Growing Pains

by Mike Seabrook

  “Go on,” said Tom, mystified.

  “I want to get Pat Gibson back in here,” said Stephen. This time Tom’s eyebrows climbed still further, and remained aloft, so great was his surprise.

  “Really?” he said. “I’m amazed. Can I ask why?”

  “Er, well, I’d rather you didn’t,” said Stephen. “Just say that I’m trying to put right anything I think we — or rather, that is, I — may have done to upset people here. I didn’t want to rock any boats, and I don’t even want someone like Gibson permanently put out because of our getting involved here. Will he come back, d’you think?” he finished boyishly.

  Tom laughed. “Not half, he will,” he said. “He’s already wishing he’d kept his views to himself. He has to drive eight miles every time he wants a pint, and with all this police activity he can only drink a couple, then he has to go onto non-alcoholic lager, and you know how Pat likes his beer.” He chuckled again at the thought of it.

  “So you think he’d accept an olive branch?” asked Stephen, grinning. “You think he’d come back in here if you told him I’d suggested it?”

  “Hmmm,” mused Tom. “I don’t think he’s any fonder of you than he ever was, if you want to know the truth. But I think he’ll swallow any number of principles if it gets him back in here. But can I suggest what I tell him?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “I’d say I tell him you and Richard are away for a while, and that you’ve put the running of the pub in my hands while you’re away. I’ll say I’m not barring the gay folk, but I’ve been given authority to run the pub how I like, and that I’ve decided to lift the bar on him. That way he can come back in here without feeling beholden to you. He’d rather have it that way, I’m sure.”

  Stephen thought about it for a moment. “Yeah. I like it,” he said. “Great idea, Tom. Good thinking.” Richard nodded his agreement. Tom looked closely at them. “There’s something underneath this,” he said shrewdly. “You’re not telling me all of it, are you?”

  “It’s on the secret list just now,” said Stephen, a little apologetically. “Not that we don’t trust you, Tom,” he went on hurriedly. “But it’s something strictly between Rich and me and one other person at the moment, and I can’t let anyone else in on it yet. You’ll be the first to know the moment I’ve got it all fixed up, I promise.” And Tom had to be content with that.

  * * *

  The following morning Stephen ostentatiously awarded himself a lie-in. Richard was up fairly early, and when Stephen was still dozing at after ten o’clock he began to badger him to get up, worried about being late for their match at Elderton Park, “Come on, Steve,” he hissed urgently at him, stripping the quilt off and tugging at him. “Wake up!”

  Stephen rolled over and made a grab for him, grinning. “Never mind that,” said Richard, evading his clutch. “Come on, Stevie, get up. We’ll be late for the match. You do remember you’re playing today, I suppose. I’ve got a long drive beforehand, too. Come on, for Christ’s sake.”

  “You haven’t,” said Stephen, giving up his pretence of sleep and hugging his knees to his chest. “No drive for you today, old love.” He laughed at Richard’s puzzled expression and went on “I’ve laid on a bit of a treat for us, my lovely.” He refused, maddeningly, to say a word more. But at least he did get up.

  When they had scrounged a breakfast he made Richard lock his mother’s car in the private garage behind the hotel. Richard, still mystified, obeyed. Stephen lolled about lazily in the bar, drinking shandy slowly and chattering to Tom and a couple of early drinkers.

  At a couple of minutes to twelve Stephen passed his glass to Tom and collared Richard. “Come on,” he said. “Mustn’t be late.” Richard stared at him, speechless, then followed him as he picked up his bag and headed for the door, calling out a bright “Cheerio!” to Tom as he went. Richard followed him through the paved area outside the pub, across the narrow road in front of it, and onto the little triangular green opposite. By chance Pat Gibson was just driving past from his home facing the far side of the green. “On his way to whichever pub he uses,” grinned Stephen. He waved gaily to Gibson as he drove past, receiving a glare in return.

  “Hear anything?” he asked Richard a few moments later, cocking his head. Richard did likewise, and a moment later said “Yes. Helicopter, isn’t it? Why?” Stephen said nothing, but listened attentively as the thudding sound of the helicopter came closer and closer.

