CHAPTER NINE
My mother hit the roof when she first saw the state I was in, and became even more agitated and voluble than Bo had been. At the same time, she continued to hug and kiss me in spite of my pleas to be less demonstrative if only for the sake of a fragile physiognomy. Moreover, in spite of my best efforts to reassure her that my battered looks were deceptive and things weren’t nearly as bad as they might appear, she remained stubbornly unconvinced. Even so, I put up little resistance once packed off to bed with the promise of a hot toddy ringing in my ears.
Thankful though I was to climb into my own bed and snuggle under the flowery duvet, I was already nursing grave reservations about coming home. I would miss The Pav and its hectic pattern of everyday existence, Bo’s no-holds barred policy of looking after genuine punters and no-nonsense attitude towards any riff-raff elements. I would miss, too, Sebastian’s clipped instructions in the management of wines and haute cuisine. On the other hand, being fussed over by my mother for a while would make a nice change from other routines it had been necessary to take in my stride; banging my head on the way down to the cellar to change a barrel or fetch a particular vintage of wine; trying to making sense of figures on the computer in Bo’s office; making out I wasn’t too bothered by the relatively harmless but invariably on-target banter of colleagues...
My mother no more believed my story about an altercation with the bonnet of a Fiesta that failed to stop after sending me flying halfway across the road than had Bo. He, though, hadn’t pressed me on the matter. A man always content to let the odd whopper pass if it meant a quieter life was Bo. Not so, my mother. She kept saying I should be in hospital, and was only slightly mollified when I agreed she should call out our GP. “The police should be told,” she kept insisting while I, in turn, repeatedly pointed out that, since I could give them no hard information, not even a licence plate number, there was precious little point. In the end, I feigned sleep and breathed a sigh of relief when I heard the door close behind her. I hated lying to her, but neither could I face telling her the truth.
My brother, Paul, having rowed with girlfriend Hayley’s father over alleged abuse of the immersion heater for baths, had moved back home. We saw little of each other except at meals once my mother decided it was high time I should get up for these, not lie in bed and expect to be waited on. Paul, for his part, displayed no interest in either my welfare or career prospects. In turn, I felt under no obligation to make small talk or express fraternal concern for his perpetual testiness. Consequently, any time we spent in the same room was punctuated by smouldering silences. In vain, our mother made stoic attempts to relieve the tension with idle chit-chat or the occasional morsel of local gossip. Invariably, though, after a token response from either Paul or me, one or both of us would make our excuses and seek sanctuary elsewhere.
Peter Short was a regular visitor to the house. The frank affection with which he and my mother always greeted each other gave little green monsters the go-ahead to use my tummy for a trampoline. I could but resign myself to the situation with the least ill grace I could muster. When Short was around, I made myself scarce. Oh, I’d force myself to make the occasional goodwill gesture by politely enquiring how the library was faring in the light of persistent council cuts in local services. More than likely, though, I’d resort to exchanging inane comments about that old British stand-by, the weather. If Paul happened to be within earshot, he’d fling me dark looks of hurt betrayal, and flounce off to lick his wounds.
My mother surprised and disappointed me by appearing to take my brother’s behaviour in her stride. There was no wringing of hands, no tearful scenes, and no running after him every time he took off in a foul mood.
No one dared mention a wedding.
I was up and about and starting to feel ready, willing, and able to face the world again when Clive Rider called round. By now, the bruising on my face and neck had subsided to purplish yellow blotches. Thankfully, my clothes hid the worst. The arm I had thought might be broken remained stiff, but increasingly less redundant.
Clive, too, refused to swallow my story of the phantom Fiesta. Moreover, he made it clear that he was in no doubt the lion’s share of blame for my sorry circumstances lay with me. Nor was he any less circumspect about conveying the news that I had only avoided being replaced as manager elect of his latest enterprise by a less than a hair’s breath.
Work on the club was progressing well, it appeared. “Mind you, it’s costing me an arm and a leg to keep the buggers at it,” he groaned, “Still, we should be open for Halloween.”
“Really? As soon as that...?” I whistled appreciatively.
“Soon?” he snorted, “I could have opened next week if God had seen fit to make me a brickie!” I smiled inwardly at the notion of those pink, chubby hands mixing concrete or laying bricks.
What will you call it?”
“The Cul de Sac,” he snapped defensively. I said nothing. “You don’t like it?”
“It’s alright I suppose,” I conceded, but could not disguise my disappointment.
