by Patrick Gale
‘It’s like being back in school,’ he protested. ‘I look at him and I don’t know what to say.’
Sam’s loving restoration of the motorbike, however, and the older man’s subsequent gift of it, marked a turning-point between them. At first they had called each other nothing at all, contenting themselves with ‘you’ to one another’s faces and with Grumps and Your Associate respectively behind one another’s backs, but Jamie knew that he could not in all honesty continue to claim that his grandfather treated his lover as an employee once they were on first name terms. Sam was the only one of Jamie’s friends ever to be allowed to refer to the great man as anything other than Mr Pepper. It happened quite suddenly. ‘What’s this then, Edward?’ Sam asked one evening, when a piece of music had caught his attention. Jamie looked up, surprised, thinking a fourth person had walked into the room.
Sam would gaily broach the unbroachable subjects too: ‘So you were too young to know any Nazis personally?’ he asked, and, ‘If you’re Jewish, how come Jamie isn’t?’ and, another time which had really made Jamie cringe, ‘So what did you do in the war, then, Edward?’
Sam and Edward talked as equals in a way that Jamie and his grandfather could never begin to do. Sam began to go over to the studio on his own and borrowed discs and tapes to play, listening to them with a perseverance that made Jamie suspect his grandfather of seriously undertaking his lover’s musical education.
‘Just don’t start taking piano lessons from him,’ he warned.
As well as telling him what to listen to or how to listen to it, his grandfather began to tell Sam things about Jamie. Jamie was, after all, their most solid common ground, however much the older man fought shy of understanding the younger ones’ relations.
‘You never said you sang,’ Sam confronted Jamie after supper one evening.
‘I don’t.’
‘But you did.’
‘It’s not important.’
‘Sing for me, then.’ Sam grinned, as though expecting tricks from a dog.
‘I can’t. Not any more. It would be embarrassing.’
‘Edward thinks it would help strengthen your lungs again. He says he used to sing when he was getting over TB.’ Jamie threw a glance across the hall to his grandfather who was frowning beneath a standard lamp over one of the glossy magazines Jamie was addicted to and which he found so shockingly superficial.
‘Oh does he now?’
His grandfather nodded without looking up from his article.
‘I was talking to Dr Marshall about it,’ he said, turning a page. ‘I think the regular breathing and controlled exhalation might help you overcome your shortness of breath.’
‘I can do breathing exercises without singing,’ Jamie snorted. ‘I do them when I go for my walks.’
His grandfather and Sam exchanged a glance that spoke of private understanding and his grandfather shrugged patiently.
‘As you see fit,’ he sighed.
Jamie understood, then, what it was he so resented in Sam’s slowly developing intimacy with his relatives. It was nothing as ordinary as jealousy – it had been in his power, after all, to keep Sam away from them and he had chosen not to. Rather, what upset him was that their behaviour implied that Sam was now easier to talk to than he was; he had become the sick person over whose bed and head and wheelchair people talked, and Sam had become the cheery nurse to whom visitors at the bedside preferred to direct their conversation.
This realisation was all it took to bring Jamie to a decision regarding his future, or lack of it. Without telling Sam, he contacted Geraint, the facilitator at the HIV support group he had been to in London, and asked to be sent the relevant forms for making both his will and his living will. In the one he left everything to Sam; car, flat, contents, everything, with the exception of some money and the idol, which he left to Alison. In the other, he made it quite clear that, in the event of his next life-threatening illness, he had no desire to receive treatment or medication beyond what was needed to make him comfortable. He still lacked the courage to stop taking the experimental drug he was currently prescribed, fearful of the mysterious symptoms that might replace side-effects which, however unpleasant, were at least a known and predictable evil. He intended to take the forms to a solicitor in Rexbridge and have his signatures witnessed by strangers. There was no need to trouble Sam with the matter before the relevant emergency arose.
