The Bottle of Tears

by Nick Alexander

  ‘And the understatement-of-the-year award goes to Will,’ Ben says theatrically.

  Bertie now slackens off his seatbelt and leans forward. Ben clearly has grabbed his attention. ‘Where did you go, Ben?’ he asks.

  ‘Winchester College.’

  ‘Oh, we looked at that one, but Dad said it was too expensive.’

  ‘Lucky you.’

  ‘No good, then?’

  ‘Oh, it’s nice enough,’ Ben says. ‘If you like being beaten up every day. It’s good if you’re into finding dog poo in your bed, as well. That’s kind of a Winchester speciality.’

  ‘Eww,’ Bertie says.

  ‘Ben got bullied a lot,’ Will explains.

  ‘Constantly, in fact,’ Ben adds lightly.

  ‘Why?’ Bertie asks.

  ‘Why did they bully me?’ Ben says. ‘I guess you’d have to ask them.’

  ‘You can probably guess why,’ Will tells Bertie, ‘if you try.’

  Bertie frowns deeply and slumps back in his seat.

  ‘Are you getting bullied?’ Will asks. ‘Is that why you want to leave?’

  Bertie doesn’t answer, so Will twists in his seat in order to look back at him, an effort Bertie rewards with a sullen shake of the head.

  ‘So why, then?’ Will asks.

  Bertie shrugs.

  ‘Too many questions,’ Ben says. ‘Leave the lad alone.’

  ‘Yes. Of course. Sorry,’ Will says.

  They drive in silence for another minute, then Ben switches on the radio. But the second he does so, Bertie speaks again, forcing him to turn the sound down. ‘Ben?’ he asks.

  ‘Bertie?’

  ‘Was it because . . . you know . . . Was it because you’re gay?’

  ‘Top marks to the boy in the back row!’ Ben says, then, after another pause, ‘Of course, everyone didn’t hate the place. In fact, if you’re a homophobic bully, then there’s probably no better place to be.’

  ‘That’s horrible,’ Bertie says.

  ‘Yes,’ Ben agrees. ‘It was.’

  ‘I saw a film,’ Bertie says. ‘And it wasn’t like that at all.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Yeah. With Rupert Everett in it. An old film.’

  Ben and Will exchange knowing glances. ‘Another Country?’ Will suggests. ‘About Eton?’

  ‘It was filmed in Oxford, I think,’ Ben says.

  ‘Yeah, but it was supposed to be Eton.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Bertie says, then, ‘Yes, I think so.’

  Will bites his bottom lip before speaking. ‘So, when did you see that, Bertie?’ he asks nonchalantly.

  ‘Ages ago.’

  ‘At the cinema?’ Ben asks.

  ‘Nah, it’s ancient,’ Bertie says. ‘My friend Aaron downloaded it, I think. He downloads loads of films.’

  ‘Right,’ Will says, then, ‘And you watched it together?’

  When Bertie fails to reply again, Will stretches and peers back at him. Bertie, he discovers, is staring straight ahead. His face looks swollen with as yet unshed tears.

  ‘Are you all right, mate?’ Will asks earnestly.

  Bertie’s face starts to distort.

  ‘Hey, Ben,’ Will says, turning back, ‘can you pull over somewhere?’

  ‘Why?’ Ben asks, struggling to see Bertie’s face in the mirror.

  ‘Hey, Bertie,’ Will says, shifting even further around in his seat. ‘Whatever it is, it’s OK, all right?’

  Tears are rolling down Bertie’s cheeks now. ‘You won’t tell anyone, will you?’ he asks.

  ‘Jesus, mate,’ Will says. ‘Of course not!’

  A few miles later, Ben manages to pull off the A2. ‘There you go,’ Will says, pointing to a home-made sign on the roundabout.

  ‘Nell’s Cafe?’ Ben asks incredulously. ‘Are you sure? Are you sure you want to have this conversation in Nell’s Cafe with all the long-distance lorry drivers sitting in?’

  ‘OK, forget it,’ Will says. ‘Just stop over there.’ He points to a gravelly strip of hard shoulder at the roadside. But as soon as the vehicle has stopped, Bertie jumps out and begins to run off down the road. ‘Jesus!’ Will exclaims. ‘Wait here. I’ve got this.’

  ‘Hold on,’ Ben says, grabbing Will’s arm as he opens the door. ‘Is he gay or something?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Will says. ‘But I’ve a feeling we’re about to find out. Bertie? Bertie! ’

  Will catches up with Bertie at a T-junction, where, unsure where to go next, Bertie has stalled. He is sitting on a concrete bollard on a tatty grassy verge as juggernauts rush by.

  ‘Hey,’ Will says. ‘Don’t run off on me like that. Jesus, imagine what your folks would say if I had to go back and tell them I lost you near Nell’s Cafe!’

  Bertie sniffs. ‘Good riddance, maybe?’

  ‘Now that I very much doubt,’ Will says, bending over and struggling to catch his breath. ‘So, what’s up, matey?’

  Bertie shrugs. ‘Nothing,’ he says.

