‘Ooohhh lovely!’ Nancy enthused. Going to spend a weekend with Jonathan was always fun from start to finish and it was a treat to spend time in the capital and go shopping in fancy Grafton Street, although Roches Stores on Henry Street was her favourite department store of all.
‘Perfect. We’ll plan it when I bring the curtain material down. Love ya, Mam.’
‘I love you too, son,’ Nancy returned and Jonathan smiled as he hung up the phone. He would take Nancy to BT and buy her a new outfit, although she would protest as she always did and say Clerys or Roches Stores would suit her just as well. He would bring her to those stores too. She particularly enjoyed shopping in the basement section of Roches, which had everything from china to bed linen, and other household goods and knick-knacks. On her last shopping spree there both of them had bought a set of little forks in a round wooden barrel to eat cobs of buttered sweetcorn with. ‘Ever so posh,’ Nancy had enthused, debating whether to buy fish knives as well. ‘I don’t be giving swanky dinner parties like you do.’
‘Why don’t you cook a dinner for some of your quilting friends? If everyone hosted a dinner every so often, it would be something for you all to look forward to,’ Jonathan suggested, tossing the knives into the shopping basket.
‘Aren’t we all fed up cooking? That’s why we go out for a meal,’ Nancy retorted, putting the knives back on the shelf.
‘Mother, you’re absolutely right!’ Jonathan agreed. ‘Let’s go to the Shelbourne for afternoon tea, and we can go to the pictures and have dinner afterwards in The Commons or the Troc, and spot the celebs and theatre folk and discuss what they’re wearing. I love it when you pick holes in their crooked seams and hanging hems.’ He grinned.
‘Well honestly, Jonathan, some of those designers should be ashamed of the finishes on their clothes. Clothes that cost a fortune, I might add,’ Nancy declared. ‘I’d be embarrassed to send someone off wearing a dress or jacket with threads hanging and seams and necklines and armholes puckered. Some of those designers are right chancers, I can tell you, looking down their noses at us when they go to London and get too big for their boots. Remember one of those snooty ones, in the sixties, who designed for the jet set, and she was passing off the lace crochet as her own. And I happen to know the lady who made some of those pieces. Beautiful intricate work and she never got the recognition for it,’ Nancy said indignantly. ‘When you make it big with your interior design don’t forget where you came from,’ she added, wagging her finger good-humouredly.
‘I won’t, Mam,’ he had said, fondly enveloping her in a bear hug right in the middle of Roches Stores basement.
Jonathan sighed as he filled the kettle. His mother had such faith in him. She had always encouraged his love of decorating as a child and let him wield the paintbrush, at first in their small back yard when there was more whitewash on him than on the walls. But as he’d grown older she’d taught him how to wallpaper and paint, and how to sew on her trusty Singer sewing machine. He had a flair for colour, and knew instinctively how a couple of bright cushions here, or a lampshade there, would lift a room and coordinate the colours on the walls and curtains. One of the best presents he had ever got was a subscription she had bought for him for Interiors & Design and he had devoured each edition, cutting out pictures and articles that particularly inspired him. He had folders, kept meticulously, divided and subdivided into furniture, fixtures and fittings, materials, colour schemes, and miscellaneous. They were his pride and joy. His best friend Alice shared his passion and they had spent many happy hours when they were children building doll’s houses from the shoeboxes from her father’s shop and decorating them to their hearts’ content. Nancy loved to watch the pair of them sitting in front of the fire in the kitchen on a wintry afternoon, chattering away as they designed delightful little houses, while she worked on her sewing machine, doing alterations or making curtains to bring in an extra couple of pounds.
Jonathan made himself a mug of tea and found a stale chocolate gold-grain biscuit and curled up on the bright green bean bag in the bay window of his ground-floor bedsit. He had had a ghastly day and the wraith-like tentacles of depression that he fought hard to keep at bay were tightening their grip on him. Normally he would have tasty food in his fridge. Smoked salmon, organic beetroot, feta cheese, a delicious hummus that he had whipped up himself, but it was a sure sign that depression was getting the better of him when he let the contents of his fridge go and lost interest in eating. He really should go and see his counsellor and therapist. It had been a couple of months since his last visit and Hannah Harrison would chide him gently for letting it go so long.