One night he was sitting up in bed rereading the papers to make sure he had mentioned everything that was necessary. Sam was downstairs with his grandfather. The telephone rang. Sam answered and talked for a while, indistinctly, then hung up. Insidious as an outbreak of fire on a hearthside rug, an argument developed between the two men. Their words were indecipherable at first, with only a new aggressive punchiness in their phrasing betraying a change in mood, then their voices were raised and Jamie began to hear more clearly.
‘Well what would you fucking call it?!’ Sam suddenly shouted.
‘Horror. Tragedy, by all means,’ his grandfather shouted back. ‘But only that.’
‘Only that?’
‘No-one is being murdered. A disease is not a murder.’
‘It is when they sit on their arses and watch it spreading.’
‘They? Always this mythical They.’
Jamie sat bolt upright, straining his ears and pushing the papers beneath a magazine. Even at this distance he could feel their anger as an electric stiffening of the air, and was relieved once he heard the front door slam. Even when he had tried to make him leave, all those months before, Sam had been angered but not this furious. Jamie had no doubt that if his grandfather had stayed in the house, Sam would have lashed out at him with something harder than words. In confirmation of his fears, he heard Sam kicking out at furniture, shouting to the empty hall.
‘Fuck!’ he yelled and Jamie heard something fly across the floor with a splintering sound. ‘Fuck!’ Glass smashed.
‘Sam?’ Jamie called out. ‘Sam?’
Gone were the days when Jamie could spring out of bed. He set his feet carefully on the floor, shuffling them into the slippers Miriam had insisted he start wearing about the house, pulled his towelling gown about him and rolled forward into an uneasy standing position. Hardly waiting for the dizziness to pass, he made for the landing and, clutching the banister, headed downstairs.
It was only a bottle and the coffee table. Just as Jamie rounded the foot of the stairs, Sam muttered under his breath, lashing out at a big chunk of glass with his toe, sending it skittering across the floor through the puddle of red wine.
‘Stupid old git,’ he spat.
‘Sam?’
‘Fuck!’ Sam kicked at the armchair, though less vigorously.
‘What the hell happened? What did he say?’ Jamie had to sit down. He sank on to the sofa, pulling his feet up out of the draught. Sam was muttering to himself, pacing. He began to clear up the glass.
‘Leave that for a bit,’ Jamie told him. ‘The floor’s stained already. It won’t show.’
‘Someone’ll cut themselves,’ Sam insisted crossly, then swore again, dropping a chunk of glass as he cut his finger.
‘Leave it. Here. Come and tell me.’
The pain cut through Sam’s temper. He stared down as blood oozed from his finger tip and splashed into the wine. He put his finger in his mouth and sucked.
‘I nearly punched him,’ he mumbled, his mouth full, finally making eye contact.
‘I’m glad you didn’t.’ Jamie patted the sofa beside him. Shamed now, Sam came to sit.
‘Hug,’ Jamie told him. Sam hugged him.
‘You’ll get cold,’ he said.
‘No I won’t. What happened?’
Sam sighed, exasperated at the memory.
‘Well that was Alison who rang earlier. I thought you were asleep. Sorry.’
‘That’s okay.’
Sam pulled Jamie to lean against his chest, hugging him with his legs for warmth as he talked.
‘She was in a right state. She’s just had Sandy on the phone. The lease is up for renewal on the helpline office and the rent’s going up by nearly double. They’re forcing them out on the street.’
‘Shit. But they knew that was going to happen.’
‘Yeah but they’ve just heard their local authority grant’s been cut to about two hundred quid, haven’t they?’
‘What?’ Jamie was incredulous. ‘Why?’
‘There’s been some fucking report wheeling out a load of statistics that say there’s never going to be a hetero epidemic.’
‘So? There’s no need for a helpline? Other lives don’t count? What about the worried well? What about rape victims?’
‘That’s what I said. When I hung up I explained to that old git and I said it was a fucking holocaust.’
‘Ah.’
‘And he flew off the handle then. I didn’t understand at first. Thought he was agreeing with me and was just pissed off about the grant. Then I realised he was saying there was no comparison. I said … You don’t want to hear this.’ He ruffled Jamie’s hair.