“Alright isn’t good enough so if you’ve got a better idea, let’s hear it.”
“How about The Constellation?” I suggested. I had been turning the name over in my head for weeks.
Rider was not enthusiastic. “The Constellation...”He tried it out on his tongue, practically spitting out every syllable. “It’s too much of a mouthful.” He grimaced/ “Everything hangs by a name in business, lad. If it’s hard to say, it won’t go far, you can be sure of that. Trust me. It won’t go far at all.”
“It would get to be known as The Connie soon enough,” I pointed out. I had a good feeling about this and was not easily put off.
Rider’s expression became thoughtful, the foxy eyes blinking furiously. After a few minutes deliberation, he favoured me with of his rare smiles. “I like it, be damned if I don’t!” He banged his fist on my knee and I yelped with pain. He made no apology, but sprawled in my father’s favourite armchair smirking like a cat that’s been at the cream. “Yes, I like it!” he repeated but without inflicting further injury. The Connie it is, young Rob,” he declared then, “You had better start thinking about staff. Put an ad in the local newspaper and sort something with the Job Centre people etcetera, etcetera.”
“Me?”
“Of course you. Who else? You do still want to manage the place don’t you?” I nodded. “Good. In that case, the sooner you start getting your act together, the better for everyone. I’m not paying you to fart around.”
“I’ve not been well,” I commented acidly.
“You can walk, talk, read and write can’t you? You didn’t strike me as the type to fall at the first hurdle or I’d never have offered you the job. But if you don’t think you’re up to it…”
“I am!” I said more loudly than I intended, “I’m up to whatever it takes,” I added for good measure.
“I’m glad to hear it,” was Rider’s dour response.
“Will you want to do the interviews yourself?”
“Too right, I will. What do you take me for, a complete idiot? Naturally I’ll leave the short-listing to you. Just be sure and give me a bell when everything’s set up. We’ll interview staff together. I’d have thought that goes without saying. Me, because I’ll be paying the buggers their wages and you because you’re the patsy who gets to carry the can if anyone steps out of line. Oh, and be sure to organize some alternative dates. I’ll have to check my diary before you finalise anything.” He rose abruptly and made for the front door. I hobbled after him. He paused and turned. “Go and look the place over tomorrow. Let me know what you think.” A hint of laughter crept into his voice as he added, “Oh, and try not to scare off the builders. It’s not Halloween yet.” I winced but, if he was aware of any insensitivity, he certainly didn’t show it.
I closed the door after him and began to mull over my new managerial responsibilities. By the time I was sitting down again, my self-confidence had hit rock bottom. I quickly rallied to the sound of my father’s voice banging away in my head, urging me to stop feeling sorry for myself and get stuck in.
So get stuck in, I did. The next day, at around 10.00am, I paid my first visit to the site already breathing life into The Connie. To the casual observer it may have looked a mess. But for the first-time manager of a cafe-cum-restaurant-cum-nightclub, its potential was sheer inspiration. A heady sensation of being master of all I surveyed prompted me to introduce myself to the site manager and offer some words of encouragement.
“Thank you, I’m sure,” was the dry response from a small man with eyes too close together and a crooked nose. “Perhaps you’d care to let Mr Rider know we’re actually making progress? He seems to think we sit around on our backsides all day drinking tea.” He broke off to yell at someone I vaguely recognized. “Put your back into it there, you can go on holiday in your own bloody time!” Before I could say another word, he stomped off in another direction.
Feeling not only conspicuous but also superfluous in a suit and tie, I picked my way with care to the main road. As I did so, a name suddenly came unbidden to my lips. “Baz Pearce!” I exclaimed aloud. The familiar face, barely recognizable under layers of dust and grime, spiky hair hidden under a hard hat, belonged to one of Billy’s old mates, now a regular among Nick Crolley’s band of assorted toe-rags. I was briefly tempted to retrace my steps and have a chat but thought better of it. It would not, I reconsidered with managerial aplomb, look good to be seen fraternizing with the workers.
It was a warm, sunny September, and I had taken to walking by the canal on most days. The sight and sounds of water helped not only to distract me from my wounds and their grim origin, but also focus my attention on the kind of team I would need to run The Connie. Try as I might to discourage them, however, my thoughts invariably homed in and lingered on Matthew Jordan. Nor was I only concerned about returning the clothes I had borrowed, but also, in my mind’s eye, I kept seeing long, slender fingers placing an aspirin on my tongue, a secretive smile in grey eyes... Had they been mocking or teasing me? I could never quite decide. Sometimes I’d gaze into the murky waters of the canal and see those same eyes looking back at me, and imagine myself gladly drowning in them.
