Dog Roses - Chapter Fifteen

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

                                                         

I had to tell my mother I was gay. I had put it off far too long already. Shaun and Lou, Matthew too, all urged me not to jump down her throat if she got upset. Am I really such a bastard, I wondered? If that’s how my friends see me, what must everyone else think?  Yet, even with their support assured, I felt so alone, dogpaddling against the tide in a restless sea of misery, striking out with growing desperation for safety, but making precious little progress.  Whenever I started to tell her, I’d lose my nerve. In turn, that made me furious. Perversely, though, I’d not only get angry with Mum, but create a massive brick wall between us and cower behind it. (Any excuse better than none to delay the inevitable confrontation.)  I knew I wasn’t being fair to her. Nor did I need Matthew to keep pointing that out. Consequently, I was like a bear nursing a sore head with just about everyone.

Meanwhile, daily life pressed on without any regard for personal problems.

One afternoon, I took a shortcut through the park on my way to see Bananas. I hadn’t seen him since Ma B passed away and my conscience was giving me hassle about it.  He had, after all, put in a word for me with Clive, not to mention taking on an immature, inexperienced 16 year-old in the first place. It all seemed so long ago now yet it was barely three years since I had dashed through the school gates for that last time, naïve enough to believe that the worst days of my life were over.

Maggie Dillon was sitting on a bench, clearly distressed. Lending a comforting arm around her slumped shoulders was Ed Mack, who flashed me a warning look as I approached. But I was too taken up with my own feelings to care much about anyone else’s. While conceding a cynical disquiet, I preferred not to consider it too closely.  Clive, I knew, was in Paris on a business trip.  Nor was it any secret that he and Maggie had quarrelled. Apparently, Maggie had assumed she would accompany him and told everyone how excited she was about going to Paris. She even bought a new outfit for the occasion. Clive, though, had other ideas. According to the grapevine, Maggie was distraught.

I neither approved nor disapproved of Maggie’s relationship with Clive. It was none of my business. Even so, I was not alone in wondering what Nick Crolley made of it all. He and Maggie continued to share a flat and they were, to all intents and purposes, still an item. Again, the grapevine had a theory, along the lines that. Maggie was too bloody-minded to give Clive the satisfaction of keeping her as she would undoubtedly love to become accustomed, and too scared to leave Nick.  I felt inclined to agree as far as Clive was concerned, but found it hard to believe a rough diamond like Maggie Dillon was afraid of anyone, especially a yob like Nick Crolley. Oh, Nick liked to swagger and act big. I could see the attraction. But if he had any brains, he kept them in his jeans. Maggie, on the other hand, was a bright girl. Even so, a closer look at Maggie’s face, for all that it was slightly turned away from me and in shadow, gave me cause to think again.

“Is anything wrong?” I enquired ineptly. Ed merely glowered darkly but Maggie turned to face me. I winced involuntarily. Her face was puffy and almost purple, both eyes badly swollen.  Nick, I suppose?” I retorted before I could stop myself.

“You suppose right,” muttered Ed tersely.

“He didn’t mean it,” sobbed Maggie, “His dad’s just died”

“Good riddance!” Ed exclaimed between clenched teeth.

“He didn’t know what he was doing.”  She accepted a tissue from Ed and gingerly dabbed at her eyes.

“Does he ever?” I had no time for the likes of Nick Crolley, and could not believe Maggie was making excuses for him. Then the significance of what she had said registered. “I thought Tom Crolley was still inside,” I commented.

“He is, was…” Maggie faltered, “He’s been in hospital. Pneumonia, they said it was.”

“They’ll say anything,” growled Ed with feeling. It seemed an odd thing to say, I thought, but dismissed it quickly enough. 

I had come to understand Ed better, or so I believed.  He remained very bitter about his time in prison, and by all accounts that was largely down to Tom Crolley. Tom had always been a bad lot. At the same time, he had charisma, even charm. Every kid in the neighbourhood adored him, especially the girls, until they got older and some got wiser. So I had some sympathy for Ed. He was but one in a long line of ne’er-do-wells to have fallen under Tom Crolley’s spell and paid a high price for it.

“Take as much time off as you need,” I told Maggie. She would certainly put the punters off looking like that, I reflected grimly.

“Thanks Rob,” still dabbing at her eyes with the tissue and wincing a lot.  “A couple of days should do the trick. A few glad rags and a spot of war paint and I’ll be as good as new.”

Fat chance, I thought but thought it advisable not to say so.

“This is once too often. Enough is enough. He can tell the damn goldfish how sorry he is, I don’t want to know any more,” she added, if more to herself than either of us. Then, raising her voice slightly, “To hell with it, I’m moving out. Not before time either!”