  “Crikey,” said Richard when the sound of the rotor had become deafening. “He’s low, wherever he is.” A moment later he gasped in astonishment as the helicopter roared into sight, drumming over the pub barely thirty feet above the chimney tops. “He’s off his head,” said Richard. “Unless he’s…” He turned to gaze at Stephen as the penny finally dropped. “Stevie,” he said, his eyes alight. The small craft was meanwhile dropping down in the centre of the neatly kept green. Stephen promptly started towards it, and he followed, coming up behind him as Stephen began to talk to the pilot, a burly young man with a shaggy blond beard and a long ponytail. He was wearing scuffed brown cowboy boots with run-down stack heels, clean jeans and a lumberjack shirt, and the ponytail was tied with a ribbon in Brigade of Guards colours. When Richard managed to hear a few syllables over the deafening thump of the rotor, he turned out to be Australian.

  “Our transport for the day,” beamed Stephen, gesturing expansively behind him as if the machine belonged to him personally. He slung his bag into the luggage compartment behind the seats for pilot and co-pilot, and gestured above the noise for Richard to do the same. Stephen was already climbing into the craft. Tom and the early drinkers came hurrying out of the pub to see what was happening, in time to see Richard disappearing into the machine and taking the third seat, behind Stephen in the co-pilot’s seat. Less than a minute after it descended onto the green it was airborne again and thumping off in the direction of Elderton Park Cricket Club.

  * * *

  “Well, mate,” said Bill as the helicopter soared away from the outfield and disappeared fast into the patchwork blue and grey sky, “you keep on comin up with surprises for us, don’t you? Last year you were a burglar, in a small way a business. This year you turn up for matches in a chopper. What a you got planned for next season? Wouldn’t like to jump out of a cake at the annual dinner an dance, would you?” Stephen grinned, still bubbling at the success of his stunt.

  “What beats me,” said Richard, feeling much the same wild elation, “is how he got permission to land on the green down there — and here for that matter.”

  “He didn’t,” chortled Stephen. “He’s a freelance operator. One of the companies I rang suggested him. They all said they couldn’t do it, but one chap said I might try him. They said he was mad enough to do anything once. I rang him straightaway, and he said he’d do it.”

  Led by Bill the crowd of cricketers who had come streaming across the ground from the pavilion when they had seen that the helicopter was really going to make a landing on the outfield went back to continue getting ready for the match, chattering among themselves about their pre-match surprise. Stephen saw himself being pointed out to various members of the opposition, and suddenly laughed aloud, for the simple pleasure of being alive. “We’ll have that holiday anyway, shall we, Rich?” he said, peeling off from the main bunch to go with his friend to the scorebox.

  “I could do with one, I think,” murmured Richard, still a little wild-eyed from the excitement of the trip, his first in a helicopter. He found himself feeling strangely old. He also had a sudden, and disagreeable moment of premonition that maybe he would not be with Stephen for very much longer. He shivered, once, violently.

  “What’s up?” asked Stephen, sensitive to his friend’s state of mind as usual, and instantly anxious.

  “N-nothing,” said Richard. “Just somebody walking over my grave.”

  Stephen stood watching him for a moment. Then he nodded and smiled. “Okay, love,” he said. “I’d better go and change.�
�

  “Do you want to know how many you need for fifteen hundred runs this season?” asked Richard in a small voice.

  “No, thanks,” said Stephen. “If I knew how many I’d dither about and not get them. Tell me afterwards.” He ruffled Richard’s hair, then headed for the dressing room. On the way he encountered Bill, looking for him. “We’re batting,” he said with a rueful grin. “Put in. You’re number three as usual, Stevie, okay?”

  “Okay,” said Stephen. “And Bill…”

  Bill looked at him, raising his eyebrows.

  “If you get a chance, will you sit and have a chat with Rich?”

  “Yeah, course,” said Bill, a little puzzled by his serious tone and expression. “Why? What’s the matter?”

