by Drew Hunt
Paul panicked. “Oh, no, it’s fine. I’m sure I—”
The look of sadness on Trevor’s face as he turned away and made a quick exit from the staff canteen did little to quell Paul’s alarm at being invited to stay at the home of the Town Hall queer. He couldn’t. What would his mates at the cricket club say? Paul shook his head to try and clear it. His gaze fell upon the disapproving face of Sandy, the filing clerk.
“Did you have to say it like that? Be quite so obvious?”
“But he’s—I’m…”
Sandy’s expression darkened. “What’s that supposed to mean? Have you forgotten I’m a lesbian? You don’t seem to have any problem around me.”
“But that’s different. Eh, you’re a woman and—”
“Men! And they say we’re the emotional and irrational sex.” Shaking her head, Sandy asked, “How well do you actually know Trevor? Have you ever stopped and had a conversation with him, found out what he’s really like?”
“Uh, no.” Paul realised he hadn’t. Trevor’s somewhat unorthodox appearance, his long curly brown hair, his brightly coloured artist’s smocks, the bangles on his limp wrists had all put Paul off from approaching the guy.
Sighing, she said, “No, didn’t think you had.”
Pushing his half-eaten meal away, Paul sighed in resignation. He knew Sandy was right. His reactions to Trevor were wrong, but, he couldn’t help being uncomfortable around men who minced or flamed or…
“Fuck!” He slammed his fist on the table, causing the cutlery to rattle and the water in his glass to slosh over the side. He wasn’t sure what he was madder at, the situation with Trevor, and how he’d have to go eat humble pie, or the mess his house was in.
He’d come home from a weekend with the lads from the cricket team. Someone had suggested they hire a minibus and go down to Dover, catch the ferry and load up on cheap booze from the hypermarkets in Calais. However, the light rain that had been falling when he’d set out had turned into a severe downpour. As the river was already close to overflowing its banks, the extra rain resulted in a foot of water flooding the ground floor of Paul’s house.
Sandy put a reassuring hand on top of his. “Has the water done a lot of damage?”
Paul nodded. “Last time it took over three months before the place was habitable.”
“Oh dear.”
“I’m not looking forward to all the re-decorating, sorting out new carpets, furniture and…”
“You should have sold the place after last time.”
Paul smiled ruefully. “I was told that it was a fluke, a once in a lifetime thing.”
“Oh.”
“And if that wasn’t bad enough, the bastards at my insurance company told me this morning I was under-insured.”
“Oh, Paul.”
“I’ll be okay. Though it’ll probably eat into my savings to get the place all fixed up.”
“Sorry. I wish I had a spare room to offer you, but as you know my place is tiny.”
“I know, and thanks. Something will turn up. I’ll ring round my mates this afternoon. One of them’s bound to be able to put me up.”
* * * *
Replacing the phone in its cradle, Paul dropped his head into his hands. No one seemed to have room. Thommo said he could have his couch, but Paul was all too aware of the lumps and broken springs. He’d sat on the uncomfortable piece of furniture often enough when Thommo invited the guys round for beer and televised sport.
Paul was no snob. The last thing he could call himself would be house-proud, but Thommo’s place was a tip. His last girlfriend had walked out on him six months earlier, no doubt because she was fed up with cleaning up after him.
Looking at his watch, Paul realised it was almost knocking-off time, and he’d got precious little work done. Putting a couple of executive summaries in his briefcase, he straightened up his desk and prepared to leave.
Standing in the corridor at the exit to the part of the town hall which the public weren’t given access to, Paul waited his turn to sign out. He heard Trevor’s annoyingly girlish laughter behind him as he shared a joke with the girls from the typing pool.
After reaching the head of the queue, Paul signed his name and his time of departure then stood to one side. He might as well get his apology to Trevor over with. Trying to remain calm, he watched as several staff members signed out, then it was Trevor’s turn. Did he have to wiggle his hips so childishly as he bent to sign his name? One of the girls reached out and pinched Trevor’s bum cheek, causing him to squeal in mock indignation.
