Growing Pains

by Mike Seabrook

  “Reminds me of a story I heard,” he went on. “Supposed to be true. Witty, in any case. Some retired Colonel had a birthday, seventy-five or something of the sort, you know. Can’t think why. Too dashed old for birthdays myself, my boy, but there it is. Anyway, his local rag decided to honour the old boy with a write-up — war-time exploits, that sort of rot. They duly sent a photographer round, and some kind of cub reporter, and he was very pleased with his picture, but a bit less pleased to see a misprint describing him as ‘the battle-scared warrior’. He wrote to the editor to complain, and of course, they printed an apology in the next week’s edition; trouble was, this time they still got it wrong. Said, ‘This should, of course, have read the bottle-scarred warrior’. Haw-haw-haw! Damned funny, don’t you think?”

  He signalled to Tom, then turned back and gestured at Stephen’s glass, still haw-hawing to himself at his little tale. “Let me get you a…” He stopped speaking, and gazed past Stephen in the direction of the door, his jaw dropping slightly. “Good gad!” he murmured. Stephen smiled involuntarily, as he always did when the Major produced one of his old-fashioned expressions. Then he turned to see what had brought the startled expression to the old man’s face, and his own eyebrows rose in surprise.

  The door had burst open, and Stephen was in time to see two new arrivals come in, huddling together under what looked like an old-fashioned policeman’s cape, and hurrying to get out of yet another torrential shower of rain. They entered in a flurry of giggles and cries of how soaked they had managed to get in the short dash from the car park. There followed an uninhibited shedding of the cape, with an accompanying spray of drips, to the considerable outrage of those of the customers nearest the door, who happened to include the dentist Gibson and some of his friends.

  “Sorry, sorry, sorry,” trilled one of the newcomers, laughing merrily. He gaily tossed the soaking cape over the coat-stand behind the door. The cape was bright powder-blue. The one who had spoken was the smaller of the two, a bright, athletic-looking youth in his twenties. The other was taller, slim to the point of emaciation, and ten years older. The younger one had long brown hair tied in a pony tail, the older one very short blond curls, moulded and rigid in a heavy application of hair gel. And then there were the clothes. A dozen conversations were arrested. Glasses halted in mid-hoist all over the bar, and mouths opened to receive draughts of beer remained open in dumbfounded surprise. Stephen turned away, unable to suppress an involuntary grin. Gibson the dentist curled an eloquent lip, and sought out first Richard, then Stephen, and finally the Major, with a bright, sarcastic gaze.

  The younger of the new arrivals was wearing a deep pink tee-shirt, stencilled with the words “I’m getting mine…” on the front and “…how about you?” on the back. Beneath it he was wearing a pair of very short and well-packed shorts. They were made of shiny scarlet satin, and tight enough, as Gibson was instantly heard to remark in a stage whisper audible across the bar, to show if he was Jewish or not. His friend had a pair of worn jeans, mottled light blue and white, cut off above the knees to convert them into Bermuda shorts, and a tee-shirt like the other one. His bore the legend “Muffin the Mule is not an offence…” on the front, and “It’s just freedom of choice” on the back.

  “Good gad!” repeated the Major. He saw Stephen’s grin, and a faint smile dawned on his own features. Tom hovered. The Major collected himself and got his brandy and Stephen’s lager. Tom took his money, brought his change, and then remained, looking at Stephen with an interrogative expression. Stephen, suddenly bubbling internally with mischief, affected not to see him, and turned back to the Major to resume conversation. Tom hovered uncertainly for a moment, then went towards the newcomers, who were waiting politely at the bar beside Gibson and his crowd near the door. On the way he sought out Richard and caught his eye, raising his eyebrows in a direct question. Richard hesitated, then shrugged and made a barely perceptible gesture in Stephen’s direction. Tom glanced back, saw that Stephen was still busily not looking his way. He shrugged himself, and went to serve the two young men. The eloquent silence held for a second or two more, wavered, and ended as people got over their surprise. A moment later there was a buzz as conversations got under way again, everyone busily creating a frightfully British atmosphere of ‘nothing out of the ordinary’.