“Hallelujah!” murmured Ed, again with a depth of feeling that caught me so off guard that I had no time to disguise a dawning suspicion.  He returned my look with a defensive glare, making it plain that he would tolerate neither comment nor any interference.

My heart sunk. I needed a love triangle on my hands like I needed a hole in the head.  True, Ed was a tough nut to crack, but he was no match for the likes of Clive Rider. “Will we see you tonight?” I asked him, casually enough, but unable to look him directly in the eye.

“Why shouldn’t you?” he parried lightly, but I sensed he knew what was going through my mind.

I hovered, feeling unwanted and superfluous. “Take care of yourself, Maggie,” I urged somewhat belatedly, nodded briefly to Ed, and was much relieved be on my way.

Bananas was out when I called. I could have kicked myself for not telephoning first. But it was common knowledge that he had rarely set foot outside his front door since Ma B’s death. It hadn’t occurred to me he might choose that day of all days to take himself off somewhere. The extent of my disappointment surprised me. I hadn’t realized just how fond I was of the old man, and made a mental note to call him soon.

I returned home rather than to Matthew’s flat. On a coconut mat inside the front door was an envelope addressed to me in a familiar scrawl. It was a letter from Ben Hallas. I experienced a sharp stab of guilt. I hadn’t contacted my childhood friend in ages. I tore it open and hastily skimmed the contents. It was but a single page to say he was enjoying his first term at university and how sorry he was we hadn’t managed to get together before he left.  He asked after The Connie’s progress and expressed delight at my involvement in the project, describing it as a ‘fine achievement’ which struck me as bloody patronising.

My hackles soared. I saw red, too, at his describing The Connie as a project. This was real life, for heaven’s sake, not some academic assignment. Angrily, I screwed the page into a tiny ball and tossed it into an empty vase on the hall table.  We lived in separate worlds now, Ben and I. We had done so since I’d left school and gone to work for Bananas. I bit my lip, but only to prevent myself swearing aloud. Yes, it was sad. We had been good mates once, but had chosen different paths in life and moved on. There was, I told myself defensively, no room for sentimentality in the cut and thrust of real life. I, of course, knew all about that, whereas he hadn’t a clue. (I could be such a pompous prick in those days!) Even so, I made a half-hearted resolution to write back sometime, but never did.

That evening at The Connie, Shaun grabbed me in a bear hug. He was beaming from ear to ear, eager to pass on the news that Lou was expecting their first child in the spring. Their popularity among staff and punters alike provided a good excuse, if any were needed, for raucous celebrations well into the early hours. Everyone had a whale of a time. If Ben’s innocuous letter had dampened my spirits, all was quickly forgotten.

Shaun was so happy, he got very drunk. Lou, on the other hand, stuck to mineral water and radiated a quiet radiance that not only greatly enhanced her plain looks but also gave her an air of mystique. Now and then, in the course of the evening, she’d put me in mind of Michelangelo’s portrait of the Mona Lisa. Nor did this strike me as in the least bit sentimental.

I was happy for the pair, of course I was. (Well, wasn’t I?). At the same time, I resented the fact that I would never father a child of my own. Oh, I had heard of gay couples adopting, but even that is much harder for men or so I’d been led to believe by sources ‘in the know’.  Why, I often wondered, did most people assume the maternal instinct is more natural and desirable than the paternal? Why shouldn’t two men give a child as good a home and as much love as a straight couple or two lesbians? At least, I mused with some satisfaction, the idea of gay couples adopting was more acceptable now if no less controversial. Matthew and I…But at this point, I pulled myself up with a start, smothering a chuckle as I did so. What was I thinking of?  I didn’t even like children.

Shaun must have sensed something of the way I felt.  Clinking glasses for the umpteenth time, I managed a slurring enthusiasm, “Here’s to a fantastic father-to-be!”

“And here’s to a fantastic godfather-to-be!” he grinned.

I could only gape in astonishment. “Do you mean it?” In view of my professed dislike for children, I felt curiously elated.

