by Ned Williams
Even this couldn’t draw us out. For a while nobody turned a hair but carried on exactly as they were. Paul always managed to see the melodramatic side to everything. He was one of those people that, after slipping on a used match stick in the street would enter a room, exuding terror and eager to exploit the assumed seriousness of the event by informing us how he had very nearly broken every bone in his body because he had fallen over a Giant Sequoia.
After pounding the metal sink to get attention, he plunged on. “Listen, you unfeeling slobs! This one is a real mind blower. I have just this moment found out – Eric’s a queen!” Virtually all in the room burst out laughing.
I was in total ignorance. “Who’s Eric? I enquired.
Paul drew a deep breath and cried out in his best stagey anguish. “Only my fucking brother, that’s all!!” He let out a howl, burst into his finest crocodile tears and rushed off to lock himself in the lavatory.
I blinked. “So, that’s his name. Paul’s never said before.”
After a while, during which time Pauls laments were getting significantly louder thus ensuring that we could all hear him, someone said, “I’d better try and get him out.”
“You bet,” said Adam, “I want to use it.”
One of our numbers went out to try and coax the demented Paul to return to the gathering. Whilst he was banging on the bathroom door and shouting out in an attempt to be heard above Paul’s moans, Adam filled in the rest of the story for the uninitiated.
Since they were kids, Paul and Eric had never been the best of friends, let alone best of brothers. There were big problems over which of them was the more trustworthy when placed in charge of the other when alone. Paul was eighteen months older than Eric but Eric was far more mature. At home, Paul was a dutiful, butch son but amongst his friends, he became a right queen. In both places, he was very loud. Eric, on the other hand, was full of grace, quiet and tended to prefer his own company instead of communing with his older brother.
When Paul finally re–entered the room and managed to calm his frenzy, he told us the story of how he made his discovery. He was out trolling and went into a cottage. There was a gap under the adjoining walls of the lock–ups. He saw that one of the cubicles was occupied and entered the one next door. After a few moments, he was playing footsy under the gap with his neighbour. Paul knelt down to look under the partition to catch a glimpse what he might be getting. He then saw his own brother, also on his knees, looking back. Inevitably, Eric’s face changed from delighted expectation to devastating horror and gave out a very audible gasp, got to his feet and ran out of the toilet.
Up until that moment neither knew that the other brother was gay. Little did either suspect. It seems that each of them thought that, if the other found out, there would be a huge family crisis. Both were sure that, because of their turbulent history, each would betray and snitch to their parents on the other.
Eventually, after an allocated time which he felt was required and he needed, Eric summed up the courage to face Paul. They accidentally bumped into one another in a club and Eric couldn’t get away. Eric never said where he went and/or stayed during the week of his disappearance. They finally cleared the air by having a long and frank talk. After this meeting they became the best of friends and began to catch up and repair the damage from all those lost years of their childhood and youth. From then on they were often seen out together and occasionally were taken for an affair which was nice and ironic. Eric rarely went onto the scene and his sex life seemed a mysterious affair over which he refused to expand.
One evening Paul and I were out on a bit of a pub crawl and we ended up in a gay pub.
As we entered the smoky hole, Paul paused and said, “How would you like to meet my little brother?”
“I’d be delighted. I’ve heard so much about him – most of it good, by the way.”
“Well, there he is.” He pointed to a young man who looked as though he would be more comfortable anywhere else other than where he actually was. As soon as Eric clapped eyes on us his face visibly lit up and beckoned frantically for us to join him. Finally, I was being treated to a meeting with the illusive Eric.
Right away, I was struck by his good looks and the glaring differences between him and his older brother. Paul was of average height, well built and a little on the camp side, whereas, with Eric, there wasn’t the slightest trace of effeminacy. He was tall, slim and masculine through and through. The moment he clocked that Eric and I were going to get along, Paul went over to some people he knew to exchange news of their respective lives.
