Anna Martin's British Boys Box Set: My Prince - The Impossible Boy - Cricket

by Anna Martin

  “Really?” Henry said, laughing as he turned around.

  “Well, she didn’t put it quite like that. We were fighting and throwing all these accusations at each other, and she just screamed at me ‘You’re gay, Ryan, and you don’t even know it!’ I can remember sitting down and thinking ‘Oh fuck, I am as well’—not that I told her that, of course.”

  “What did you tell her?”

  “Not a lot. It took another year or so for me to come to terms with it myself. I’m still not sure I’m completely there, to be honest.”

  Henry closed his eyes and sighed heavily. “I don’t normally date bisexuals,” he murmured.

  “Why not?”

  “The same reason I don’t date people who aren’t out.”

  When Ryan clenched his jaw, Henry tried to not admire how it changed the beautiful shape of his face. And failed.

  “It’s not a crime to be in the closet,” Ryan said tightly.

  “No,” Henry said gently. “But I’ve been someone’s dirty little secret before, and I’m never going there again.”

  “You’re not my dirty little secret.”

  “No? Then why don’t we go out together and let people see?”

  Ryan stopped walking and leaned back against a fence post, shaking his head. “You don’t understand.”

  “Who knows you’re gay?” Henry asked, forcing calm into both his tone and his posture.

  “No one. No one, Henry, is that what you wanted me to say? Just you. Fuck!”

  Biting back the acerbic remark on the tip of his tongue took some effort, but Henry managed it. Just about.

  “I won’t say anything,” he said.

  “Good,” Ryan bit back. “It’s not your secret to tell.”

  “Which is why I won’t,” he snapped. Then sighed. “Okay, well, I’m going to go do some work.”

  “Fine.”

  He didn’t wait for a response, stomping back up toward the house and putting as much distance between himself and Ryan fucking Burgess as he possibly could, wondering if every conversation about Ryan’s sexuality would end with him storming away. He sincerely hoped not.

  Chapter Ten

  With great trepidation, Henry stood in front of the door to the vicarage. It wasn’t a particularly difficult house to find. Located just behind the church, with a path that led from the gardens of the churchyard across, anyone looking for the village pastor wouldn’t have far to go.

  Paul had said that his door was always open, and Henry believed him, but he held a longstanding prejudice against the church as fierce and unsubstantiated as the one he feared the church held against him.

  He was not here to look for a man of faith. He was here for a man who could help him. For some reason, something was telling him Paul was the key to unlocking the secrets Ryan was keeping hidden away.

  Henry raised his hand and knocked.

  A few moments later, Paul answered the door, and Henry tried not to stare.

  Paul was actually incredibly attractive, and as twisted as it was, Henry was forced to push memories of porn featuring a nun and a vicar out of his mind. This was definitely not the time.

  The thing was, Paul was definitely the sort of man Henry took a closer look at on a regular basis. He obviously worked out, was clean shaven and broad and dark. In his everyday clothes—a loose polo shirt and jeans—he looked like any other guy. It upset Henry, for some reason, to think of the vicar as any other guy.

  “Hi,” Paul said with a welcoming smile. Then he frowned. “You alright?”

  “Yeah,” Henry said. “I’m good. Could I come in?”

  “Of course.”

  He was led through the small cottage and into the kitchen. Why was it that people lived in their kitchens here? In his apartment in Manhattan, he never used the kitchen. The fridge held ketchup and mixers and not a lot else.

  Despite the house being painfully old, there were modern touches throughout. It appeared that the good vicar didn’t like the “charm” of the old—bordering on fetishisation, as far as Henry was concerned. There was no chintz or shabby chic here. The wood floors were stripped back and naked of rugs or carpets, the walls were a uniform off-white and the ceiling beams blond wood, rather than the black beams that decorated the pub.

  In the kitchen, the tiles were a rich blue glass, and that was the only splash of colour in a room that was again clean and modern.