At least though he would be able to tell her that he had taken a stand against his boss Gerard Hook and his rampant homophobia. Gerard, a red-faced, fat-bellied, blustering bully, had made his life a misery since Jonathan had been transferred to the Finance Department. Gerard was in charge of his section and the first time he’d seen Jonathan he’d looked him up and down, noting Jonathan’s red Paisley scarf wrapped cravat-like around his neck, and his highly polished winkle-pickers, and sneered, ‘Quite the fashion plate, aren’t you? Let’s hope you’re as good at preparing invoices as you are at fancy dressing.’
He was an odious man, and never lost a chance to make homophobic remarks in general office conversation. Jonathan had grown up with homophobia, but he’d hoped when he had moved to Dublin to work that things would be easier. And they were, in many ways. In fact it had been a life-changing liberation for him to meet so many lads just like him, who had endured the same miseries that he had growing up. It had been as though a burden had lifted from his shoulders. He was not alone, he was not a freak, there were others like him, and life could be a lot of fun.
He had found a spacious bedsit in a big old red-brick semi in Drumcondra that overlooked a small park and was only ten minutes from the city centre and his workplace. The landlord had told him he could decorate it as he wished, and he had painted the walls a buttery cream, and the skirting boards and architraves a rich burgundy. He’d made new chintz covers for the shabby old two-seater sofa, bought a new mattress for the single bed and dressed it in a cream candlewick bedspread and burgundy and green scatter cushions, and placed lamps around the room so that he would never have to use the stark centre light that gave the room such a cold glow. His landlord had been so impressed he had asked him to decorate the front bedsit upstairs, and had beefed up the rent for the new tenant, a young teacher called Orla, to cover the costs.
Orla was from Cork and as mad as a brush, and she and Jonathan hit it off from the start; and when he was not socializing in the George or the Front Lounge, they often went to the pictures, or ordered in a Chinese or Indian meal and drank copious amounts of red wine and discussed the current men in their lives.
Jonathan grinned, hearing his friend moving around upstairs as she prepared her evening meal. She was in foul humour and was keeping to herself. Orla had been dumped by a Garda she had dated for two months, prior to moving in to her new bedsit, and she was still furious. ‘How dare that thick culchie from Kerry dump me before I had a chance to dump him! I’ll show that chancer what he’s missing. You’re coming to Copper Face Jacks with me, minus the winkle-pickers and scarves. I’ll dress you as butch as can be, because you’re quite handsome, Jonny boy, and you’ve to be all over me. An Oscar-winning performance, OK?’ She arched an eyebrow at him, daring him to argue.
‘Have I any choice?’ he retorted, entertained at the notion that he could make a straight, six foot Kerry man jealous.
‘No! You can wear jeans, and a T-shirt and jacket and a normal type of leather belt, not one of those ones with the big buckles, and get your hair cut in a buzz cut.’
‘Aahhh, that’s going a bit far now, Orla,’ he protested. He liked his casually tossed blond shaggy look.
‘OK then, but let me blow-dry it and part it at the side.’
‘Orlaaaaaaaaaa! A side parting, noooooooooo!’
‘You can’t lo
ok gay,’ she protested.
‘But I am gay!’ he pointed out.
‘I need you to be a manly man, just for one night,’ she’d pouted. ‘Pleaseeeeee.’
‘Do with me what you will!’ Jonathan had said resignedly and laughed when his friend flung her arms around him.
They had planned to hit the nightclub that weekend but fortunately for him Orla’s period had arrived unexpectedly early and she was flattened with a migraine and, big no-no, her chin had erupted with three large spots. Not a good look to make an ex jealous, she’d informed Jonathan glumly before trudging upstairs to get something to eat, and take to the bed.
He might take to the bed himself, Jonathan yawned. He needed to get in the right frame of mind for his course tomorrow. Today had been a tough day at work, and he still felt shaky after a run-in with Gerard, but at least he’d stood up for himself and let his obnoxious boss know that he was no longer prepared to be bullied.