Candidly, Eric soon admitted that, in bed, he liked to be dominated. At least that was something the siblings had in common.
“Has Paul mentioned about Adam’s place and the parties?” I asked him.
“Yes. Ugh! Not my scene at all. I can’t cope with crowds of drama Jessies, cackling and bleating at one another for all the World to hear. I feel ashamed for them. Nope, I prefer the quieter life.” This last bit of self revelation had to be shouted so as to be heard above the noise in the pub.
Soon after the emotional bridges had been repaired and rebuilt, on each Sunday evening, when their parents were away, Eric and Paul instigated a regime of parties which meant entertaining a small group of friends in their home. With their parents’ apparent blessing, the two brothers took full advantage of their absence and instituted a timetable of fun.
I was included in this small group and became a regular visitor.
“Woodland” was a detached bungalow in a miniscule village where the local bus service was on a twice–a–day basis – if you were lucky. The brothers’ parents, who I never saw, and, as there were no family photographs on view, I didn’t even know what they looked like, seemed relaxed over what their two offspring might be getting up to. I never learned what Mum and Dad actually did to enable them to afford such an opulently furnished bungalow. All Paul and Eric would say dismissively on the matter of their frequent absences was, “They’re off on yet another business trip.” There seemed a reluctance to expand on this so I let it go and respected their no–no on the subject by not asking anything further.
At Paul’s insistence, we started each evening by arriving at the public house where he worked on the weekends as both bar and cellar man. This larger village was well served by public transport so the journey from the city wasn’t a problem. In the bar we would down pints and indulge in ploughman’s lunches which consisted of great hunks of fresh bread – even on a Sunday – generously ladled blobs of butter and a hearty wedge of locally made cheese. It was delicious and always eagerly anticipated.
As the pub was a couple of miles from where he lived, when the landlord called ‘time’ and Paul was able to leave, the lack of a bus service meant a long walk back to their place for these parties. One boozy night, the journey was delightfully surreal. We sang and danced all the way there and interspersed this with games of ‘chase’ and hide–and–seek. This particular night Sheba was with us and obstinately refused to join in all the high jinks.
“I wish you lot would grow up,” she muttered.
“The day I do that, I will be on my deathbed,” Paul threw back. Sheba was not pleased with this remark. This was the only time I ever caught a moment of irritation between them.
On this particular evening we had been joined by a chap called Alan who must have been in his early thirties and was totally straight. How he knew the brothers and why he came to be joining us was never explained. After we had arrived and settled down with more drink, Alan went over to the baby–grand piano which graced the massive living room. He began to quietly play some Debussy from memory in a manner which displayed great skill and, to my ears, sensitivity. I scooted over and sat on the floor beside him to listen. It turned out that he was a classically trained pianist who now specialised in jazz. He soon delighted in displaying his skill for more upbeat music when Paul yelled, “Oh, come on, Alan, you can do better than that. Give us something with a bit more life.”
Alan smiled at me and, within a matter of two bars, made the transition from Debussy to Gershwin with perfect ease and began giving us a selection of songs which he deemed would be familiar to his audience. The fact that the team of would be listeners were in small chattering groups didn’t seem to faze Alan. As he played, I hummed self–consciously along to some of the songs that I knew reasonably well. Whilst still tickling his ivories, Alan leaned towards me as if to listen. I ceased making my inarticulate noises.
“Don’t stop. Why not sing out?”
“What?” Was he being sarcastic?
“You seem to have a nice voice. Let’s hear it properly.”
I peered around at the preoccupied other guests, “No, I couldn’t. I’d feel daft.”
“Don’t worry about that lot, they’re happy enough. Come on, start quietly to get your confidence up then enjoy yourself. Try to relax more into the songs.”
“Well...” I was still unsure.
Alan cut over me, “You must know this one.”