  “It’s true, then,” said the Major in his usual soft tones. Stephen raised his eyebrows interrogatively.

  “There have been a few rumours about the place recently,” elaborated the Major, seeing that he was waiting for an explanation.

  “Rumours?” said Stephen. “What kind of rumours?”

  “Rumours that this pub’s beginning to become used as a… as a kind of meeting-place, I suppose you’d say,” went on the Major, flicking a glance in the direction of the two newcomers. “For… people of that kind.” He said it in a carefully neutral tone.

  “People of my kind,” said Stephen gently, smiling affectionately at the Major to make it clear that the remark was not meant as any kind of reproof.

  “No, dammit,” said the Major, managing to make it a snap without raising his voice above a murmur. “I know about you and your young friend, but that’s not the same thing at all. I won’t have you making comparisons between decent lads like yourselves and… people like that. Good God! Look at their clothes, man. Walking around in satin bathing costumes and wearing indecent legends. I’m as broad-minded as the next man, Stephen. A good deal more so than a good many, I dare say. But I draw the line above displays like that.” He clicked his tongue in annoyance. “This will play straight into the hands of Pat Gibson, don’t you realise? I’ve never liked that bounder, and I’ve been having to defend you and your young friend in the face of his offensive remarks. This’ll keep him in sneers for the rest of the summer.” Stephen stood considering, the smile fading from his face. “What are these rumours you spoke of, Major?” he asked eventually. “I haven’t seen anybody like that in here. Surely they were probably just passing and came in for a drink.”

  There had been little enough to go on to begin with, it seemed. Beginning a week or two ago, an unusual influx of new faces at the pub had been enough to cause comment. The village was a mile or so inland, far enough to keep it off the route of most of the holiday-making herds. The pub itself was tucked away off the only approach to a main road the village possessed, and passing trade was fairly uncommon even in the summer. Gradually it had been remarked that the newcomers were invariably male, usually in pairs. On one occasion someone had seen a couple of strangers leaving the pub late at night, and had the suspicion that he had observed them to exchange a quick embrace in their car. But it had been dark, and he hadn’t wanted to appear inquisitive, so he couldn’t be sure. But people had started to keep their eyes open. It had become noticeable that the unfamiliar arrivals tended to start to look faintly puzzled after they had been in the bar for a short while. Then they tended to drift away, still looking vaguely puzzled. And few, if any of them, it seemed, had been back for a second visit.

  All this Stephen retailed to Richard in their usual room later that evening.

  “But that’s nothing for them to get paranoiac about, even here, surely,” said Richard, with the beginnings of an angry glint in his eyes.

  “Well, no,” said Stephen. “And that’s just what I said to the Major, too. He agreed. Or at least, he didn’t. No, he didn’t, really. He thought it was gays. But he didn’t think there was anything wrong with these people coming in for a drink. Until this evening. And I mean to say… well, you saw those two, didn’t you? He said he drew the line at people like them, and I must say… they were a bit much, weren’t they?” he said, grinning at the memory.

  “They’re entitled to a drink,” said Richard, “the same as anyone else. Aren’t they?” he added, with an ominous set of his mouth.

  “Yes, of course they are,” said Stephen mildly, observing the change in Richard’s expression and voice, and being careful not to tread heavily on sensitive area
s. “But it was bloody funny, wasn’t it?” He chuckled, not noticing the further setting of Richard’s brows. “I mean, old Tom dithering about wondering whether to serve them or tell em to sod off. And the poor old Major practically had apoplexy for a minute there. Till he saw me grinning. Then he saw the funny side of it himself. And that prick of a dentist — well, I thought he was going to have a heart attack. Then I thought maybe he was going to come and have a go at me, but I think he’s a bit frightened of the Major. And everything going quiet like that. The funniest thing of all was that they didn’t seem to have the slightest idea of the stir they were causing.” He chuckled again.

  “They knew, all right,” said Richard quietly, after a long pause in which he let Stephen’s chuckle die slowly for want of support. “Oh?” queried Stephen, alerted to something in Richard’s tone and sitting up and taking notice, so to speak. “How d’you know that?”

