At the sound of footsteps on the path I was as nervous as a baby. Mum scampered up the stairs for the sake of decency, determined that no visitors should see her in her dressing-gown.
“Have a good day,” she called.
“Thanks.”
I opened the door and there was Richard standing there in blue jeans and a pale blue sweater.
We both wanted to touch each other then just like any other young couple would, but the conventions we’d grown up with restrained us, kept us apart like dolls on strings. I flushed and picked up my bag.
“The forecast’s rain,” Richard said quietly. “Perhaps you ought to bring a coat.”
“In the middle of June,” I said, tutting like an old hen as I took my anorak from the hall cupboard just in case.
I put my belongings in the back seat of the green Cortina, and then seated myself in the front next to Richard. I was too afraid to look into his eyes, scared that the whole impossible day would go horrendously wrong.
“Relax,” he said as I fumbled with a seat belt. He reached over and touched my arm and I turned, met his gaze, and knew everything would be all right. I’d seldom been as happy as I was then, with him close to me and the prospect of us spending the whole day together.
The roads near the promenade were jammed with the cars of holiday-makers, most of whom were sheltering in their hotel and boarding-house rooms. Rain fell from an iron grey sky in thin misty showers and a few dripping holidaymakers struggled along the streets, pulling their restless children behind them.
The Amusement Arcade on the pier was packed with people of all ages, shoving money into machines that whirred and jangled, flashing tempting lights before disappointing the daytime gamblers. We took a look inside and then retreated back into the fresh air and the drizzle that dampened our hair and left our clothes moist to the touch.
Everyone around us seemed glum and bad-tempered; a woman yelled at her young children and two elderly people looked at each other with worn faces and found nothing to say. Most of the holiday-makers couldn’t find time to smile. Some leaned over the pier rails, staring mournfully out to sea as if they wished they’d decided to risk it in sunny Spain.
Richard stared down at the waves crashing onto the shore beneath us, white water breaking round the black rusty rails that supported the pier. Above us the gulls, with grey black-tipped wings and white faces, wheeled and circled, crying out hoarsely to one another before swooping down in a flurry of wings to settle on the waves. We watched them bobbing up and down like grey floats.
“It’s funny, isn’t it?” Richard said suddenly, turning his grey eyes towards me.
“What is?”
“Us. You and me. I never thought that you’d like me. You do like me, don’t you?”
I nodded, wanting to reach out and take his hand, but two old people were standing next to us, and I was afraid of being seen joining fingers with another man. My fear annoyed me, and Richard glanced at me, questioning the anger that crossed my face like a cloud.
“What is it, Martin?”
“Nothing.”
“Tell me.”
“We can’t touch.” I even found myself lowering my voice. A breeze swept my words away like useless bits of paper and I knew Richard hadn’t heard.
“Martin … ?”
“Let’s go somewhere quieter,” I said, loudly. “Away from the people.”
Richard nodded, understanding.
“It’s a long walk,” he said, “but there’s a beach along the far end in front of a field that’s never used. Especially today with the rain.”
“I’ll follow you,” I said, and again I wanted to take his hand. It was such an easy thing for a boy and girl to do without thinking, without having to worry what anyone else would feel. I wondered if it would always be like this, always the worry of what other people would think, always having to hide my feelings.
“Cheer up,” said Richard. “I’m here. Remember.”
For the tiniest moment he rested his hand on my shoulder, it might have been a brotherly pat, and then he turned away and walked through the thin trail of people wandering along the pier, wrapped in their macs or sheltering beneath umbrellas.
The beach was deserted. Richard ran down the slope that would hide us from anyone’s eyes and jogged along the shore, teasing the waves with nimble feet that avoided getting soaked. I followed behind him, keeping my distance from the breaking waves, knowing I would end up wet-socked if I played the game. I wondered if the nickname Jumbo would stick at the college in Hull, when I’d be slow-footed on the tennis court and the football field. But September was miles away. I told myself that all this summer there would be me and Richard.
“Dreaming,” Richard called out. “Dreaming, Clyde?”
“Clyde?” I shouted back.
Richard retreated from a wave and then half-fell, half-sat back on the grey blue pebbles on the beach.
“Your new name,” he said, turning and smiling at me. “Clyde. Do you mind?”
“No … I suppose not.”
“I don’t like ‘Martin’.”
“I hate Jumbo more. Martin’s all right. But Clyde, what made you think of that?”
“You’re big and gentle. Someone called Clyde should be just like you.”
“It sounds like a cart-horse to me … I don’t mind it, though.”
I sat down awkwardly beside him, and we looked at each other, uncertain of touching.
“Big and gentle,” I said. “Is that what you think?”
“Well, you’re over six foot, aren’t you? You dwarf me.”
“And gentle?”
Richard looked at me quickly.
“You shouldn’t get a complex about that,” he said. “I don’t think you’re weak at all. Gentle is a compliment.”
“Not for a rugby player.” I smiled uneasily.
Richard’s face stayed serious, and for some reason I held my breath.
“But you’re a person first of all,” he said. “Everyone should be gentle. It means you have a caring respect for other people. It’s nothing to do with soft.”
The firmness in his voice somehow intensified the feeling between us and, as we looked deep into each other’s eyes, I felt his hand grazing my face. Slowly, he drew my head towards him, and we kissed lightly.