It was during just such a fruitless exercise that I passed under a bridge and began to climb some steps, only to have some sixth sense make me glance upwards – into the unsmiling face of Billy’s brother. I hadn’t seen Ed since our encounter in the rose garden. Now, self-conscious about my appearance and anxious not to invite further acrimony, I debated with my alter ego whether to adopt a look of nonchalance and simply brush past him or wait for him to pass me. The latter option emerged a clear winner since my feet refused to budge.
Ed drew level with me and paused. I tried to ignore him, jutting out my jaw in what was meant to convey a sense of controlled emotion.
“Hi there,” he said quietly. I tried to summon a witty response and ended up saying nothing. “Look…” He hesitated, “I was out of order the last time we met. I’m sorry.” Startled, I looked him in the eye. His expression was sincere enough but a devil at my shoulder wasn’t convinced. “I was pissed out of my head, as you may have noticed.” He shrugged and gave what I might have read as a self-deprecating shrug if an indefinable something in his manner hadn’t suggested otherwise. So intent was I on digesting and attempting to analyse this unexpected apology that I failed to spot the outstretched hand until it was being withdrawn.
Flummoxed, I fumbled for a suitable reply. It came, both unwelcome and unpremeditated. Suddenly, I was back in Matthew Jordan’s bathroom seeing for the first time that obscene felt tip scrawl across my chest. “Go to hell!” I snarled.
Ed’s reaction ran the gamut of surprise, hurt and regret, culminating in barely contained rage. A neat ball of phlegm flew past my right cheek before Billy’s brother went on his way at the same leisurely pace as before.
I scrambled up the steps and sat, panting on a low wall. I shut my eyes and spent several frantic minutes fighting off rough hands of all shapes and sizes, their felt tip fingers clawing at every part of my body. To my horror, I felt a damp, sticky patch in my underpants. Thereupon, I leapt to my feet and ran all the way home. It started to rain. I heard someone call my name. Through a curtain of mist, I glimpsed and heard Ben Hallas shouting to me from the opposite bank. But I didn’t want to see and I didn’t want to hear. It felt like an intrusion.
I ran all the faster.
All the time, Ed Mack’s apology snaked up and down my spine spitting venom. Worse, I began to have second thoughts. Suppose the apology had been genuine? How petty and vindictive I must have appeared, throwing it back in his face. I then proceeded to do a good job of persuading myself that Ed deserved it. Hadn’t he shown his true colours in the rose garden? Wasn’t he the archetypal queer basher? Besides, I didn’t have it in me to be petty and vindictive, or so I told myself. Whatever, by the time I arrived home I was convinced I’d struck a blow for gay men everywhere. Even so, a warm glow of self-righteousness stirred up a swarm of creepy-crawlies in my bone marrow.
That night I tossed and turned in a travesty of sleep, forced to acknowledge that there was no justifiable comparison between Ed Mack and the felt-tip thugs. Adam the chameleon’s leering expression and ghastly laugh at seeing his henchmen go to work on me kept me half awake. Eventually, my imagination sought comfort from the steady rise and fall of Matthew Jordan’s hot breath on the back of my neck and the silk of his pyjamas against my skin.
The next day I received official notification that Bryan Chester’s trial had been brought forward to the last week in October and my presence would be required as a witness. I had mixed feelings about it. (I seemed to have mixed feelings about most things in those days). I didn’t relish another roasting in the full glare of publicity. At the same time, I looked forward with perverse anticipation to playing my part in putting Chester behind bars. He deserved nothing less than a life sentence, the bastard.
I clenched my fist and wanted to cry. Only, I didn’t cry, couldn’t cry and hadn’t yet been able to cry for Billy. Oh, I grieved. I missed him. Oh, how I missed him! The intensity of his presence was always with me. But shed tears? No. I read somewhere once that crying is a way of letting go. Maybe, I sometimes wondered, that’s why I couldn’t cry for Billy? I wasn’t ready to let go. Not now. Not yet, if ever…
I was unhappy, to say the least, that the trial would clash with the grand opening of The Constellation. Not so, Clive Rider. When I gave him the news, he rubbed his podgy hands in glee, loudly speculating on the extra business Chester’s trial was certain to generate. “We’ll steal their thunder, just you see if we don’t!” he chuckled, waving his heavily ringed fingers and performing a little jig. “My manager was there. My manager saw it all...” slapping me on the back now, forgetful of my bruises and slowly mending ribs. “Next to Chester, young Rob, you’ll be the hottest news in town,” he assured me. I felt sick and faint. Nor could I help but wonder, and not for the first time, if this hadn’t been Clive Rider’s ulterior motive in choosing me for a protégé? I hastily excused myself. It wouldn’t do to let my suspicions surface or, worse, have them confirmed.