  “Because I went out after them when they cleared off, though you may not have noticed,” said Richard, still speaking ominously quietly.

  Stephen stared at him in surprise. “Oh?” he said. “No, I didn’t notice. What did you do that for?”

  “To apologise, first of all,” said Richard. “And secondly, to see if I could find out what was at the bottom of it. I did, too.” Stephen stared at him. “To apologise?” he repeated stupidly. “What did you want to apologise for? What was there to apologise for? And what do you mean about finding out what’s at the bottom of it? At the bottom of what? I’m getting confused.”

  “You’ve got your reporter friend to thank for all this, I think,” said Richard, looking at Stephen in some annoyance. Stephen stared at him, and said nothing.

  “I went out,” said Richard, “to tell those two how sorry I was that they’d got the kind of reception they did — you know, the electric silence, the cold shoulder, being frozen out, Tom not knowing whether to serve them or not, as you said. All that. I saw how puzzled they looked as they left, and I thought they were owed that much courtesy. It was the only bit they got, wasn’t it? They were very glad to be able to ask someone what the score was. They had realised what kind of a stir they’d caused, and it had worried them — a lot. They’d thought, you see, that they were visiting a new gay pub in the area. They’d been looking forward to it. When they saw your precious Major and all the others like him, and heard that smug, vicious bastard Gibson making his clever remarks, they realised they’d dropped something of a bollock, and it came as a bit of a shock, I can tell you.”

  “New gay pub?” repeated Stephen. “Good God. But why in Christ’s name did they think that?”

  “That’s what I asked them,” said Richard. “Somebody has very kindly instructed the very large gay community in Brighton that the Crown Hotel is a pleasant country pub where gay people can be assured of a friendly welcome, owing to the fact that it’s now in the hands of a young gay couple. Namely, viz and to wit, us. It’ll probably be in the directory in the back of Gay Times next month,” he added, giving Stephen an oddly quizzical look. “Who else can you think of who might have A, known we’re gay, B, known that we — sorry, I should have said you — own this pub, and C, known the gay community in Brighton to talk to about it?”

  Stephen sat thinking about it in some perplexity for a while. “Well,” he said at length, “I don’t really see what harm it can do. I don’t mind if a few gay people start using the pub. Do you? Come to that,” he went on, “you’ve been in a funny sort of mood since we came up. Are you uptight about this? And if you are, why? What harm can it do?”

  “I’m not uptight,” retorted Richard. “But I’m none too happy about the way things are going here. I didn’t want to get involved with that bloody newspaperman at all in the first place, simply because I don’t trust a reporter — any reporter. But there wasn’t a lot we could do about it, once that bloody Tom had talked. As it is, what he’s done, in one way at least, is to turn this place into a gay pub. Well, that’s all very well in its own way. But it’s going to cause all sorts of grief and aggravation, isn’t it?

  “Well, okay. I can put up with that. But I’d much rather it had stayed relaxed as it was. Since it isn’t, I say gay people have got as much right as anyone to come here. And to wear what they like, as well. And I’ve got the strong feeling that it’s precisely that part of it that you don’t like. I saw you grinning like a cat with the Major when those two came in, and I wasn’t very impressed.”

  “I don’t like that sort — camp ones, I mean,” protested Stephen. “But in any case, Rich, I don’t understand the point you’re trying to make. I mean,” he elucidated, seeing that Richard was waiting for further enlightenment, “surely, if you think gays have got the right to come here, if you feel so strongly about it, well, why that reporter’s done just what you’d have wanted, hasn’t he?”

  “No,” said Richard in a hard, sharp voice. “He’s got the gays coming here. And he’s got me a lot of explanation to do, too. That’s what I resent: the strong likelihood of my having to fight on their behalf — even if I don’t particularly want to.”

  “I don’t understand you lately,” said Stephen mildly. “I don’t see why you’ve got to fight on anybody’s behalf.”