“I’ll have you know, my arse is a woman-free zone.”
“Such a waste,” she giggled.
The merriment continued for a few more moments.
Eventually Paul took hold of himself and spoke. “Uh, Trevor, could I have a quick word?”
“Sure, sweetie.” Trevor gave him an uncertain smile.
Paul gritted his teeth, hoping his discomfort didn’t show. Focussing on a spot just over Trevor’s left shoulder, he said, “Look, um, about earlier.”
“Yeah?”
Trevor wasn’t going to make it easy for him. A small voice in Paul’s head announced, Why should he? Paul cleared his throat. “Look, um, what I said, it wasn’t right. I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings. Honestly I didn’t mean to, I’ve had a bloody awful day, but that’s no excuse, and…” Paul ground to a halt.
“That’s okay. I understand.”
That was the worst of it; Paul knew Trevor really did understand. “Thanks, uh, I’m not, I mean, I don’t…” Paul closed his eyes momentarily. “Look, can I buy you a drink or something, you know, to apologise properly?”
Trevor’s eyes widened for a second. “Why, Mr Harrison, I do declare.”
“Uh.” The camped up impression of Scarlet O’Hara was lost on Paul, who was too busy panicking to appreciate it. He knew this had been a mistake.
“So where you taking me? I don’t need to go home and change into something more suitable, do I?”
Oh, God, Paul thought.
In a more normal tone, Trevor said, “It’s all right, Pauly, I was just pulling your leg. I really would like to go out for a beer, male bonding and all that good stuff.”
“Uh, yeah. Um, The King’s Head all right? They do a pretty decent pint.”
“Okay.”
“You gonna follow me in your own car?”
“I don’t drive, I get the bus to work.”
“Oh right.” Paul was reminded of Sandy’s words, he really didn’t know Trevor. Heck, he couldn’t say exactly what Trevor did for the Council. He thought it was something on the top floor, but, other than that, he wasn’t sure.
Walking through the set of double doors, protected from the outside with a digital lock to prevent unauthorised access, Paul followed Trevor into the public part of the building. The Victorian architects had spared little expense on the high vaulted ceilings, multicoloured terracotta tiled walls, opulent lighting that once used to be gas powered, and intricate ironmongery of the balustrades to the wide staircases. Looking up at the late afternoon sun shining through the large stained-glass window at the turn of the stairs, Paul couldn’t help the small frisson of awe that shivered through him. He liked how the spinning wheel motif was repeated in the stonework, stained glass and tiles.
“Obscene example of municipal profligacy, isn’t it?” Trevor announced, startling Paul out of his reverie.
Still looking at the window, Paul said, “You think so? I kinda like it, though I’m no expert on architecture.”
Trevor growled. “The town fathers wasted thousands of pounds on this hideous example of Victorian gothic revivalism, when they should have spent the money to keep the poor, sick and aged out of the workhouses. After all, most of them had fed their working lives and health to the monster that was the woollen textile industry. And it was that industry which provided the money for all this.”
Paul was surprised at Trevor’s vehement anti-capitalist outburst. He was more of
a liberal himself, though in truth he wasn’t terribly interested in politics of any colour.
* * * *
Paul spent much of the journey to the King’s Head worrying. What if anyone saw him with Trevor? He tried to think, did any of his mates drink at the King’s Head? Why didn’t he suggest somewhere else, somewhere further out of town? Then he mentally slapped himself. Trevor seemed like a decent bloke, if a little on the campy side. His musings were cut short as the drive to the pub took less than five minutes.
“What do you fancy?” Paul asked as they stood at the bar waiting to be served.
Trevor raised a thin, no doubt plucked, eyebrow.
Paul had his usual half of bitter. He was driving after all. Trevor said he’d have a campari and soda.
After paying for the drinks, Paul steered them to a booth. He tried to convince himself there was no particular reason why he chose one at the very back.
“Thank you. This is nice,” Trevor said, leaning back in his seat.
