Going Too Far

by Catherine Alliott

  With an A to Z under my nose I then map-read my way round a labyrinth of roads; through a mews, down an alley, under an arch, round a corner and, finally, up what looked like some fire-escape steps to the third floor of a dismal-looking block of flats. Taking the lift had been an option, but when the doors had slid back to reveal a menacing-looking steel box of alarmingly beaten up and graffitied proportions and stinking thoroughly of urine, I’d instantly opted for the climb.

  I then made my way cautiously along the outside concrete walkway, keeping an eye out for pit bulls and Alsatians. I wasn’t too keen to meet one but I was keen to give the tenants the benefit of the doubt apropos the pong in the lift. This was definitely not the most salubrious of establishments. Was it council? I wondered. Every flat had the same blue door with a small pane of reinforced glass and at each window a net curtain seemed to twitch as I passed. Eventually I came to Bruce’s door, number 42. I pressed the bell. His curtain twitched briefly too and I caught a quick glimpse of his face. A second later he opened the door.

  He looked awful. His eyes were huge and sunken, with enormous dark circles underneath, and his normally golden face was ashen and unshaven. He clutched at the lapels of his blue silk dressing gown, which aside from some rather dirty pink mules was all he appeared to be wearing. He blinked nervously.

  ‘Come in,’ he whispered, glancing furtively over my shoulder as if to check no one else was with me. He quickly ushered me in.

  ‘I won’t kiss you,’ he said, shutting the door behind me. ‘I’m a bit of a mess this morning.’

  I smiled and kissed him warmly on the cheek anyway. ‘You look fine, Bruce, if a little tired.’

  ‘Here, let me take your jacket.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  I let him take it off my shoulders while I looked around. The front door led directly into the sitting room, which also seemed to be the dining room, and judging by the large silk screen emblazoned with peacocks sectioning off the far end of the room, possibly the bedroom too.

  I stared. It was an extraordinary place. The whole room was literally full of childhood memorabilia. There were teddy bears everywhere: sitting on chairs, perched on shelves and all over the wallpaper and curtains. Hanging from the picture rails were rows of string puppets – clowns, Pinocchios, harlequins – all with their limbs dangling and their heads lolling as if their necks were broken. There was also a staggering display of china animals – again, mostly teddies, but with a fair sprinkling of dogs, cats and rabbits thrown in for good measure. These were displayed on what I believe are known as ‘occasional tables’, except that in this instance there was nothing occasional about them, in fact at a conservative estimate I’d say there were no fewer than fifteen dotted about the room.

  I blinked in astonishment. My limited experience of gays, gained chiefly from my advertising days, had led me to believe they were a predominantly tasteful lot, given rather to the minimalist and the trendy, but this place couldn’t have been more kitsch if it tried. It was also, somehow, terribly sad, as if a little boy had never grown up. Bruce was hovering next to me. I had the feeling some sort of reaction was called for.

  ‘What a … lovely room!’ I gasped eventually, totally at a loss.

  ‘Thank you,’ he whispered. ‘Come and sit down.’

  He weaved expertly through a sea of clutter and scooped Munchkin up from the only comfortable-looking chair, by the gas fire. He patted the seat.

  ‘Sit here. I’ll go and get some coffee.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  I clutched my handbag nervously to my chest, tucked my bottom in – I’m nowhere near as sylph-like as Bruce – and weaved precariously around the obstacle course of tiny, ornament-laden tables, hoping my broad beam wasn’t going to send something flying. Bruce watched my progress with an expert’s eye and then padded out in his slippers to what was obviously a galley kitchen.

  I sat down and watched him go. How odd. He’d seemed so flamboyant, so glamorous, so – well, gay – in Cornwall, yet here in this melancholy little flat he just seemed rather small and forlorn.

  I looked around. Fighting for space amongst the china animals on the table beside me were a few photographs. They were all of a sweet-looking elderly couple, sometimes with Bruce smiling beside them, sometimes without. I picked one up and looked at it. Bruce came back with the coffee.

  ‘Mummy and Daddy,’ he said, handing me a mug. His hand was shaking.

  ‘I thought so.’ I smiled and put the photo down. ‘You’re very like your mother. How is she?’ I asked gently.