  Richard breathed hard, fighting a losing battle with the impatience that sometimes overtook him when Stephen seemed to be wilfully misunderstanding things. “Listen,” he said in concentrated tones. “If nothing whatever had been said, I wouldn’t have gone on a crusade demanding the right of gay people, including high-camp ones who look like Quentin Crisp, to come drinking in this outpost of the British Raj. I’m not like some people, wanting to take on all the problems of the entire gay community, or the entire world, for that matter. But since something has been said, I’m not going to stand by and see my own kind — people like us, Stevie — insulted and jeered at. Not in my presence, anyway.”

  “But Rich,” said Stephen, in a meek voice containing only the mildest undertone of protest. “Rich, my lovely, there’s no earthly reason why you should have to fight any battles, over gays visiting the place or anything else.”

  “Oh yes, there is. Good God, man, you saw what happened when those two came in this evening.”

  “I know that, love,” said Stephen with a faint sigh. “But I can squelch that kind of demonstration if I want to, can’t I? Without the need for you to get involved in fights and rows about it.”

  “How?” challenged Richard.

  “I own the place,” said Stephen flatly. Richard stared at him. “If I decide I want to allow people in this pub,” continued Stephen, speaking very calmly and deliberately, “I’ll do so. I’ll inform Tom, and he can inform the customers. Or not, as he thinks fit. If I want to restrict entry to this pub,” he went on, warming to his theme, “to one-legged limbo dancers below the height of four feet seven inches, I can do that. If I decide that to gain admittance you have to come wearing a yellow suit with black polka dots and carrying a big red flag, I can fucking well do that, too. With one brief word in Tom’s ear, or a notice on a scrap of paper pinned to the door. And if all the inhabitants of this village decide they don’t like it, they can do the other thing. It’s known as private enterprise. I own the place, so I can be as enterprising as I like. Or as unenterprising.

  “I don’t particularly want to upset the village. I like it here, and I like the people — most of them, anyway. I like the cricketers, and the old Major, and Tom, though I wish he’d kept his gob shut about us. But I’ll upset the whole bloody lot of them, rather than see you upset, sweet Richard. Because the last thing I want — the very last thing in the whole wide world — is to see you upset. So all right, if you want the whole gay set in Brighton to come drinking here and feel welcome, I’ll ordain it. If the regulars don’t like it, it’s too bad. It’s about time they joined the twentieth century round these parts, anyway. And it’ll be a great way of pissing on Gibson from a great height, won’t it?

  “The only thing I’m sorry about,” he mused, “is that I can’t
say I fancy people like that twat that was here tonight. Red satin pants,” he growled.

  “There’s nothing wrong with camping it up,” observed Richard, mollified by Stephen’s declaration — and a little surprised, too, by the hard-edged, gratingly adult way in which he had come out with it.

  “I don’t go in for that kind,” said Stephen, wrinkling his nose in distaste. “I mean, Christ, you don’t have to go mincing around with limp wrists and a fucking handbag just cos you’re gay, do you? I don’t,” he added as an afterthought, as if that clinched the matter.

  “Most don’t,” said Richard mildly. “But some do. If it makes them happy, what’s wrong with that? You of all people ought to feel sympathetic towards a minority.”

  “Eh?” said Stephen. “Why should I? I’m not a minority group, am I?”

  Richard stared at him for a moment, then burst into a laugh. “You really do take my breath away sometimes, Stevie,” he said, looking fondly at Stephen through tears of laughter. “You’re gay, aren’t you?”

  For a moment an odd little smile of puzzlement lurked round the corners of Stephen’s mouth while he considered this. Then he laughed also. “Well, d’you know, I never really thought of it like that,” he confessed. “I s’pose I am, come to think of it. But I’ve never felt very different from anybody else. Never felt different at all, actually. And I’ve always wondered why those camp types had to go round trying to look like women. I mean, why can’t they just be men, like they are?”

  “It’s always been easy for you, hasn’t it, Steve, love?” said Richard, a little sadly, though he was still chuckling softly to himself.

  “Dunno what you mean,” said Stephen.

  “No,” murmured Richard. “I don’t suppose you do. But you’ve never minded a little camping up when I’ve done it, have you?”