  “I don’t know,” said Stephen seriously. “He seems to be a bit depressed, or… I don’t know, really. All I know is that he doesn’t seem his usual self lately. You might be able to get something out of him — something about what’s upsetting him. He likes you, and… and… he doesn’t seem to want to talk to me much right now. Will you have a sit with him, see if you can worm anything out of him?”

  “Course I will,” said Bill. He left Stephen to go on his way to the dressing room, and himself went across to the scorebox where Richard was setting up for the day. He found him sitting at the desk inside the open flap, staring into vacancy, with his chin in his hands.

  “You all right, our kid?” Bill asked him, seeing immediately what Stephen had meant. “Or is there summin the matter?”

  Richard came out of his trance and gave him a watery smile. “N-nothing much, Bill,” he murmured, a little sadly.

  Bill stared hard at him. “Don’t give me that,” he said kindly.

  “Oh, it’s nothing very much,” said Richard, making way for Bill to squeeze his bulky frame past him and take the other seat at the desk. “Just Stevie.”

  “What’s the matter with him?” asked Bill. “He seems all right to me. Never seen him in higher spirits.”

  “He’s growing up,” said Richard. “Fast. I used to be older than he was, quite a lot older. Now… I… sometimes I feel as if I’m nothing more than a retarded kid, while he… he seems to have grown up, all of a sudden. And he’s growing away. Away from me. And I… I… I need him, Bill. Only I don’t know what to do to keep him.”

  “Well, I’ll tell you a good way to start,” said Bill, ruffling his blond curls gently for a moment with a huge red paw. Richard blinked at him hopefully.

  “You can start by getting it all off your chest,” said Bill. “I’ll go and sort out the order, then I’ll be back. They haven’t got a scorer, so I’ll volunteer for first shift with their book. Then you can tell your Uncle Bill all about it.” And gradually, between balls and overs, at first in fits and starts, then gradually getting into his stride, Richard did.

  * * *

  When he had finished pouring out his half-formed worries and fears, Bill sat pensively for a couple of overs, mechanically recording the progress of the match in bold, firm strokes of his pen, while Richard maintained his usual immaculate pencilled sheet. At last he delivered his verdict.

  “You’re worryin too much, our kid,” he said. “Mostly about nothin. Up to now you been a bouncy, easy-goin kid with nothin to worry about. Now you’ve gone from one extreme to the other, an you’re tryin to take all the problems a the entire gay community on your own shoulders. Well, no one can do that, an no one, no community, is worth the trouble. I seen enough a you an Stevie to know people like you’re just ordinary people. They don’t need you to take their worries on board. They’d rather sort out their own troubles, an in the long run there’s no one else who can in any case. So your cue is, let em sort em out for emselves, an stop worryin.

  “Also, you’re worryin too much about upsettin this boozer a yours. They can take care a their problems, too, and they don’t need you or Steve to worry about em, either. Sure you’ve made changes down there — much-needed, some of em, by the sound of it. Okay, so what? You wanna make changes to somethin you own, so make em. But if you’re gonna make em, have the courage a your own convictions: make your changes, an then sleep easy. You’ve said you’re gonna take a holiday. Right. I think that’s very sensible. Have your holiday, an make it a long one. You can afford it now, can’t you? So what the hell’s standin in your way? Nothin. When you go back to the pub, go back an breeze in as if nothin’s happened, an start runnin the show how you wanna run it again. Anyone doesn’t like it, well, fuck em, son. It’s your show, not theirs. They don’t like it, they can go somewhere else. Your friends’ll stay with you. Anyone who doesn’t ain’t a friend, an any friends you lose by tryin to make things better ain’t worth keepin.

  “I like this idea for takin a rise outa this dentist, what’s his name? Gibson. Yeah. Do that. I’d like to be in on that meself, as it happens. Will you keep me posted about it? Good. Other than that, leave the runnin a the place to your man Tom. He struck me as a good sort when we were down there. Let him run it within your guidelines, an you an Stevie concentrate on enjoyin life. That way you go some way back to bein how you used to be, an at the same time you shoulder whatever of your new responsibilities you wanna shoulder. That’s the only one’s you need to shoulder. You can sell the boozer any time you like, remember. An really, son, that’s about it. Ain’t much else to say.”