  He shuffled into a seat opposite and tugged his dressing gown down over his bony knees.

  ‘Not good,’ he said with a sigh, ‘not good at all. Of course, all this business has made her much worse.’

  ‘She knows?’

  ‘Some of it. Not all of it, she doesn’t know for instance that I might go to prison.’ His eyes filled with tears and he stared into his coffee.

  I looked away, giving him a second to wrestle with his lower lip. Something else was different about him too, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. Then I realized – of course, his voice! All the campness had gone and there were no effete little mannerisms either. He was a different person – more like half a person, in fact, and now I understood why his parents had never known. I reached across and touched his arm gently.

  ‘It may not come to that, Bruce. I mean, there were some incredibly – whassicalled – mitigating circumstances, weren’t there? After all, you were being blackmailed, the court’s bound to take that into consideration; you might just get a fine or be let off with a caution, and of course it was only your first offence, wasn’t it?’

  Bruce raised his eyes from his coffee and stared at me. ‘No, Polly, it wasn’t my first offence, because I didn’t do it. Why doesn’t anyone believe me!’ His voice rose hysterically.

  I shifted uncomfortably in my seat. ‘Well, it’s not that we don’t believe you, it’s just that – well, the thing is, Bruce, your fingerprints were all over the cabinet, the police said so, and –’

  ‘Of course they were!’ he broke in angrily. ‘I was probably the last person to look at the stuff, before the burglary, I mean. Don’t you remember? Nick gave me the key and said I could help myself –’ He blushed at his unfortunate phrase. ‘I mean, have a look.’

  ‘Yes, I know, but’ – I hesitated – ‘that also means that you were one of the few people who knew where the key was kept, and the key was definitely used, so, um …’ I trailed off nervously.

  ‘Oh, come on, anyone with half a brain could have found it in that jug and, besides, there must have been other people who knew where it was kept.’

  ‘Well, yes, Nick and me, of course, and Hetty and Tim – oh, and Sarah.’

  ‘No one else? Please think, Polly,’ he urged. ‘It might just help me.’

  ‘Well, Mrs Bradshaw knew.’

  ‘Who’s she?’

  ‘My old daily.’

  ‘Well then? Why does everyone automatically assume it has to be me?’

  ‘Well’ – I licked my lips nervously – ‘perhaps it’s got something to do with the piece of porcelain you gave to your mother? I mean, you must admit, that’s pretty incriminating, isn’t it?’ I asked hesitantly.

  ‘But I didn’t give it to her! Honestly, Polly, you’ve got to believe me!’

  ‘You didn’t? Oh, so um … how did it get there, d’you think?’ I asked, trying hard not to sound interrogative.

  ‘I don’t know!’ he wailed, frantically twisting his fingers together. ‘I just don’t know! The first I heard of it – before I even knew about the burglary and before the police had arrested me – was when Mummy rang to thank me for some piece of china she’d found. She kept rabbiting on about how she’d woken up about an hour after I’d left her and there it was, sitting on her bedside table, all wrapped up with “Love from Bruce” written on a tag in my handwriting. She kept thanking me over and over again, one minute saying it was too much and th
e next saying how beautiful it was – she was nearly crying she was so pleased.

  ‘I didn’t have a clue what she was talking about; I didn’t even know it was a piece of your porcelain. To be honest I thought she’d gone completely doolally – she is getting rather senile these days – and in the end, just to calm her down – because she was getting so agitated and confused when I denied it – I said yes, OK, I had given it to her after all. She was delighted, of course, and I thought no more about it – thought I’d just ring back later and have a quiet word with one of the nurses and sort it out. I even wondered if one of them had bought it, wrapped it up and sent it from me, because I’d only given her some chocolates for her birthday – well, there’s not a great deal she needs in there, you see.’ He paused for breath and took a gulp of his coffee.

  ‘Well, of course I completely forgot about it, and the next thing I knew the police were banging on my door, telling me I had the right to remain silent but anything I did say would be taken down and used in evidence against me!’ His voice rose to a hysterical sob. ‘I simply couldn’t believe it! They wouldn’t even let me speak to her – still won’t, even now – it’s one of the conditions of my bail. They say I’ll try to persuade her to lie, to say it wasn’t me, but all I want to do is to find out the truth.’ He gazed at me, his pained, hollow eyes wide with anguish. Then, abruptly, he hung his head and looked down at his pink slippers.