‘Sam! Tell me.’
‘I said that cutting the grant was no different to sending Jews to ovens. It was discarding a whole bunch of innocent people who just happened to be in the minority. Then that … that stupid old wanker –’
‘Steady.’
‘Well he is.’
‘What did he say?’
‘He said,’ Sam assumed a parodic German accent. ‘“Zere is a vorld of difference between a religious culture and vhere deviants like you choose to put your dicks.”’
Jamie was silenced a moment, shocked.
‘He doesn’t talk like that,’ he said at last. ‘You know he doesn’t.’
‘I know,’ Sam admitted. ‘But that’s the way I heard it. Fucking Kraut.’
‘He’s as English as you or me.’
‘Yeah, but –’
‘Yeah but nothing. He was upset, Sam.’
‘So was I upset.’
‘He lost his parents in a death camp, for God’s sake. His only sister –’
‘You’re joking.’
‘Hardly. She was experimented on.’
‘You never told me.’
‘It’s not the kind of thing that naturally comes up in a conversation. Anyway, I assumed Alison had told you.’
‘She hadn’t. Christ.’
Jamie hugged Sam’s legs, twisted his head back against Sam’s chest to reassure him. ‘You needed to get angry and so did he,’ he said softly. ‘Come on. Let’s get to bed.’
But Sam insisted on mopping up the spilled wine and sweeping away the glass first. Jamie sat on the sofa, yawning, hugging a cushion to himself for warmth and watching. Sam worked in silence but the argument was evidently still repeating itself in his head because he abruptly stood up, clutching the dust pan and the brush, which was now stained red with wine, and said, ‘It wasn’t just Jews they sent to the ovens, you know. It was people like us, too.’
‘I know. I’m sure he does too.’
Sam was about to reply but he paused a moment. He looked down at the panful of green, jagged edges.
‘Only … I’m not really like that. You know that, don’t you?’ he said, almost apologetically.
‘I know.’
‘I’m … I am with you but I’m not interested in other blokes.’
‘I know, Sam. It’s all right. I’m honoured.’
Sam walked away to the kitchen.
‘Just thought you should know, that’s all,’ he said softly.
The following day, while Sam was at work on the repointing, Jamie walked over with a jug of coffee to find his grandfather in the studio. An old acquaintance, guilty at not visiting the hospital, had sent him a packet of Blue Mountain beans, so the luxurious brew was by way of a peace offering.
‘Made us some special coffee,’ he said. ‘Sorry. Are you working?’
‘No.’ His grandfather swung around on the piano stool. ‘Not really.’ He carefully set a pencil back in the jam jar to the left of his keyboard while Jamie poured them each a cupful.
‘I’ve been invited to stand in as conductor for some concerts in Stuttgart,’ his grandfather announced. ‘I think I’ll go. I’ll have to leave in a couple of days, so I’ll probably go up to London tomorrow to sort a few things out with the record company. But I think you two can manage now.’ He paused. ‘If I made a reservation for dinner in Rexbridge tonight, would your appetite be up to it? My treat. A reservation for the three of us, that is?’
‘Yes,’ Jamie smiled. ‘That would be great. Thank you. Er. Grandpa?’
‘Yes?’
‘Don’t expect Sam to apologise for what he said last night. He won’t. Because he meant it. And, well, you know, he’s hurting quite badly right now.’
‘That makes two of us,’ his grandfather observed quietly. He was wearing a green suede waistcoat Jamie had always liked.
‘I like that,’ Jamie pointed. ‘Very smart. Will you leave it to me in your will?’
‘Of course.’ Feeling unable to reach out to his grandson, Edward touched the waistcoat instead, smoothing the nap of the suede.
‘So,’ Jamie said. ‘Since you’re about to disappear again, what about my therapeutic singing lesson?’
‘Are you quite sure?’ His grandfather frowned. Jamie nodded, going to lean on the piano’s flank.
