“No, this is Terry’s home and he decides who lives here. And that means me, not you.”
“Please Victor, let me in.”
“No, all your stuff is there. If there is anything else you can collect it later.” There was some concession in his voice. Perhaps he knew he could be magnanimous.
“Please Victor!”
Just then Victor was pushed aside and Mumsie thrust her head out of the window.
“Go away, you horrible man. You ruined my Terry. If it wasn’t for you he would be happy,” she drew back as she burst into tears.
“Now look what you have done!” shouted Victor with some satisfaction in his voice.
Just then a picture frame came flying through the window and landed with a crack close to the pile of James’ belongings. It was the picture of Terry and James together that once hung on the bedroom wall, now with the glass broken and the image torn. With that the window slammed shut.
James looked at what lay before him. His only hope was for Terry to let him back in, but that was impossible with him lying half-conscious in a hospital bed. James gathered up his things. Most of it had been put in the black bags so it was easy to carry and in three trips to the roadside he filled his car.
Once loaded he had the compulsion to drive away. He felt so wounded, so abused, there was no way he wanted to linger outside the house. He drove out of the village, but did not know where to go. A few miles later he pulled up into a lay-by to think. It was the same one Terry and he had passed on Christmas Day, just over six months before. He knew it was the place where men look for sex with men, but nothing was further from his thoughts. He had nowhere to live, no prospect for a bed for that night, and even if he had he would not have been able to sleep.
Chapter 15
After a night in the car, which is no great hardship in the summer months, and James was very grateful it was not winter, a friend offered him a place to stay for a few nights. Going back to live at the old farmhouse was never realistic.
James did manage to talk to Terry at the hospital, but his replies were vague. Terry said James could visit him at home whenever he wanted, but maybe for the moment it was best if he stayed somewhere else, until things settled down and Mumsie was won over. Terry spoke about how he missed him and wanted him back, but it was obvious he had to make a choice, and Mumsie had made herself indispensable. Like anyone in a deep crisis there was something primeval about the choice Terry had made. As a friend said to James, when soldiers are dying on the battlefield it is their mothers they call out for, not their partners. Mumsie was not one to share her indispensability, for the monopoly gave her status and power.
After a few days at one friend’s house, James would move on to another place. He didn’t want to be a burden to anyone, or outstay his welcome. He lived out of two suitcases and the contents of his car. Rachel let him stay at the old family house if she was going away for the weekend and needed someone to look after the children. After a couple of months he found a more permanent place to rent.
James carried in his mind an image of the Terry he had once known. It was the playful Terry, working in the garden or in the house. It was the soft and kind Terry cuddling with him in front of the fire or in bed. It was the excited Terry in shops or at an antique auction. It was the Terry who had gone, withered away in a sick body, starved of the oxygen of hope and a future life. But for all the change he still loved Terry with all his heart, and kept him constantly in his mind. They texted every day, with messages as romantic and unrealistic as at the very beginning of their relationship. It was an escape to another world of pretence and false hope, and both for a while colluded to keep it alive.
For the first three weeks James was allowed to visit Terry. It was when the nurse was there or the volunteer from the hospice. He was only allowed half an hour, because Terry was always tired. They just sat and talked. There was a quick kiss on arrival and departure, but otherwise it was as if a glass wall had come between them. One visit was particularly strange. Terry looked on edge but was keen to ask James questions about his life. It felt like an interview. James was hopeful it might be the beginning of a reconciliation, a chance to come back together. He didn’t realise this was to be the last time he saw Terry, through his own choice. The cruel fact only dawned on him a few days later.
“Hello, is that Charles?” James was very nervous in making the call.
“Yes,” came the quizzical response.
“It’s James,” was the reply.
“James … I know lots of James.” Charles was enjoying his supposed ignorance.
“James, friend of Terry.”
“Yes, what do you want?” was the curt answer.
“Can I come and see you?” asked James.
“I am not sure. You are not really welcome here, after what you have done to Terry.” Charles was taking a tone of moral superiority he could hardly justify.
“Only for a few minutes. I want to ask you a question,” pleaded James knowing that he could appeal to Charles’ sense of importance.
“Well, you can ask me on the phone. You don’t have to come and see me,” said Charles without any softening in his voice.
“I would rather ask you directly, if I may.” James was having to be humble, in the face of a man who had done all he could to split up him and Terry. But James did not care because of his burning desire to know the truth. He thought that for some little discomfort he might discover something precious.
Charles agreed that he could go round to his flat that evening. It was near the Cathedral, and James dreaded coming under the shadow of that building. But it was a time of day when the Close was deserted.
When James got there he found Charles somewhat mellowed, probably with the help of a gin and tonic. Charles was quietly proud James had come to him, which gave him an appreciable advantage over Terry’s other friends. Charles resolved to see him for a few minutes, tell him what he thought of him, something he had been aching to do for months, and send him on his way.