I know that ‘Summertime’ is not written for a male voice but the melody is so beautiful that it is totally irresistible. Tentatively I began to hum along, adding the odd snatches of lyrics when I thought I knew them. When the song was over, Alan gave me an instant Master Class on how to approach the song. First, he explained the different approaches to it as in an operatic ‘aria’ style, which is the original form of the ‘song’, and then there was the musical/easy listening version which was more laid back. Second, we went over some of the vocal lines and he guided my ever growing confidence with firm but gentle encouragement. I suddenly remembered that we were not alone and glanced around the room. We were the only ones left in the lounge as all the rest appeared to have adjourned to the kitchen/diner. So, I had discovered that my voice was so good, so melodious that it is guaranteed to empty any room in an instant. Alan then insisted that we try another standard – this time from Cole Porter. Now playing ‘out’, Alan filled the empty room with a sumptuous wash of sound; and it must be remembered that he was playing all this from memory. I promptly had a bad attack in a lack of confidence which Alan immediately picked up.
This impromptu singing lesson was brought to a halt when the rest of the party began drifting back into the main room, we broke for a refill of our glasses. In the kitchen, we didn’t exactly hurry to rejoin the rest. As we talked, he honed in on the fact that I was a great music lover so he made me a kind offer.
“I know it may not exactly be your style but this Wednesday a group I often jam with are having a get together for a session. It will be at my place. Care to come along and listen in?” Gleefully, I accepted. He gave me his address and I promised that I would be there. I had every intention of doing so.
The rest of the evening continued in a pleasant vein and Alan and I became more sociable with the rest of the party. Paul always arranged that there were lifts for us non–drivers and, I’m ashamed to say, the owners of the cars were pretty well plastered as they dropped us off at the nearest bus stop which boasted a frequent service.
As a small by–way, I did go to Alan’s home where his talented jazz quartet entertained me in a converted basement studio where his wife served coffee and snacks. After a while Alan told the others that I was a singer and that they should do a couple of standards with me joining them. Talk about being put on the spot and being oversold on any talent I may have had. To try and get out of it was difficult as Alan was exceptionally persuasive. He even produced some papers with the lyrics inscribed on them of the songs he had selected for me to sing. So, the little sod had planned this whole ambush. Amongst the ten or so items was the ubiquitous ‘Summertime’. I tried to remember all that Alan had taught me a few days before and delivered, what I am sure was a very mundane performance. Bless their hearts; each of my pathetic attempts at singing was greeted by the musicians with warm encouragement. At the end of the evening, Alan’s wife came in with a reel to reel tape.
“Here you are,” she said, presenting me with the tape.
Alan smiled. “Listen, we know it’s your birthday...”
It was. “How did you...”
“Never you mind! This whole session has been taped and – there you are; a copy for your personal use. Happy Birthday.” He indicated the tape I was now holding.
Alan and I met up on occasions in his basement studio and he continued to give me practical instruction in the art of Jazz Singing but nothing ever came of it. He didn’t say anything but I knew that I was nowhere near up to the mark – especially to his standard. I later found out that he was quite a big name in local Jazz circles so I was honoured that he should have bothered to have found the time to coach a music loving brat.
After many years and countless changes of address, somewhere along this procession of domiciles, this taped treasure from my youth has been lost – perhaps it’s just as well. I think the music world can survive perfectly well without my wretched crooning adding to its misery.
Anyway, briefly back to Paul and Eric... A couple of weeks after my encounter with Alan, who by the way, only ever attended that one evening, we had returned from Paul’s boozer and, as we had consumed a few more beers than usual, all of us were in a mellow mood. Sheba was about the only one among us who was comparatively sober. At one point in the evening everyone was in the kitchen except for Eric and I who were sprawled out on the floor. I had my eyes closed when I felt a breath on my face. I opened my eyes and saw Eric’s face about two inches from my nose. That gap soon narrowed and we kissed. I don’t know what Eric expected to happen as we were hardly in a secluded place but his breathing became stronger and more insistent and, I must confess, I began to respond. Things had proceeded a little further when Paul and Sheba returned.