“If you want the job, it’s yours!” he confirmed amidst a bout of hiccups, “You gave me one so now we’re quits,” he giggled.
In spite of his drunken state, I could see he meant business. An underlying tenderness in his voice and expression almost moved me to tears. “Okay, you’re on,” I told him, my delight one hundred per cent genuine.  We drained our glasses and wandered off in search of refills.
My mother insisted I spend the following Sunday at home. Peter Short was coming for lunch and she needed moral support in the face of Paul’s growing antagonism towards the man. By way of compensation, she said Matthew was more than welcome to join us. But I made excuses. It wasn’t easy having to pretend that Matthew and I were just good friends. Besides, playing devil’s advocate between my brother and our mother’s boyfriend was tough, to say the least. I certainly couldn’t cope with any ‘coming out’ confessions at the same time. 
Bringing all the wisdom of an nineteen year-old to bear, I thought it better for everyone that, for now at least, my mother should continue to think of Matthew as no more or les than ‘that nice young man’. She had met him only once. We had been shopping and bumped into him by sheer chance. Since then, she had constantly expressed a liking for him that should have rung alarm bells in my head, but didn’t. Paul, I was only too well aware, suspected the truth. It stuck out a mile, expressed not least in a steady stream of stinging innuendo that, thankfully, appeared to have passed over our mother’s head.

 I would tell Mum about Matthew and me, of course I would. I had to tell her, and soon, but when I was ready, not before. So when will I ever be ready, for crying out loud?

I hated Sundays at the best of times. On this particular morning, my natural hostility towards that supposed day of peace and quiet simmered in my gut with all the subtlety of an awakening volcano. I wanted to take a bath before lunch, only to discover there was no hot water. Paul had beaten me to it after washing down an old banger he had recently bought with money Mum had given him for passing his driving test. (He’d cadged free lessons with girlfriend Hayley’s older brother, Tony.) My own feelings on the matter fell little short of pure malice. I not only wanted, but also needed my own transport. A few driving lessons with Matthew hadn’t gone too badly, but work kept getting in the way, and I knew he was fed up with the number of times I’d had to cancel. The truth was I found it hard to concentrate with Matthew sitting beside me.

Oh, damn Sundays!

While having to settle for a quick wash in lukewarm water, I vowed to sign up with a Driving School before the week was out.

Predictably, Peter Short arrived dead on time.

Paul sat down at the table later than the rest of us. He has spent a good half hour on the landline to Hayley whom, in any case, he would be seeing later.  “I hope you intend to pay your share of the phone bill,” I grumbled.

“At least I live here. I don’t treat the place like a hotel!” was his swift retort.

“Meaning what, exactly?” I demanded, but neither expected nor received any answer, just another of my brother’s sulky silences that always so infuriated me.

Out of the corner of one eye, I glimpsed meaningful glances pass between my mother and Peter Short. Suddenly, I was sick of all the bickering, weary of the whole damn charade. “I won’t be living here for much longer,” I said with the air of someone making a grand announcement, “I’m moving out.”  To my horror, I found myself blushing furiously at my mother’s shocked expression before confirming that I would be moving in with Matthew. “He can’t really afford the flat on his own,” I added lamely.

“He seems a nice young man,” was the only comment my mother made as she picked at her food with a fork without attempting to eat.

I waited for the expected emotional outburst and floods of tears. When none came, I felt hard done by, and not a little hurt. I got angry. Did no one care that I intended leaving home? Certainly, my brother didn’t.

“Good riddance,” said Paul with a broad smirk on his face, “You won’t mind if I move into your room then,” he gloated. It had always been a bone of contention between us that mine was the bigger bedroom.

I did mind and said so, rudely.

“But if you’re going to share with Matthew, you won’t be using it any more will you dear?” interposed my mother quietly.

She was right, of course, but I felt aggrieved nonetheless. That old demon, spite, took hold of me. “Matthew and I won’t just be sharing, we’ll be living together as partners,” I said with a calmness that amazed me and in no way reflected how I was feeling.

My timing could not have been worse or the manner in which I broke the news. But there was no turning back. “We’re lovers,” I explained as if further explanation were necessary, and made a show of continuing to eat as if merely making light conversation. By now, though, a delicious roast lamb had lost all its flavour and filled my mouth like a ball of cotton wool.

A heavy silence descended on the table, gathered us up and left us squirming in its net like four pathetic fishes straining for breath.

“You’re kidding?” Paul seemed genuinely astonished. (Yet, how could I have so misread what I’d taken to be a constant barrage of homophobic insinuations?) I met his outraged expression, intending to make some cutting remark. But the stark pallor of his face took me aback and I said nothing. “You’re a fucking queer? My brother’s a fucking queer!” He was on his feet now, pallor replaced by a yellowy purple colour that reminded me, inconsequentially, of Maggie Dillon’s bruised face.

“That’s enough, Paul. How dare you use language like that at the table, especially in front of a guest,” my mother snapped. Paul had the grace to look abashed and sat down again. My mother turned to me. Her lower lip was quivering, eyes unnaturally bright. “Is this true, Robert? Are you and Matthew…?” but she could not bring herself to finish the sentence. Even so, it had us caught like fish on a line. Oh, but how we all squirmed! Moreover, once thrown back into the water, who could doubt that our lives would never be the same again?