  “How can I help?” Paul asked. “Tea?”

  “Yeah, thanks,” Henry said. “Sorry to bother you.”

  “No problem,” Paul said with a shrug. “I’m not on duty.”

  He turned away to start making the tea, leaving Henry to find a seat at the tiny table set up in a corner of the kitchen.

  “It’s Ryan,” he started, then immediately felt uncomfortable.

  “Is he okay?” Paul asked but didn’t sound too concerned.

  “Yeah, he’s fine. Working.”

  “Ah.”

  When a mug of tea was placed in front of him, Henry immediately wrapped his hands around it to leech its warmth. It was something he’d seen Ryan do, and he wondered when he’d picked up the habit.

  “Is he really gay?” Henry blurted, then regretted his rashness.

  Paul snorted with laughter. “Out to himself or out to the world?”

  “Both,” Henry muttered.

  “Neither,” Paul said. He paused, then got up to grab a packet of digestive biscuits from a cupboard. When offered one, Henry considered it carefully, decided that it was just a regular, plain cookie, and took a bite. Paul pulled one from the packet and dunked it in his tea. “Ryan has been alone for so long because he can’t reconcile with himself what he wants against what he thinks he should want.”

  Henry nodded and took a biscuit when offered one. “What does he want?”

  “I’m not sure anyone knows that, least of all Ryan.”

  “You’re not being much help.”

  Paul laughed again and leaned back in his chair. “Don’t be arsey with me, mate. I honestly don’t know. I know Sarah told him he was gay when she left him, and I think he took that to heart. Maybe he is. Maybe she was just being a spiteful bitch who couldn’t stand the fact that he wasn’t in love with her any more. Who knows?”

  “Wow,” Henry muttered. “You don’t sound much like a vicar right now.”

  “I didn’t realise you were here to see a vicar,” Paul said lightly. “If you want, I can go and put my collar on.”

  “Better if you didn’t,” Henry said, his mind going straight back to the porn.

  “I’m just a normal guy, Henry,” Paul said gently. “I know you feel uncomfortable around me, but I wish you wouldn’t. I have a job, just like you do. My job affects my personal life a lot, for sure, but it doesn’t define me.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. Really. I’m much more than just the local vicar. Just the same as you’re a lot more than the gay guy from New York.”

  “A Jewish gay guy from New York,” Henry corrected, but with his tongue in cheek.

  Paul laughed. “Okay, okay. Jesus was born Jewish, though, you know. I don’t have anything against that.”

  Dramatically, Henry dropped his head to the table and thumped it several times.

  “Look,” Paul said, selecting another biscuit from the packet, “if you’re interested in Ryan, and I’m guessing that’s what this is all about, then you need to give him the time he needs to come to terms with each stage of any relationship you might get into. He’s not going to fling himself headfirst into anything.”

  “There has been no flinging.”

  “I’m not surprised.”

  “There hasn’t been much of anything.”

  Paul nodded. “I can’t promise you anything about Ryan, Henry, least of all his sexuality. If you want my observation, then I think Ryan got very good at hiding his attraction to men, and when Sarah came along, it was almost a relief. He loved her, and she was a woman, so he didn’t need to think about his sexuality any
more. From being his friend for nearly twenty years, though, I can tell you he’s a person who loves unconditionally. And I think he’s probably just looking for someone to love.”

  Despite himself, Henry squirmed. “I don’t think I’m very good at the whole ‘being in love’ thing.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  Henry shrugged. “I don’t know. I was with Drew for six years, from when we were twenty-two to a couple of months before I moved here. We just… were, you know? We weren’t ever great together, we were just together.”

  “So you didn’t love him?”

  “I convinced myself that I loved him, for a long time,” Henry said. “Now I’m not so sure. It just seems hollow now, when I think back.”

  Paul drained the rest of his tea and looked at him thoughtfully. “It can be easier, sometimes, to be with someone than to be alone.”

  Henry nodded. “Yeah.”