  ‘But none of this really matters you know, Polly,’ he whispered sadly. ‘I could handle all of it, the whole ghastly mess, if it weren’t for the fact that she’s dying and they won’t let me see her. Suppose she asks for me and they won’t let me go and I’m not there when she – oh God, it’s just too awful to contemplate!’ He gave a strangled sob and broke down completely, clutching Munchkin to his chest and sobbing into her fur.

  I dashed over and knelt beside him, putting my arm around him. I could feel his bony shoulders shaking and heaving under his dressing gown. Munchkin whimpered as he held her too tightly but made no effort to escape. Eventually Bruce shuddered to a halt and started to sniff. He released his grip on Munchkin, who frantically licked his hand, and I sat back as he rummaged for a hanky down the side of his chair. He pulled one out and blew his nose noisily.

  ‘Someone hates me very much, don’t they, Polly?’ he muttered, staring at me with red-rimmed eyes. ‘Someone’s really got it in for me, first the letters and now this.’

  ‘Well yes.’ I licked my lips, I had to tread carefully here. ‘The letters are awful, simply horrid, but you see, Bruce, that’s one of the reasons the police think you did it, because you were being blackmailed. They think you needed the money.’

  ‘Well, I did need money, yes of course I did, but I’d never steal for it.’ He looked at me in amazement. ‘Never! And certainly not from people like you and Nick whom I like and respect – what do you take me for?’

  I gulped and sat on my hands, feeling ashamed. ‘I’m sorry, Bruce, it’s just … well, it’s so terribly difficult wh-when all the evidence sort of points to you.’

  Bruce compressed his lips and sniffed huffily. ‘Maybe so, but it would be nice to think people would have a little more faith in one, regardless of the evidence.’

  He wiped his nose with his hanky, regarding me reproachfully over the top of it. I looked away guiltily. We were both silent for a moment. I gazed down at the carpet, a ghastly, patterned nylon affair. I looked up quickly, hating myself for noticing it. I racked my weary brains, trying desperately to think of a way out for him.

  ‘I suppose the nurses didn’t see anyone else lurking around her bed that day, did they?’ I asked tentatively. ‘Anyone suspicious?’

  He shook his head. ‘No one. The only people who visit are me and a few old ladies from her village, neighbours, that sort of thing. Anyone else would stand out like a sore thumb and they say there was no one unusual that day.’

  He gave a deep sigh and sank back in his chair, picking abstractedly at some stuffing that was coming out of the upholstered arm. Then he looked up and gave me a wry little smile.

  ‘It’s very simple, Polly. I’ve been framed. Quite comprehensively and cleverly framed, and there’s not a damn thing I can do about it.’

  I frowned. ‘Oh, Bruce, surely not, there’s no one who hates you that much, is there? Enough to let you take the rap for this?’

  He shrugged and looked down at Munchkin’s head as he stroked it with his finger.

  ‘Hard to say really. No one exactly springs to mind but you’d be surprised at the number of people who hate people like me.’ He found my eyes. ‘Queers, I mean. Shit-shovellers, uphill gardeners, whatever you want to call us.’

  I winced and looked away, embarrassed by his blatancy. He sat up straight and rearranged his dressing gown, suddenly composed.

  ‘Oh yes, we know what people think of us. A lot of people still think Hitler had the right idea; they’d like to see us herded into gas chambers and incinerators. And I don’t necessarily mean loony extremists, I mean normal, everyday, common or garden people who pretend to be terribly liberated and free-thinking but who would secretly like to see all of us dirty, AIDS-ridden buggers exterminated once and for all. Wiped out.’

  ‘Oh come on, Bruce,’ I muttered uncomfortably, ‘not in this day and age.’

  ‘You’d be surprised. Decent people like you will find it hard to believe but I can assure you it’s true.’ He smiled sadly. ‘That’s why, when you ask me if I can think of anyone in particular, it’s rather hard to be specific.’