  Richard sat absorbing Bill’s homily, thinking about it. When he looked up at Bill’s craggy face Bill had his reward. Richard’s face was alight, and he looked more sure of himself than he had for weeks. “Thanks, Bill,” he said earnestly. “You’re a good sort. And you’re right, of course. I’ll do as you say.”

  Bill grinned down at him. “Champagne for your real friends, our kid,” he said. “An real pain for your sham friends. Never forget that. Ah. End a the over. I’m gonna find a relief.”

  He squeezed past Richard and left the scorebox. Richard called him as he passed in front of the hatch. “Steve needs six for fifteen hundred runs this season,” he said, “and eleven for his fifty.”

  “I’ll tell em,” said Bill reassuringly, and hurried across to the enclosure to find a substitute scorer.

  A couple of overs later there was a roar as Stephen flicked a fast leg-cutter through mid-wicket for four. “Fifteen hundred, Stevie,” came a bellow in Bill’s stentorian voice. “Jugsville!” Stephen was out next ball. He trailed in, managing to look sheepish and delighted at the same time, and was engulfed in a tidal wave of white-clad figures and half-dragged, half-carried headlong to the bar. A few minutes later he emerged from the pavilion with his hair tousled and wearing his sweater rucked up round his waist, and came over to the scorebox with two pint glasses. He slipped into the box, put the glasses on the desk and stroked Richard’s thigh gently underneath it, out of sight of anyone passing or pausing to lean in and pass the time of day. “Bill says you had a bit of a heart-to-heart,” he said at length.

  Richard nodded. “Yes,” he said, happily. “We did. He talked a lot of sense into me. It was high time somebody did, I think.”

  Stephen grinned at him, and drank a lot of lager. “Good old Bill,” he said reflectively. “I sometimes think he’s got more common sense in his head than most of the rest of the people we know put together.”

  “I’m going to enjoy this holiday,” said Richard.

  “So am I,” said Stephen. “Cheers.”

  14

  They played out a frustrating, rain-sodden draw the next day. On the Monday morning Stephen settled down to make a series of telephone calls. The last to be ticked off the list was to a local taxi firm, and there he drew a blank. The receptionist was perfectly civil and willing to send a cab to her youthful-sounding caller until he told her where he wanted to go. That, she informed him, was over a hundred miles away. “I don’t think your pocket money’d quite run to that, sonny,” she said, laughing openly at him. To his intense irritation she refused to take his angry protestations seriously, and eventually got a little irate herself, tell
ing him she’d got better things to do than play silly buggers with little boys, before smacking the phone down on him with an angry click. He glared at the receiver in his hand as if it was personally to blame, then banged it down quite as hard as the girl at the other end had banged hers. “Bloody cheek!” he snapped. “Cheeky cow!” He looked up to see Richard laughing at him as well. For a moment his brows creased. Then his face relaxed into a grin. “I’ll box a bit cleverer than that with the next one,” he said, flicking through the yellow pages and preparing to go into battle once more.

  When the next firm answered he was meekness itself, asking humbly for a cab to take him a mile to the town centre. It was promised without question.

  They were waiting outside Richard’s house when the car arrived, and Stephen enjoyed himself greatly watching the rapidly changing expressions on the driver’s face. “There’s been a slight change of plan,” he announced, slipping into the front seat, while Richard clambered into the back.

  “Oh, yeah,” yawned the driver. “Where to now, then?”

  Stephen told him, and he promptly switched off the engine and shot a suspicious look sideways at his passenger. “You know how far that is, son?” he demanded. “I ain’t got time for schoolboy pranks,” he added before Stephen had had time to open his mouth to answer.

  “Why,” said Stephen, meditatively, “does everybody who works for taxi firms call you ‘son’, or ‘sonny’? Is it part of the training? Do you have to go to taxi college, where they teach you to call anybody my age that? And why can’t I get any taxi driver to take me seriously when I tell them I want to go somewhere a long way away?”

  “Because it’ll cost you about seventy quid,” said the driver sharply. “An there ain’t many schoolboys got that kinda money to blow on cab fares, that’s why.”