Paul forced a smile. “Yes, it is.”
“Did you manage to get yourself sorted out with somewhere to stay?”
“Oh, uh, Yeah. I’m gonna crash at a mate’s for a few days.” Paul conjured up an image of Thommo’s lumpy couch.
“That’s good.”
Paul noted that Trevor didn’t offer his spare room again. He wasn’t sure if he’d have accepted if he had.
The pub was busy, even for a Monday afternoon. Paul wondered what he could say. He felt the silence between them growing more uncomfortable.
“So,” Trevor started. “Is your house badly damaged?”
Paul sighed. “Yep, the whole of the downstairs will have to be dried out, re-decorated, then there’s all the kitchen equipment.”
“Oh dear.”
“But what I’m most bothered about are all my LPs.”
“Yeah? You into vinyl?”
Was Trevor trying to imply something kinky? Paul was beginning to regret asking the bloke out for a drink.
“Okay, I know some hi-fi aficionados decry the advent of compact disc, but come on, all that surface noise? Give me CDs every time.”
Paul relaxed as they began a long discussion about the merits of CDs versus vinyl. He mentioned his collection of classic rock albums. Trevor snorted. “All that noise.”
“So, what do you listen to?”
“My dear, I’ve got the most complete collection of Broadway and West End cast musicals this side of the Pennines.”
Oh, God, Paul thought.
Trevor laughed, loudly. “Relax, I was pulling your leg. Some classic rock is okay, but I’m more into the middle of the road stuff, Queen, Celine Dion, even some Frank Sinatra.”
“Uh huh.” Paul could cope with that.
“Even got some light jazz, Ella Fitzgerald, that kind of thing.” Shifting in his seat, Trevor added, “Look, if you’re worried about your LP’s getting damp and warping, you could always bring them round to my place and I’ll store them for you.”
“Really? That would be a help, thank you. It’s not so much the discs themselves, more the covers.”
“Course, if your music collection was on CD, you wouldn’t have to worry,” Trevor smiled.
His drink almost finished, Paul asked Trevor if he wanted a second.
“Thank you, but it’s my round.”
“Honestly I’d much rather do it, my apology, remember?”
Trevor looked as though he was going to argue, but caved. “It’s not necessary, but thank you.”
As he waited at the bar, Paul couldn’t help but wonder why he’d offered to have a second drink. Thinking about it, he realised he actually enjoyed Trevor’s company. Ever since they’d left work, Trevor, for the most part at least, had behaved, well, normal. There wasn’t the usual sibilance in his voice, nor any limp-wristed mannerisms. If it wasn’t for his strange get-up, he’d just look like a regular bloke.
* * * *
Driving to Thommo’s, Paul was glad he’d made the effort to apologise to Trevor. Sandy had been right, he wasn’t such a bad bloke once you got to know him. He had been surprised at Trevor’s knowledge of history, particularly the industrial revolution as it pertained to their part of Yorkshire.
He’d been in stitches by the end of their second drink. Trevor had told a very risqué story about a visit the church choir Trevor was a member of, had made to a song festival in Manchester. Trevor was such a keen observer of humanity, pointing out the quirks and oddities in his fellow man. Paul had actually been disappointed when their drinks were finished.
He’d offered to buy Trevor a third, saying he’d have something non-alcoholic as he was driving.
Trevor had let out a shrill girly laugh, making Paul cringe. “I won’t be responsible for my actions if I have another.”
Paul had nodded. “Yeah. I best get going myself. Better see what state Thommo’s house is in.”
Trevor looked like he had been going to say something, but must have decided not to.
Arriving at Thommo’s, Paul moved a collection of empty lager cans from the coffee table and a pile of dirty clothes from the sofa. “See you tidied up for my arrival.”
“Piss off,” Thommo said, sorting through the clothes, no doubt deciding if he could get another day’s wear out of any of them.
“Got any food?” Paul realised he was hungry.
“Didn’t you have anything at the King’s Head?”
“Huh? How—”
“Baz saw you at the bar.”