  “But sometimes being alone gives you a different perspective. You need to know who you are before you can share yourself with someone else.”

  Henry considered whether his next question was going too far, then decided to ask it anyway. Paul seemed like the type of man to tell him if he’d overstepped the mark.

  “Why aren’t you married?”

  “Same reason you aren’t, I expect. I haven’t found anyone I want to marry. Or wants to marry me.”

  “Oh.” He paused. “Sorry.”

  “Nothing to be sorry for,” Paul said on a laugh. “It’s just the way of things.”

  Henry watched as a tabby cat meandered into the kitchen, looked mournfully at its empty bowl, then curled up in a patch of sunlight on the floor, yawning widely. There had never been cats around when Henry was growing up. His mother preferred her poodle, but he didn’t have the same affinity for dogs as other people had. He liked cats—their laziness, the way they demanded food and sleep and attention (in that order) and cared less about their humans than dogs did.

  He wondered what that said about him as a man.

  “No one can tell you if he’s worth it, Henry,” Paul said, picking up the mugs and taking them over to the sink. “Only you know that.”

  “I’ve always sworn I’d never be with a guy like him,” Henry said. Paul raised his eyebrows, so he kept talking. “You know, straight acting, probably bisexual, closeted. It’s always been too much hassle before. Too messy.”

  “And now?” Paul prompted.

  “Now I don’t even know what I think.”

  Paul snorted with laughter. “Unfortunately, my relationship counselling certificate didn’t cover coaxing people to admit that they’re gay. You might be surprised to hear that the Church of England doesn’t cover that in their syllabus.”

  “You don’t say.”

  “So,” he said, clapping his hands together, “you’ll have to figure that part out on your own. So unless you’ve got any other moral or religious crises you’d like to discuss, I’ve got work to do.”

  “Oh,” Henry said, standing. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to take up so much of your time.”

  “It’s not a problem,” Paul said as he led Henry back to the front door. “My door is always open, as they say.”

  “Thanks. I appreciate it.”

  “Any time. Oh, and Henry?”

  “Yeah?”

  Paul winked. “See you on Sunday.”

  Although all of Henry’s meetings with Nell had been while Shenal had accompanied him, he felt like he’d reached a point where he needed to branch out on his own, especially for the more personal conversation he wanted to have with her. She was a warm security blanket and a convenient safety net, but Shenal wasn’t going to be around to hold his hand every time he went to visit.

  He was met at the door by Sandra-the-manager and once again shown through to the conservatory where Nell was sitting. There was a much larger and cosier sitting room at the front of the house, where other residents seemed to congregate, but Nell apparently preferred the quiet and the light and the plants back here.

  She was pleased to see him, but he wasn’t convinced that her good mood would last.

  “Mrs. Robinson… Nell,” Henry corrected, wringing his fingers together. “I need to talk to you about something.”

  She nodded at him.

  “The thing is, I know how important the house is to you. Partly because of its history, and because it’s part of our family. And I know you want it to be handed down to the next generation. But… Nell….” he took a deep breath. “I’m gay. Homosexual.”

  Nell studied him for a moment, frowning. “And you thought this would matter to me?” she asked.

  Henry simply gaped. “Well, yeah. Does it?”

  She sighed and looked out the window. It was raining, just lightly, enough to distort the image through the glass.

  “You know I wasn’t an only child,” she said quietly.

  Henry decided this was a rhetorical question and sat back to let her talk. Nell had a way of weaving a story with her words. Even the tone of her voice carried wisdom and history.

  “I had two older brothers, William and Albert. Bill was two years older than me, and Bert was five.

  “We lost Bert to Hitler’s men. He was only a boy himself when he joined up to fight, but he believed in God, Queen, and country and was willing to fight for it. He was given an award for bravery, you know. People’s lives were saved because of the actions of Albert Richardson. That brought my mother some peace.”

  “Albert’s grave is in the churchyard,” Henry said.