He took the small notebook out of his pocket and flipped open the cover. Beneath the date and time that he had written in neatly were the words: My grade 4, Gerard Hook, called me a shirt-lifter in public in the staff canteen, while I was on my tea break. My colleague Gwen Reilly was a witness and is prepared to verify my complaint.
Jonathan reread the sentences. He would make a stand if he had to, but hopefully, Hook would tone it down now that he was aware that Jonathan wasn’t prepared to take his odious guff any more.
It didn’t get any easier. He’d had to stand his ground many times at school, and as a teenager and young adult, but today marked another turning point on his journey. Gwen had been laughing uproariously at one of his witticisms when he’d heard Gerard say in his raspy growl, ‘Hey, you!’
Jonathan felt his stomach tie itself in knots but he ignored the other man, who had never used his first name since he’d started in the office.
‘You! I’m talking to you,’ Gerard said irately.
‘I think he’s talking to you, Jon,’ Gwen murmured.
‘I’m not answering to “you”. I have a name!’ Jonathan kept his back resolutely to his boss who was sitting at the table behind him.
The next minute Gerard was standing beside them.
‘You lot are here more than fifteen minutes. Get back to your desks. What do you mean by ignoring me when I’m speaking to you?’
‘Oh!’ said Jonathan politely. ‘I didn’t hear my name being called. What can I do for you, Mr Hook?’
‘Don’t get smart with me, you little shirt-lifter.’ Gerard was so incensed he was almost spitting.
The hum of chatter at their table had ceased and all eyes were on Jonathan. A strange calm descended on him and he took a small notebook he carried out of his pocket. Very slowly and deliberately he opened it to a blank page, looked at his watch, wrote down the time and date and began to write.
‘What are you writing in that?’ Gerard blustered, realizing he had overstepped the mark.
‘I am writing down the time and date, and your gratuitous insult, Mr Hook, and if you persist in your bullying and disrespectful behaviour, I will be reporting you to the Personnel Department and may take the matter to my solicitor.’ He stood up and with his head held high left the canteen and made for the men’s loos. Once behind the relative privacy of a cubicle door he let the hot tears flow silently and tried hard to smother his sobs so that no one would know that he was crying. Many times he had cried silent tears; he would cry many more, he suspected. But he would never allow himself to be abused and bullied again. Thanks to his counsellor Hannah, he was working through the trauma of his childhood sexual abuse at the hands of his neighbour all those years ago.
He would make an appointment to see her soon and speak to her of today’s events. It would be interesting to see if this bully would continue his bullying, Jonathan mused as he moseyed into the small kitchenette and took the bottle of Chardonnay from the fridge. Gerard Hook was a typical playground bully. Jonathan had fought them many times before, often coming home with a black eye or a bloodied nose, much to his mother’s dismay. Although she never brought up the subject, Jonathan knew that his mother knew and accepted that he was gay. It was a comfort to him that the subject had never come up for discussion. It was no big deal, as it should not be. He was Jonathan, her son, and that was all that mattered. He wondered would the day ever come when he would be accepted in society for who he was as a person, irrespective of his sexuality.
He poured himself a glass of wine and took a big notebook from his work shelf. He flicked through his notes on colour temperature and colour rendering and how important they were for commercial lighting. Office lighting was generally low-energy fluorescent in cool white. He hated the white strip lights in the office with a vengeance, with their irritating hum and constant flicker. He was more interested in domestic lighting, and especially how lamps, uplighters and downlighters could create a warm and cosy ambience. He always felt he’d achieved something when he persuaded his growing list of clients to change from harsh central lighting to diffused glows around the room. If only he could make a career out of his interior design business. It was his dearest wish and his greatest goal. That and resigning from his permanent and pensionable job and telling Gerard Hook he could get stuffed!
CHAPTER FOUR
Hilary stood outside the city centre hotel suite where the lighting design course was being held, rooting frantically in her bag for her registration document. She was sure she had put it in with a shopping list and two bills she had written cheques for that needed posting.
