘Good money in the building trade.’
‘I know. Your mum told my mum.’
‘I’m a hod-carrier. Back-breaking work, but superb for the muscles. Look at my arms!’ He flexed his biceps: hard as iron. ‘How’s your love life?’
‘Negative.’ I sipped my tea. I wasn’t going to tell Leslie anything. Not yet. One day, perhaps, when I felt we were equal. ‘Ewan, you must have done something interesting!’
‘Have you?’
‘I’ve enjoyed myself. I don’t like London, but. . . well, I’ve made friends. Been out. Discos and pubs. Met a few girls. Though nothing I really want to see after breakfast-time next morning.’ I felt jealous, as usual. Inferior, as usual. Paul was right: Leslie was a bad influence. He destroyed my self-confidence. ‘What about the girl at Newquay?’ I asked. ‘Anne. Do you ever see her?’ ‘No.’ His face clouded. ‘I miss her. Rather a lot. It was the best thing I ever did, clearing off last summer and going to Newquay. The job was rough, but at least I had some money. And it was a much better place for surf than here! Meeting Anne. . . sharing life, even if it was in a grotty bed-sit. It was a fabulous time!’
‘I know. You’ve told me all about it before.’
‘Have I? Yes, I suppose I have. Mum liked her.’
This was something I hadn’t heard. ‘I didn’t know you’d brought her home,’ I said.
‘I didn’t. Mum came down for the day. They got on very well, the pair of them. She was a bit horrified — Mum was, I mean — by where we were living. Damp, she said; we’d get pneumonia!’ He laughed. ‘Load of nonsense!’
‘You mean. . . your mother knew you were sleeping together? Didn’t she mind?’
‘I didn’t tell her we were, but I suppose she guessed. No, she said nothing about it. Why?’