  “Yes. You went to look for it?”

  “I took him flowers.”

  “That’s nice,” Nell said. “That’s good.”

  “And your other brother?” Henry asked.

  “Bill was a good man too,” Nell said softly, smoothing down the blanket that covered her knees. “He worked our farm during the war. He was too young to sign up and fight himself. And Father was too old. He and Mother met later in life, and she had us children in her late thirties. That was old for a woman back then. Many thought she was too old, or barren. But she had us all the same.”

  “Bill?” Henry prompted gently.

  “Bill never married,” Nell said. “But he spent a long and happy life with his companion, as we called him. Clive was also a good man.”

  Henry’s head reeled for a moment. “Do you mean—?”

  “I mean to say I never asked,” she said primly. “It wasn’t my place to. But Bill and Clive lived together from when they were in their twenties until the day they died.”

  “Wow,” Henry breathed softly.

  “They died,” Nell repeated, her voice wavering with emotion, “on the same day. The third of June, year of our Lord 1992. They were both in the hospital up at Weston. Bill went in first, for a problem with his heart. They weren’t sure what. Clive went in a few days later. It took some wrangling, but we had them put in a room together. Then Clive slipped into a coma, and Bill died in his sleep. And Clive never woke up.”

  “On the same day?”

  “On the very same day. They’re buried in the churchyard too, next to each other. It’s not my place to say if they were lovers. People kept their business to themselves back then, and it was nobody’s business but Bill and Clive’s what they were to each other. But you ask me if it matters that you’re a homosexual, then no, Henry. It doesn’t.”

  He took a deep breath, an attempt to clear the lump that had lodged itself in his throat, and nodded as he exhaled.

  “Thank you.”

  “Nothing to thank me for,” she said, waving away his words. “I guessed you were trying to tell me that you don’t have plans for children.”

  “Not in the immediate future, no,” Henry said, smiling.

  “That’s okay. You’re only young. You may change your mind one day. Or you might not. Children are a blessing.”

  “But you only had the one?” Henry asked.

  “Yes,” Nell said, “my Henry. Having him very nearly killed me, unfortun
ately. My husband and I fostered children right up until we were in our late fifties. Oh, I lose count of how many now. My Henry went to work in America, in New York, when he was nearly forty, took his wife and daughter with him.”

  “This was before my dad was born.”

  “Yes, your father was born in America. I confess I only met him the once, when the family came back over for a visit when he was still a baby. Your aunt Christine is a little older, of course.”

  “But don’t say that to her face,” Henry said, smiling. Then his demeanour changed. “You could have contacted one of her children. My cousins.”

  “I could,” she conceded. “But, I confess, when I heard your name was Henry, my decision was made.”

  “That’s one hell of a leap of faith.”

  Nell nodded. “It was. But I think it’s paid off, don’t you?” She waited a moment, then looked at him again with her piercing stare. “Henry, you need to stop faffing about. The world is not going to wait while you decide what sort of stamp you want to put on it. You need to make your own destiny, your own future. And I, for one, will not stand in the way of you doing that.”

  “Thank you.”

  He stood, stopped Nell from doing the same, and brushed a kiss over the back of her knuckles before leaving.

  It was a strange situation. They were possibly as different as two people could get, yet there was something between them that forged a connection. Maybe it was as simple as blood. No matter what else, they were family. Maybe that was good enough.

  Chapter Eleven

  Although it was midsummer, they’d not yet had any of the deep, humid nights that Henry had secretly loved so much. They were the sort of nights that brought storms—thunder as the heat broke and lightning that lit up the sky. He’d asked Stella, and she’d told him they didn’t get so much of that weather here.

  It was getting warmer, although that was compared to the general temperature level that they’d had all spring, not properly hot. When one of those hot, sultry nights finally happened at the beginning of July, all Henry wanted was to disappear into the village somewhere, to find a place where he could sit and watch it and maybe smell the tang of rain on wet tarmac.