‘But there are probably spiders down there it’s been so long,’ he said.
‘Well in that case … I think something simple, in the middle of the voice but,’ his grandfather stretched up to take a book from the shelf beside him, ‘We need something with long phrases to stretch you nicely. Fauré?’
‘Fine,’ Jamie shrugged. ‘My French is terrible, though.’
‘Yes.’ The old man raised an eyebrow. ‘I remember. Après un Rêve. I’ll take it quite slowly. Stand up straight. Shoulders back. Legs apart.’
‘I remember.’
It was only later, when they were dressing up for dinner and Sam confessed to having heard his singing from the top of a ladder, that Jamie realised his grandfather had taken care to choose a song he had already heard his lover admire.
‘Well that’s as near to an understanding as I think we’ll get,’ he said wistfully.
‘How do you mean?’ Sam asked, abandoning the tie he had been struggling with. ‘Do I really have to wear this fucking thing? It’s like a noose.’
‘No.’ Jamie shook his head, smiling.
‘So how do you mean, “understanding”?’
‘Oh. Nothing,’ Jamie answered briskly. ‘Just being sentimental. Shall I wear the red shirt or the green?’
55
‘Where does it ache?’ Alison asked. ‘Here?’
‘Left a bit. That’s it. Oh! Oh yes! Oh God, that’s good. You can press harder if you like. Oh yes. God!’
‘Now I know what you sound like in bed!’
‘Shut up and rub.’
Jamie was recovering from a four-week infection of cryptosporidiosis. Chronic attacks of diarrhoea four or more times a day stripped him of the proteins and calories the hash gingerbread had helped him regain and his weight had plummeted to an all-time low. The top of the fridge was laden with an assortment of high calorie body-building drinks and liquid foods he took several times a day – Complan, Bengers, Horlicks, Lucozade, Dunns River – drinks for little old ladies or hulking athletes, and his pockets rattled with vitamin bottles. Alison felt sure that left to his own devices he would not have bothered, but he saw how the weight loss worried them all. He carried a kitchen timer clipped to his shirt front whose beeping reminded him when it was time for more drugs. She noticed that he always sat on a cushion now to shield his protuberant bones. He felt the cold too. There was not a breath of wind and they were out in full sunshine that was truly warm. Alison had only a tee-shirt and flimsy skirt on but Jamie wore a thick cardigan, its collar turned up to warm his neck. Massaging away an ache in his shoulders, she could feel his bone
s even through the layer of chunky wool. It was like stroking a greyhound. Tension caused by the cold he felt seemed in turn to bring on muscular aches and pains. Both she and Sam had offered to drive him to the clinic in Rexbridge for a course of aromatherapeutic massage and reflexology but the very thought of travel left him too sleepy to move.
Sam was high up on a ladder, scraping old paint off a window frame. With the easy assurance of an acrobat, he turned around on his rung so that he was leaning towards the house, tugged his shirt off, let it fall and returned to his scraping, entirely unaware of his audience below. Stunned, for all that she was now as familiar with his body as any workmate, Alison had frozen to watch.
‘It’s so unfair,’ she said, remembering herself and beginning to massage the back of Jamie’s neck with her thumbs and forefingers.
‘What is?’
‘Why couldn’t I have been a man?’
‘Not that again. You could have an operation you know. It’s very sophisticated nowadays, apparently. No more turning aside at the moment of passion to slip in icky silicone rods. Now they let you puff the thing up with a little pump disguised as one of your balls.’
‘Oh please!’ She cuffed him on the hair and flopped into a deck-chair beside him. If she massaged him much longer, he’d start to bruise. ‘You know what I mean. Just look at him.’
‘I am. I am.’
‘He’s so assured. So easy. If a woman took off her shirt like that it would be a statement. When he does it, it’s … He … He just does it.’
‘He never used to strip off on site. He’s very shy really. Anyway, there are plenty of fat slobs who take their shirts off too. You wouldn’t want to be one of them.’