In the space of a few soul-searching days, I reached the conclusion that the how and why of my situation mattered little if at all. It was up to me to make the most of a golden opportunity. Wasn’t I being handed entrepreneurial prospects on a plate, for heaven’s sake? If Clive Rider was using me for his own ends…Well, two could play at that game.
One afternoon, after laboriously wording and re-wording an ad for the local rag’s Situations Vacant column, I went for a walk in the park. Avoiding the rose garden, I headed for the beautifully mounted floral beds that spelt out the town’s name in a dazzling array of seasonal colour. I could smell autumn in the air. Birds were singing away just about everywhere, less passionately perhaps than in spring or summer but no less spiritedly for that.
“A penny for ’em?” a familiar voice penetrated the leafy chorus in my head. I turned to find Shaun Devlin grinning up at me from a bench only a few centimetres from where I stood. A rush of pleasure all but caused me to lose my balance. It seemed ages since I had last enjoyed the company of a good friend.
That afternoon with Shaun was pure magic. I found myself enthusing about The Pav with all kinds of lively anecdotes that has us both in stitches. He sobered up quickly enough though when I skipped over the attack on me. “I did wonder about the walking wounded act,” he commented wryly.
“No act!” I assured him with feeling.
“So I see,” was all he said and I felt slightly peeved by his lack of sympathy. I told him about Mathew Jordan’s kindness while skirting any sexual implications.
“Sounds like a nice guy to know,” Shaun agreed, “You were dead lucky, I reckon.”
“I was nearly dead, dead!” I retorted. At this, we both burst out laughing. Any brief awkwardness quickly evaporated.
In the course of relating events to Shaun, I almost let slip about the Half Moon and its being a gay bar but managed to guard my tongue. Instead, I made a general reference to “some pub up West.” Billy had been like a brother to Shaun. I had no wish to provide food for thought regarding the relationship between Billy and me. At the same time, I wondered if he knew. After all, hadn’t I underestimated Bo Devine? Maybe I was underestimating Shaun too. A dry chuckle rose in my throat. The two men were a different as two people could be. Besides, Billy and I had been discreet.
Any likelihood of the gutter press discovering the truth about Billy and me filled me with dread. Bryan Chester’s trial would be nightmare enough, without its fuelling gossip about Billy’s sexuality. No one had pointed a finger - yet.
I groaned inwardly. I wasn’t ready to go public about myself let alone give the local rag cause to drag Billy’s name into what promised to be a very difficult if not unsavoury time for all concerned.
“What’s up?” Shaun sensed my change of mood.
"The trial,” I admitted, “I’m dreading it.”
“And so say all of us!” Another awkward pause followed then, “At least you’ll be able to drum up extra business on the back of it. It will help you take your mind off things,” he added hastily and must have read the look on my face. “I hear you’ll be managing this new pub…”
“It’s not a pub,” I muttered heatedly, “It’s a night club. Well, sort of. It will double as a café and Leisure Centre of sorts that will be open during the day as well. That is, if the builders ever get their skates on and get the job finished.”
“I thought it was looking pretty good the last time I walked past. Wow, a nightclub, eh? I’m impressed.” He paused. “Don’t you think that’s a bit sophisticated for the folks around here though?” I shrugged, unwilling to confide I shared his reservations about Clive Rider’s pet project. “It will be more than a nightclub, though, eh?” He seemed to be mulling it over. “Leisure Centre, hmm, and open during the day, too, you say? Well, it certainly sounds like something we can use around here. That is, if you manage to blast your way through local opposition on one side and sheer apathy on the other.”
Since Shaun seemed genuinely interested, I was only too happy to go into more detail. The Connie’s front bar, I explained, would be open as a wine bar/ diner at lunchtimes until 3.00 pm. At 8.00pm it would reopen as a club/ restaurant until 2.00 am. In the evenings, the front bar would be shut down and punters would be admitted directly into a larger bar leading into an area combining several smaller bars that would include dining facilities with space set aside for dancing as well as a stage for floorshows. There would also be a games area set aside for snooker, table tennis and the like.