It was fine evening, after a week or so of rain, and Charles poured another glass of gin. It helped to steel his nerves. He only offered one to James so he could have one himself.
“Shall we sit on the balcony,” he said, gesturing towards an open door at the end of the kitchen. They went out into the warm evening air and found two chairs arranged, as far apart as the balcony would allow. From there they had a splendid view of the city, the mix of commercial and industrial buildings, and small terraced houses, their roofs shining wet from the rain. Occasionally a church spire punctured the sky line, like barren leafless trees in a stark wasteland.
Even though the view demanded a comment there were no pleasantries.
“I want to know,” began James, “if you think it was nothing but a sordid affair.”
Charles had not expected such a question, but his answer was easily brought forth. “I don’t think my friend Terry would be capable of a sordid affair. Maybe you would, but he wouldn’t.”
“I need to know because that is what some people are thinking,” explained James.
“What people, who?” interrogated Charles, eager to defend anyone on his side that James might accuse.
“My ex-wife Rachel has received a letter, written by Victor.” As he said it he could see Charles straighten his back. “And in the letter it says that it was just an affair – a sordid affair – of no consequence and that Terry can now die in peace knowing that he has got rid of me.” It took some effort for James to say the words.
“I don’t know your wife, never met her, or your children,” he said, “but I am sure what you did was childish, and so selfish.” Charles was enjoying this condemnation.
“It was like a teenage love affair,” confessed James “and I think we were both too scared to let it grow slowly. It was almost as if we knew there was little time.”
“You mean you let it take over your life, and in your obsession forced Terry to agree. Think of the damage you did, to people like Vict
or, to the church, to your wife and children.”
Charles could not understand how someone could become intoxicated with love. He saw James as a weak man, with the same character fault found in alcoholics and drug addicts.
“Why did you move in so quickly? Victor had hardly left the house. The bed was still warm,” added Charles with some outrage. For him the marital bed was sacrosanct. There were other places to have encounters, car seats, hotel rooms, saunas and in the summer, lay-bys, but never the marital bed.
“It was what Terry wanted,” was James’ reply, knowing it sounded feeble. The urgency of the early days of their relationship seemed a very distant memory. “I think I loved him too much, and only God can love that much. We are not capable of it.”
“What you did was so wrong,” said Charles with a determined morality. He didn’t want to talk theology because it seemed irrelevant to him.
“I didn’t want it to be an affair, that is why I moved in,” said James, attempting to regain some of his dignity. “I didn’t want it to be a secret relationship people whispered about. I wanted the whole world to know I loved Terry.”
“Loved Terry?” questioned Charles.
“Love Terry, actually, and probably always will”, said James as tears began to well up in his eyes. He looked away across the city to the distant horizon where a squat church tower caught the fading sun. He had no desire to cry in front of Charles, but could not help himself. Charles looked down at his drink, not sure what to say. He was enjoying it less now that James seemed so pathetic.
After a moment or two James composed himself and began again.
“They have tried hard to prove I deceived Terry. When I went to see him the other day I sat with him and we talked. I can’t remember what I said, but it was about my life, my marriage, and how everything started. Yesterday Rachel got a recording of the conversation in the post. Word for word she could listen to what I said to Terry. Victor wrote a note to say it showed I was a serial liar, I had always slept around, and Terry was just one amongst many.”
Charles said nothing to contradict what was said. It suited him to be silent.
“To make a secret recording and use it in that way was so wrong,” went on James “and it is not like Terry.”
For the first time Charles felt the pain of what James was saying. His defence of himself and his friends had been disarmed by the raw vulnerability before him. He had hated James, not because he had taken Terry from Victor, but because he had taken Terry from him as a close friend. There was even a time when he had thought Terry with his handsome looks would have been an even closer friend for him. He looked at James as he buried his head in his hands, pausing to compose himself a second time. He was not unattractive, although not handsome like Terry. He began to think that if Terry saw something in him there must be something there.
“I find it hard to believe anyone would do that, but it is certainly wrong.” Charles was disturbed by the idea of secret recordings. He might even be a victim to such tactics if he was not careful.
After a short silence Charles was ready to give his judgment. “It wasn’t an affair, whatever Victor might say. I know that Terry loved you and I talked to him many times about it. He also loved Victor. Sometimes I think he could not decide whom to go for, the same dependable Victor, his ‘comfortable slippers’ as he called him or you James, something new. Perhaps it is Terry who really is responsible for all this mess. I know he found it too difficult to choose, and maybe even prayed to be released from the choice, which he will soon be. He will be dead in a few weeks.”
There was a great deal of contentment in his voice, not just because he had given his view as a friend of Terry, perhaps the best friend of Terry, but also because he saw himself as much more mature and careful. He would never have got himself into such a situation.
There was nothing more to be said. James could not imagine they would ever have a conversation like this again. This was a meeting standing out of time and place, and could not be repeated. James knew Charles already had said too much, or been too open, or even been traitorous in allowing James to know his thoughts. It could not happen again, and he must go.