The door to the small foyer burst open and a tall, lanky man with a mop of blond hair flopping into his eyes, and carrying a large pink folder under his arm and wearing the pointiest shoes she had ever seen, hurried towards her, panting. Hilary paused from her rooting and grinned in spite of herself. Someone else late too, she thought with relief, glad she wouldn’t have to slink in bashfully alone.
‘Hi, is this where the lighting design course is? Are you doing it too?’ He sounded breathless but he managed a smile.
‘Yes, if I can find my registration letter.’ Hilary resumed her rooting.
‘You remind me of my sister, she carries a sack too,’ he said, eyeing her large tote bag. ‘We’ll go in together, it’s probably started. It’s a quarter to ten and it was starting at 9.30 sharp! As it said in the letter. I’m Jonathan. Jonathan Harpur.’
‘Oh! I’m Hilary Hammond’ she responded, thoroughly irritated with herself and wondering if in fact she’d put the letter and bills in the dashboard of her car which was parked a good ten minutes’ walk away.
‘Right, deep breath then,’ the man said, inhaling loudly before wincing.
‘What’s wrong?’ Hilary asked.
‘I drank a bottle of Chardonnay on an empty stomach, and feel a tad iffy,’ he murmured, opening the large green door.
A group of around thirty people sat taking notes from the diminutive, bespectacled lecturer, who was pointing to an image on a large screen of a shop-floor display of fabrics, and talking about something called metal halide lighting. Hilary knew that shop or store lighting was completely different from domestic, especially where fabrics were concerned, and a light as close as possible to natural light was needed. Hopefully this was the point being made and they hadn’t missed too much of the lecture and would be able to grasp what was being taught, fairly quickly.
All the seats at the back were taken and Hilary glanced at her companion, who grimaced and began to edge along the side. ‘There’s seats at the front, hurry along, please, we have a lot to cover,’ the man said impatiently as everyone turned to look at them. Mortified, Hilary scuttled behind her new acquaintance who nonchalantly flicked his purple scarf over his shoulder as he strode along ahead of her. There were four empty seats in the middle of the front row and he sat on one of them and she sat down beside him and took out a large notebook from her tote, and then realized with a sinking heart that she had to go rooting for a pen. She scrabbled desperately in the depth
s of her bag as the lecturer eyed her irritably.
‘Err . . . em . . . my pen,’ she said weakly, catching her companion’s amused gaze.
‘I’ve two, take one,’ Jonathan murmured, handing her a blue biro. ‘Mary Poppins has nothing on you,’ he added sotto voce as he clipped some pages to a clipboard and, pen poised, gazed expectantly at the lecturer.
Hilary giggled, earning another irate frown from the lecturer, before she lowered her head and opened her notebook as he began to discuss new developments in lighting technology.
‘I’m more interested in domestic lighting, to be honest. Fitting out a store or display premises wouldn’t be my cup of tea,’ Jonathan confided as they sipped coffee and nibbled on dry pink wafer biscuits a couple of hours later at the coffee break.
‘Umm, we do all types of lighting in my job, domestic and commercial. My dad has a lighting business and showrooms; I run it for him,’ Hilary told him, trying not to gobble her biscuit. She was starving, having only had time for a half-slice of toast that Millie hadn’t eaten. The girls were having a sleepover at her sister’s and she’d had to pack overnight bags, as well as getting them ready for school.
‘Really? Do you give discounts to friends?’ Jonathan enquired. ‘I have a new interior design commission. I need lights and lamps and shades and now I’m your friend.’ He grinned at her and she laughed.
‘I’m sure we could do business, Mr Harpur.’
‘Excellent, Ms Hammond! Here’s to a long and fruitful friendship.’ He clinked his coffee cup against hers and winked. ‘Look at the Mona Lisa over there, casting sultry glances at the guy in the brown cords. She’s wasting her time. He plays on my team.’
‘Gay?’ Hilary arched an eyebrow.
‘For sure. I should go over and flirt with him myself.’
‘How do you know?’ Hilary asked. ‘He looks . . . er . . . em . . .’ She was going to say butch but stopped in case she implied that Jonathan wasn’t. The minute she’d seen Jonathan’s shoes, and the scarf draped artistically around his neck, she’d known that he was gay.
A Time for Friends Page 4