"I’m surprised you got planning permission.”
“The site’s set well back from residential areas,” I pointed out and saw no reason to mention that Clive Rider was the sort to make a point of having friends in the right places.
“I’m in the market for a job if there’s one going,” he said with a cheeky grin. I thought he was joking at first. “Can you put in a word for me with Rider?” Shaun persisted, and I saw he was serious.
“I thought you liked working at the Black Swan?”
“I do, but I fancy a change. Mind you,” he added with a grin, “the money’s got to be good.”
“You’d be working for me,” I pointed out.
“So?” he countered cheerfully, “I can live with that if you can, and you’d be getting the best barman South of Watford.” I considered the prospect, Bo Devine shrieking in my head, Never but never mix business with pleasure, dear heart. But this was different. I had known Shaun all my life. It would be good to have someone on board I could trust, chew things over with whenever I felt out of my depth. “Come to the Black Swan one night and see me in action,” he continued, “I’m head barman there now. No great shakes, I agree, but it beats being counter fodder. I get to help with the books too. The boss is hopeless when it comes to computers. Me, I’m the original whiz kid.” He laughed, with the quiet satisfaction of someone who knows they have succeeded in getting their point across to a sceptical audience.
“I’m impressed,” I laughed along with him.
“You will be,” he promised gravely as we ambled companionably towards the nearest exit.
I went to the Black Swan that evening and saw for myself that Shaun was very capable and popular behind a busy bar. It was no more than I expected. I had not, on the other hand, expected to find Lou there. “Loopy” Lou as I still thought of her had turned up to keep me company. It was a good evening, the first of many I would spend with Shaun and his wife. Lou had a nice way of making a person feel at home. We didn’t talk a lot, but felt comfortable with each other so there was no need. Now and then Shaun would join us, teasing Lou about chatting up other men. He meant me of course. She would respond in kind and flirt with me outrageously. At first I was embarrassed, but soon got over that and joined in the fun. In no time, all three of us were giggling like a bunch of school kids.
I hadn’t experienced this kind of closeness among friends since the days when Ben Hallas and I, along with a motley assortment of childhood pals, had played at Robin Hood and his Merry Men in Forty Acres Wood. I chuckled at the memory. Shaun would be there too, invariably playing Little John to my Sheriff of Nottingham. Ben had always been our Robin Hood. I had a vague recollection of Baz Pearce hanging out with us in those days as well. No girls, though, so Maid Marian never got to put in an appearance. I asked Shaun if he had seen anything of Ben Hallas lately.
“Not a lot,” Shaun admitted, “I hear he’s off to university soon. He always did have more brains than sense.” He laughed and turned to Lou, “You used to fancy Ben, if my memory serves me right.”
“It doesn’t,” snapped Lou but with a smile, bright pink spots on both cheeks. “No more than you fancied his sister!” she retorted and it was Shaun’s turn to look sheepish, “but I forgive you.” She tried to sound solemn but both burst into peals of laughter seconds before their lips closed on a long, passionate kiss.
Had Ben known, I wondered inconsequentially? Time was, Ben and I told each other everything. A niggling sense of regret persisted all evening, but I refused to let it spoil my pleasure at being with Shaun and Lou. Ben Hallas and I were ancient history, I kept reminding myself. I had moved on. Soon, he would be at university and forget all about me. What did I care? Who are you trying to kid? A still small voice at my ear would not go away.
After closing time, we took fish and chips back to the studio flat they rented over a grocery store in Maitland Street. The flat itself was poky and damp and all they could afford. I had a fair idea what Shaun’s earnings amounted to and didn’t imagine Lou earned much more as a trainee hairdresser at a salon in the High Street. It was amazing, though, what a few licks of paint, glossy posters on the walls and some basic but tasteful furnishings could do. Whatever its shortcomings as a des res, it looked and felt like a home. I was more than a little envious as we played CD tracks over coffee and crisps until late.
As I made my way home in the early hours, a warm glow in me had already begun to subside. In its place, the familiar chill of loneliness began egging on feelings of self-pity. Nor was it to Shaun and Lou that my thoughts turned as soon as my head hit the pillow. A hazy image of Billy Mack’s profile in my mind’s eye quickly faded altogether, superseded instantly by a much clearer perception of Matthew Jordan’s blue-grey eyes and lazy smile.