“I love him mum,” I murmured and stared at my plate, absently counting peas.  One, two three…

None of the arguments and brave words I had rehearsed in my head for weeks came to my rescue. I desperately wanted to get up from that table and run out of the room, never to return. But my legs refused to co-operate. So I just sat there and let three pairs of eyes gouge out my insides.

Help, when it came, emerged from an unexpected quarter.

“Err…hmm…well…” Short cleared his throat. “We’re all accountable to love of course. Can’t help who we love, just have to try and be…Well, accountable I suppose.”

“Oh, yes, and what about me?” My mother turned on the poor man with uncharacteristic fury, “Doesn’t my love count for anything? Isn’t he accountable to that? Haven’t I changed his nappies, fed and clothed him, gone without so he wouldn’t have to? Isn’t he accountable to me too?” Her voice shook and rose several octaves, running the gamut of shock, horror, scorn and anger; last but not least, an appalling hurt that seemed to all but crush her and make the trembling shoulders slump.

Paul leapt to his feet, toppling his chair in the process. He looked directly at me, contempt written all over his flushed face. “A pouf, my own brother, a fucking pouf!” he yelled, “You…pervert!” He screamed the word. It caught me completely off guard and struck me such a blow that I felt physically sick. I had expected some initial resistance, shock, even hostility. But this…This was horrible. Whatever happened to family values, for heaven’s sake, not to mention a fair, liberal minded twenty-first century?  If even the French can boast liberty, equality and fraternity, why must my own mother and brother be so damn…English? “Pouf, queer, pervert...You make me sick!” Paul screamed at me again, tears streaming down his face.

“Paul, sit down and be quiet,” my mother sobbed.

He ignored her. “You don’t have to worry about me taking your room,” he flung at me, “I wouldn’t be able to stand the smell!”  He flounced off, slamming the door behind him.

 I wanted to burst into tears but told myself it would be an admission of guilt, not to mention defeat? No matter, I would see this through somehow.

“He doesn’t mean it,” said Peter Short in a kindly voice, “We all say things we don’t mean when we’re upset.”  His choice of the word struck me as such an understatement that I nearly choked on a burst of laughter that rose in my throat like bile. As it was, a coughing fit provided welcome if brief respite.

“I don’t understand you, Robert.” My mother appeared much calmer now, but no less angry, “Why? Just tell me…Why? Is it my fault? Have I been such a bad mother? Or perhaps you see this Matthew as some kind of father figure? Is that it, do you miss your dad so much you…”

“Need to make love to a man? Is that what you honestly think?” It was my turn to get angry.

“No, of course not, that’s not what I mean at all. I mean…Oh, I don’t know what I mean,” she wailed, “I don’t know anything any more.”

“I’m gay Mum. It’s not the end of the bloody world!” I yelled without intending   to.

“Don’t swear at your mother,” Short’s rebuke was tempered by a sympathetic expression that prevented me from telling the man to keep his nose out, this was family business.

“But love, Robert…How can you say you love this man?  It can’t be right, surely?” She looked to Short for support. 

“None of us chooses love, my dear. I rather fancy it chooses us. As for two men, or two women, for that matter…Well, it has gone on for centuries, and where’s the harm? The world may have disapproved, but it’s still here to tell the tale. If it’s in a mess, I hardly think that’s down to homosexuality, do you?  Let’s face it Patricia, gays aren’t to blame for Global Warming, the War on Terror etcetera, etcetera. Live and let live, that’s what I say. Oh, but if only the politicians would give us half a chance. Imagine if he were one of those, for heaven’s sake? Then you’d really have something to cry about.” A wry grin lit up his face. I began to see what my mother saw in the man.

The tension eased if only marginally.

My mother managed a weak smile. “You might just have a point, I suppose.” She turned to me. “I can’t say I’m happy for you, Robert, because I’m not, but I’ll try and get used to the idea.”

“Don’t hate me, Mum, please don’t hate me,” I blurted and would have poured out heart and soul. But a look of renewed horror on her face stopped me in my tracks.

“Hate you?” she echoed in a hoarse whisper, “Hate you?” she repeated, “How could I hate you. You’re my son and I love you. Nothing can change that...nothing, Robert, ever. I can’t pretend to understand this…this…what’s happened. But I could never hate you, Robert. No, no, you must never think that.” She rose from the table, and came to put both arms around my trembling shoulders before laying a wet cheek against mine.

Neither of us noticed Short gather up a pile of half empty plates and disappear with them into the kitchen.

To be continued on Monday.