“But, uh, why, how.”
Paul worried Baz had seen him with Trevor. He wasn’t sure, but he didn’t think Thommo would be the most tolerant of people. Then he mentally slapped himself. He’d only gone out for a bloody drink with Trevor, he wasn’t his boyfriend or anything.
“Baz rang me and happened to mention he’d seen you. What’s wrong? You look like summut’s spooked ya.”
“Don’t know what you mean, and no, I didn’t have anything to eat at the pub. Thought my new housemate would have been slaving over a hot stove to make a meal for me, especially as he doesn’t have anything else to do all day.”
“Piss off. There’s some pizza from yesterday in the fridge if you want that.”
Paul knew Thommo was a stranger to the workings of his kitchen appliances. He existed on a diet of take out meals whenever he was between girlfriends.
Going into the kitchen, Paul noted the pile of unwashed crockery overflowing the sink and spilling onto the worktop. Opening the fridge he spied the pizza box on the top shelf. The only other items in the fridge were cans of lager, and something green and unpleasant lurking at the back of the bottom shelf. Paul didn’t feel brave enough to investigate. He hoped whatever it once was hadn’t poisoned the pizza.
Picking his way back to Thommo’s living room, narrowly avoiding tripping over various bicycle parts, a broken ironing board and a partially dismantled home gym, Paul knew he couldn’t stay there for more than a couple of nights.
“So, your place a total disaster area, then?” Thommo asked before turning on his TV. The huge plasma screen set was the only concession Thommo had made to modernity.
Paul bit back his first thought. “Yeah. Fucking take months to get it sorted.”
He settled himself on the sofa, its springs twanging. Thommo had wisely headed for the armchair.
“Told you you shouldn’t have bought a house on a flood plain.” Thommo had seen a programme on the Discovery channel about house building, and ever since considered himself an expert on the subject.
“Yeah, yeah.”
“Pizza okay?”
Thommo always got anchovies, Paul hated anchovies. He picked them off the pizza, but the thing still tasted of salty fish.
“Want a drink?” Thommo asked, getting to his feet.
Paul hesitated. He’d had a hard day, but knew Thommo would want to drink until one or the both of them passed out. Unlike Thommo, Paul had work in the morning.
“Nah, better not.”
Paul winced. Thommo had filled two large supermarket trolleys full of cases of lager. He was amazed the customs let him through with it all. But Thommo’s comment about how he was hosting a stag party for a mate seemed to satisfy the official and they were waved through. Paul knew none of them were getting married, but wisely kept his trap shut.
* * * *
An insistent bleeping brought Paul out of unconsciousness. He opened his eyes, only to snap them shut again. The sunlight was too bright. He turned his head, immediately wishing he hadn’t. He let out a piteous moan. “Jesus.”
Rolling carefully off the sofa and landing on his hands and knees, Paul immediately clutched at his head and groaned. “Why do I get myself into these situations?”
The previous night he had watched Thommo sink a couple of cold ones before his resolve broke and he asked if he could have one. One led to two, then three, Paul losing count after five.
Needing to piss something fierce, he used the sofa to help him climb to his feet. The room swayed, making Paul close his eyes. “Never again,” he croaked. His mouth had the texture of a wrestler’s jockstrap, not that he had any personal knowledge of such a garment.
He was reminded of his need to piss. Walking quickly to the bathroom, he kicked aside the empty drink cans that lay in his wake.
* * * *
“You don’t look at all well.”
“Uh!” Paul grunted, lifting his head from his folded arms and opening his eyes. He’d no idea how he’d got through the first hour of work. Somehow he’d survived on sheer will power as well as about a gallon of black coffee.
“I said you don’t look at all well,” Trevor repeated.
Paul bit back a sarcastic comment as he looked at the red and green loose fitting smock Trevor was wearing. “Too loud.” Paul wasn’t sure if he was referring to Trevor’s clothes, or his voice.
Trevor laughed. “You taken anything for your headache?” he added in a softer tone.