He got up to leave, and as Charles stood he unconsciously opened his arms. Without thinking James came towards him and flung his arms around him, and just said the word ‘thank you’.
“My goodness,” spluttered Charles. “I think that is enough!”
Both had learned much in the encounter: James had realised Terry had tried to balance his loves and suffered under a terrible dilemma. It had been a monumental decision to go with James, against the advice of those more worldly and wise. Charles had seen a side of James he never knew had existed, an openness and vulnerability. He had always suspected, however much he might have wanted to deny it, that someone whom Terry had loved so much must have qualities, albeit hidden.
Quickly, as Charles showed James to the door, they had to return to reality.
“I have got my wedding date fixed. The archdeacon has agreed to do it.” Charles was obviously pleased with the status that would bring to the occasion. James knew he was not invited and would in any case have found it hard to attend such an event in that place. They parted with a manly handshake. James could hear the door shut even before he had fully turned to go.
The secret recording had changed everything. Although James could not believe Terry had willingly participated in such a deceitful act, he knew such spitefulness made his visits to Terry impossible. He came to the conclusion he could never see him again, preferring to hold in his mind the memory of the other Terry who once was his partner.
However, the text messages continued, their two dimensional form helping James to continue with a fantasy in his mind. Often they were only a word or two: ‘where are you’, ‘miss you’, ‘thinking of you’, and the best of all ‘love you’, or just a ‘kiss’. These came every day for a while but then less frequently. To each one James responded almost instantaneously not knowing whether Terry received the replies. James waited, and almost dreaded, a text saying ‘come and see me’, but the invitation never arrived. He chided himself for being so submissive, but as the days and weeks passed James wanted so much to preserve the image he had of the old Terry. Every day he carried the small bag of stones hidden as a talisman, as he had done for months, and he only had to plunge his hand into his pocket for a physical reassurance of their love.
After another three weeks a memorable text arrived from Victor. The anger and frustration behind the simple words was palpable. “Stay away. You must never contact Terry again. We are now married. I am his husband. He has forgotten all about you.”
James can remember exactly where he was when that text came, and how it brought him to a sudden standstill. He could not believe Terry and Victor had entered into a civil partnership; surely Terry was too ill, too confused, too much under pressure to be allowed to do such a thing. But James knew the determination of Victor, and the way that he could manufacture a situation where Terry would be persuaded. Surely he thought Mumsie would not have allowed it, or had she so been convinced by Victor’s rightful place.
James knew that there was a way to find out. Within minutes he had rung the registrar and enquired if there had been any recent civil partnerships in the area. It took them an hour to check the records and they rang back to say nothing had been recorded. This put James’ mind at rest and he could see how Victor had once again inflated reality to fit his own view on the world. There had been no marriage, or rather a civil partnership, and Victor had no right to call himself the ‘husband’ of Terry.
James knew Terry’s eyesight was now failing, and the dexterity to use a mobile phone was getting beyond his abilities. After a while the text messages stopped altogether. Communication from Terry was reduced to the occasional voice mail, presumably easier to send.
“Hello, sweetheart,” went the recording. “Are you ok?” That was about as much as Terry could manage. It was unnerving to hear Terry’s stutteri
ng voice, so much weaker as each day passed. The voice messages from Terry continued for another month or so, although with longer gaps between them. James carried his phone with him at all times in the anticipation he might hear something.
One day he got to know through a friend Terry had been admitted to the local hospice. Paradoxically the messages from Terry seemed to increase, perhaps because he felt freer when out of the gaze of the family and Victor. On those days James would drive past the hospice slowly and wonder behind which window Terry might be located. He dreamed of sneaking in just so he could catch a glimpse of him. He sent bunches of flowers but kept them anonymous in the hope they might have a better chance of arriving. He never knew if they were accepted. He chose yellow roses because this was Terry’s favourite. When Terry was transferred back home the messages stopped again.
This pattern continued for a month or two until one day late in the autumn. A message arrived from Terry, but its significance for James would only become apparent over time.
“Hello … sweetheart. I just wanted to say, wanted to say, sorry. Sorry for all that is happening and all that has happened. Love you, always.”
In the background James could hear the noise of the hospice ward. He saved the message for as long as he could. No matter how many times James replayed it he could not get Terry to say another word. A month later the battery died on his phone and the message was lost.
There were no more messages. A blank one was sent three weeks later, perhaps the result of a button inadvertently pressed. James could imagine it was a last attempt to make some kind of contact. James’ birthday came and there was nothing from Terry. Christmas Day came, and James waited for a text, blank or otherwise, but nothing arrived. His mind drifted back to the Christmas of the year before.
The New Year dawned but James heart remained locked in the old.
In a hospice room across the city two people sat at the foot of a bed.
“Has he been awake at all today?” asked Mumsie
Gay Before God: An Awakening Love Forbidden by the Church Page 19