I am still not quite sure why Sheba was so upset by what she saw. Both Eric and I were fully clothed and there were no private parts on display or being fondled but she let slip a quietly anguished, “Oh!” and rushed back out into the kitchen, closely followed by Paul to provide some comfort. Eric and I sat up and stared sheepishly at one another.
“Sorry about that, Carl. Too many beers, I think’.”
“Probably, but I enjoyed it.”
“Are you feeling a bit ashamed?”
We exchanged smiles. “A bit – but not too much.” Following this brief exchange, we made sure that there was a few feet between us so there would be no ambiguity if Sheba or Paul returned.
I can only assume that the reason for Sheba’s unexpected response was that, up until that moment, she had never seen me actually intimate with another male. So far everything she knew about my life had been academic – suddenly she was observing the practical reality. Also, I think she began to realise that she needed the gay world more than it needed her. She was an outsider who would never be fully accepted into her newly adopted life–style. The other thing which struck me was that Paul wasn’t particularly bothered yet Sheba was. It was a topsy–turvy moment in my experience and fitted well with the whole surreal set–up of these parties.
Actually, this was the last time Sheba came to Paul and Eric’s Sunday evenings and, strange to say, the gatherings became more relaxed. I think the event frightened and embarrassed Eric so much that he never tried anything on with me ever again.
In work, the next day, Sheba made it clear that she felt she had been silly and forgave me – not that I could see what I had done so wrong that it needed any forgiveness from her.
“Anyway, Carl, to change the subject completely, when are you free to come and meet Lorna. I keep pestering you. How about tomorrow? She rarely goes out. I’m sure she’ll be free.” Fucking Lorna again! “She keeps on and on at me to introduce you. She really is a wonderful person.”
“I can’t. I’m meeting someone.” This was perfectly true as William was back in town to do another concert and I had a complimentary ticket. In any case, the more Sheba enthused over the enigmatic Lorna the more I wished to avoid her.
Part Five – Aged 17 year
s
Party Time
The complicated threads in my life were now about to become even more of a tangle as another ‘scene’ added a new coil of social fibre.
Somehow Adam had met up with a stinking rich and over–confident guy called Henry who was well into his sixties and lived in a village called ‘Churcham’. Being a medium sized and exceedingly affluent rural village, it was populated mainly by retired businessmen, colonels and the like. There were very few locals of long standing around as the newcomers had succeeded in pushing the property prices up so high it was impossible for them to buy anything. The place was the epitome of an English rural idyll as celebrated by a certain type of poet. The village boasted an over–manicured green with a duck pond attached; a small church with a Memorial Hall also attached and an ancient, tumbledown, gabled pub which must have housed one hell of a history. I often wondered whether the owners might have claimed that it was actually haunted. Branching off from the main road which traversed the village where a series of private, unkempt roads each lined with uniquely designed detached houses. Henry lived in a 17th Century monstrosity that squatted in a vast garden and orchard. This house was supposed to have been a converted farm manager’s cottage which had been renovated and modernised (at no expense spared) to meet with Henry’s exacting requirements. All I can say is that the farm must have been extensive and successfully wealthy for the manager to have lived in such an impressive pile. Henry lived there alone and rattled around in his large house. To help him maintain his monumental shack, he had an aging gardener, a cleaning lady, a youthful odd job man and another young guy whose duties appeared so fluid that I never could quite fathom what he actually did.
Up until the time when Henry became involved with Adam, it appears that he was reasonably contented to follow his own ‘low–key’ existence. Adam, being Adam, soon changed all that. The magnet of wealth attracted Adam so he became intimately involved with Henry. Don’t get me wrong, Adam was not a con–man. I think he just enjoyed being where there was money and the influence it gave and contacts he could make. Adam immediately took over Henry’s life.