  I gazed up at him from the floor where I was kneeling. All of a sudden he’d acquired a certain dignity, dressed even as he was in his dressing gown and slippers. I looked down abruptly, feeling momentarily ashamed of the arrogance of my own heterosexual community. There must have been times when I’d giggled at Bruce, ridiculed him even, because – well, he set himself up to be ridiculed. But seeing him now, in this heart-rendingly childish flat, sensing the chaos and turbulence that must have been within him from an early age as he struggled to come to terms with his sexuality and, when he finally did, his bravery in sparing his elderly parents that particular confession, I felt rather small. And his outrageously camp behaviour which he could evidently turn on and off – it was almost as if he put that on to give other people an excuse to laugh at him, to make them feel better, not him. It was a defence mechanism all right, but in defence of whom? I looked at his feet in their pink mules, so white and cold-looking, so vulnerable.

  A silence fell. I tried to think of something that might help him. Anything.

  I cleared my throat. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve got an alibi for that Friday night, have you?’ I ventured hopefully.

  He smiled ruefully. ‘No such luck. I was fast asleep in bed at the boarding house where I was staying, but the police say I could easily have slipped out and got back in again because the landlady had given me a key.’ He grinned suddenly. ‘It’s a great shame you’re such a sound sleeper, Polly. If only you’d woken up you might have seen it wasn’t me!’

  ‘Er, yes, quite,’ I said nervously and quickly rummaged around for a change of subject. I didn’t particularly want to get embroiled in my whereabouts on that Friday night.

  ‘Um, is there anything I can get you, Bruce? Anything I can do, some shopping perhaps?’

  He leaned forward. ‘There is something, actually.’

  Oh Lord, I’d rather imagined I was enquiring rhetorically. I hoped it wasn’t going to be anything too demanding, I had rather a lot on my plate at the moment. ‘Er, yes, of course, what is it?’

  ‘Well, if I do – you know – go away, would you look after Munchkin for me? Only, if she can’t be with me I’d like her to be in the country where she’s got lots of space to run around, with people who like animals. Would you mind, Polly?’

  I gulped. ‘No, of course not, Bruce. I’d be glad to have her.’

  I wasn’t too sure what a dog of Munchkin’s size was going to do with a thousand acres of Cornish coun
tryside, but since Nick would undoubtedly have kicked me out by then anyway, it was purely academic.

  ‘Good, I know you’ll look after her properly, but do remember she’s got an awfully delicate tummy. She’s allergic to eggs – they make her frightfully sick – but she’s rather partial to a little poached chicken – oh, and lightly grilled fish. I’ll give you her diet sheet, of course.’

  ‘Super,’ I said weakly.

  Oh, this was terrific. Absolutely marvellous. Not only would I be a homeless, single parent with a baby to look after but I’d also have a dog with a delicate tummy and a propensity to puke, so not only would I be covered in baby sick but chihuahua icky-poo too. I’d obviously just have to wear a plastic mac all day and sponge myself down at regular intervals, when I wasn’t poaching chicken for one or breastfeeding the other, of course. I simply couldn’t wait.

  And where were we all supposed to live? Eh? Would somebody like to answer me that one, please? It was all very well Nick saying I should go and look at houses, but there was no way I was going to live in Cornwall if I couldn’t live with Nick at Trewarren, no way! And since there was also no way he could possibly afford to buy me anything in London without selling Trewarren – which I would never in a million years allow him to do – that left me up the creek without a home really, didn’t it? Perhaps I should just get a Sainsbury’s trolley to put baby, dog and belongings in, then I could drift around London in my puke-covered mac looking for suitable bus shelters. I sighed and leaned back on the heels of my hands, staring miserably at the teddies on the shelf above me.

  Then I had an idea. Oh! I sat up abruptly. Hang on a minute – I had a quick look around – on second thoughts, perhaps we could live here. I wouldn’t have to decorate because it already looked exactly like a nursery, so Junior would get the right vibes, Munchkin wouldn’t have to be uprooted – an experience which would no doubt play havoc with her delicate digestive system – and Nick could perhaps pay Bruce a small amount of rent which would come in jolly handy when he came out of the clink! Yes, all in all it would suit us very well! A perfect little pied-à-terre for three homeless waifs and strays. I sat up eagerly.