“Well … ?” he said. “You look surprised.”
“I expected it to be different.”
“Different?”
“From kissing a girl. It feels the same.”
Richard kissed me again, only the moment was longer this time. A surge of feeling filled me and my hands took hold of his shoulders and held him close. It seemed the most natural thing in the world to do and, as we drew apart, I laughed because suddenly I was no longer afraid. “It’s better,” I said.
“That’s because you care,” he said, quietly. “Perhaps you didn’t care for the girl.”
“I liked Margaret … ” I began and then I flushed, embarrassed.
“Liking isn’t quite the same, is it?”
“No. I want you.” The words came with difficulty and Richard’s fingers smoothed the lines on my face away. I took his hand and held it tightly.
“And Margaret?” he said.
“I slept with her, but afterwards … it was awful, like it was nothing. I didn’t want to touch her.”
“Does she know?”
“That I’m homosexual?”
Richard frowned,and then turned away.
“I don’t like that word,” he said. “It’s a term, a label. Don’t you think you’re more than that? Don’t you believe you’re a feeling person?”
“Of course.”
“Then there’s no need for labels, is there? We’re all people, Martin, whoever we fall in love with.”
There was a silence.
“But if I’m in love with another man … ” I began, awkwardly.
“Then that’s all you are. In love with a man. Love doesn’t stop you from being a person. It hel
ps you be a better human being. No one is totally male, Martin, or totally female. We’re a mixture of both; a part of Mum and a part of Dad. Everyone is. Everyone has feelings towards someone of the same sex, whether it’s as a friend or as a lover. In some people these feelings are stronger, that’s all. A particular person might bring certain feelings out.”
Richard hesitated.
“The only man I’ve slept with was married. He even had two kids. He loved them. It tore him apart that he wanted me. He couldn’t accept that that was just the way he was; he happened to be attracted to me. He slept with me, but that didn’t make him homosexual … But he wanted to fit, Martin. He wanted to fit himself in a stupid box with a foolish label. Only Homosexual and Married Man didn’t go together. He almost cracked up … So don’t tear yourself apart, Martin. You’re a person, that’s what counts most of all. You’re capable of caring for other people. Be glad of that. Some people find it so hard to love. They’re just motivated by desire, or what they think is desire, and they channel it the way society believes they should, towards a husband or a wife. Society doesn’t make room for people like him, for people like us.”
He turned and looked at me.
“We make room for ourselves. With love.”
There was a long, long silence. Richard stood up and walked along the shore, stooping to pick up a handful of stones that he cast one by one into the waves. After a while, I followed him, treading uncertainly over the pebbles.
It started to rain again. Richard stood and watched the waves rolling in. The rumble and rush of the foaming breakers was loud in our ears. I reached out and took his hand.
“I don’t mind the rain,” he said.
“I should hope not,” I said. “Not with me holding your hand.”
Richard laughed, and I moved closer towards him, reaching out my arms. He pressed his face against my shoulder and I shivered because he felt so small and vulnerable in my arms.
“Even if it thunders,” I whispered. “Remember I care.”
And suddenly he pulled away.
“But for how long?” he said, the uncertainty cutting into his face in tight white scars.
I wanted to reassure him, reassure myself. Everyone is afraid of caring. Everyone is afraid of being left alone.
“I don’t know,” I said, and then I realised I was scared too. We couldn’t know for sure what lay ahead.
I reached out and held his hand. And I was happy. Wishing it would be like this forever. The sense of closeness, the shared delight.
He traced my brow with his fingers gently.
“We have today at least,” I said, and smiled.
Available from Alyson Publications, 40 Plympton St, Boston, MA 02118.
Flame
Flame: A Life On The Game UK S3.50/US $6.50
It is 1971, and working-class life in Liverpool holds little promise for 14-year-old Stephen as he waits to leave school. “I’m not going to stay around here, honey, working in a factory. I’m going out there, where there’s life. I’m going to be a prostitute, just like my mum.” So Stephen became Flame, and this is his true story.
Stephen Airey
Messer Rondo and other stories by gay men UK S3.50/US $6.50
Messer Rondo is a secret society invented by two 12-year-old desperadoes who get precociously involved in the gay movement. This hilarious schoolboy adventure leads our second fiction collection, also featuring stories by David Rees, Peter Robins, Tom Clarkson and others.
Tom Wakefield
Mates UK £3.50/US $6.50
Cyril and Len meet up doing National Service in the 1950s. Their life together spans three decades, set against the changing position of gay people in society.
“I enjoyed Mates immensely” (Edmund White).
“Succeeds triumphantly” (Him).
David Rees
The Milkman’s On His Way UK £2.50/US $4.95
A classic novel of growing up gay, and the struggle for a positive gay identity.
“One of the most important works of gay fiction to emerge for some time … a more convincing portrayal of gay coming-of-age is not to be had” (Mister).
Barry Nonweiler
That Other Realm of Freedom UK £4.50/US $8.50
Simon Palmer, idealistic but naive, leaves Glasgow hoping to find fulfilment in early 1970s London, but has to travel on to New Zealand before he begins to understand his hopes and needs.
“A major first novel, truly accomplished” (Outrage).
Who Lies Inside Page 12