  ‘Well, this doesn’t look much like nothing, does it?’ Will says. ‘You seem pretty upset about something. Now, I have my own ideas why that might be, but it would be far better if you just told me.’

  ‘Told you what?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Will says. ‘Anything you want.’

  Bertie shrugs again.

  ‘OK, let’s try this,’ Will says through a sigh. He sits briefly on another bollard but, deciding that it’s too far away, he stands again and crouches down beside Bertie. ‘Did you want to go to boarding school because you thought it would be . . . I don’t know . . . easier, perhaps, to be who you want to be?’

  Bertie sniffs and shrugs again.

  ‘Did you think it would be like Another Country? Is that it?’

  ‘It’s just a film,’ Bertie says. ‘I know that.’

  ‘A film you watched with your friend Aaron?’

  Bertie nods.

  ‘And you liked it? The film?’

  Bertie nods again, a little sheepishly this time.

  ‘So why don’t you tell me why you liked it?’ Will says, trying a different tack.

  Bertie wipes his eyes on his sleeve and looks up through his lashes at Will. ‘You won’t tell him, will you?’ he says.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Dad.’

  ‘Oh, no! I won’t tell anyone anything you don’t want me to tell them. And that’s a promise, OK?’

  Bertie nods.

  ‘So . . .’

  ‘So, why did I like the film?’

  Will nods encouragingly. ‘If you want, yes.’

  Bertie chews the inside of his mouth and sniffs repeatedly before replying, ‘Well, Rupert Everett is kind of hot in it, isn’t he?’

  Will snorts. Laughter bursts out of him in a swell of relief. Tears manifest in his own eyes, too. He scratches one ear then caresses his beard as he tries to decide how to respond. ‘He is,’ he finally says. ‘Rupert Everett is kind of hot. Though I preferred the other one, to be honest. The blond one who plays his lover. James something, wasn’t it?’

  Bertie nods. ‘That’s what Aaron said. But I preferred Everett.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ Will says. ‘Each to his own. I’m still not sure it’s a film that would make me want to go to boarding school, though. I mean, I haven’t seen it for ages, but one of them commits suicide, doesn’t he?’

  Bertie nods. ‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘Well, I tried that, too.’

  ‘Oh, shit, Bertie,’ Will says. ‘Things aren’t like that any more. It’s not 1930 or anything. You don’t have to feel bad about who you are, whoever you think is hot.’

  Bertie shrugs. ‘You say that, but . . .’ he says, then, ‘You know, I wanted to tell you for ages. But I was scared you’d tell Dad.’

  ‘Oh, you don’t have to worry about that,’ Will says. ‘We homos are like a secret society. We never tell anyone anything.’

  ‘Right,’ Bertie says.

  ‘So, just to be clear, here,’ Will says, scared, suddenly, that he’s jump
ing the gun. ‘Are you saying . . . I mean, you are saying, aren’t you, that you think you might be gay, yeah?’

  ‘Might be?’ Bertie says, pulling a face.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you think that you might be gay, Will?’ Bertie asks, his tone of voice sarcastic.

  ‘OK. Point taken,’ Will says, raising the palm of one hand. ‘So why are you so worried about your dad, anyway?’

  ‘He’d disown me if he knew,’ Bertie says. ‘You don’t know him.’

  Will frowns. ‘Hmm,’ he says. ‘I don’t know him well, it’s true. But he’s always been pleasant enough to me. And to Ben. Plus, I think you’ll find that parents disowning their kids is another thing that only really happens in films these days.’

  ‘He told me to man up,’ Bertie says. ‘He said everyone would think I was a fag otherwise.’

  Will pulls a face. ‘A fag?’ he says. ‘Are you sure he said that?’

  ‘A fag or a poof,’ Bertie says. ‘I can’t remember, but he made me do more sports. So people wouldn’t pick on me. I had to do judo and football and stupid rugby. He was worried they’d think I was gay otherwise . . . So, you see?’

  ‘Right,’ Will says, looking troubled. ‘Well, this is our secret, then. I won’t tell a soul. Now, lovely as it is here, breathing in all these diesel fumes, how would you feel about going back to the car and then driving somewhere a bit nicer where we can carry on this conversation? Um?’

  Bertie nods. ‘OK,’ he says. ‘Are you going to tell Ben?’

  Will laughs as he straightens up. ‘Um, I think Ben’s worked it out already.’ Bertie looks concerned about this so Will adds, ‘Not because of you or anything. It’s just the film. Not a lot of teenage heterosexual lads hunt down copies of Another Country, you know what I mean?’

  ‘Bit of a giveaway, then?’ Bertie says.

  ‘Yeah,’ Will says, putting one arm around his shoulder and giving him a squeeze. ‘Yeah, just a bit.’

  As they start to walk back towards the car, Bertie says, ‘You won’t tell anyone else, though, will you?’

  ‘No!’ Will says. ‘I told you. I promised, even. And Ben will promise, too, if you want. Don’t worry.’

  ‘It’s just that you’re friends with Penny and everything. And she might tell Mum. And Mum would tell Dad . . .’

  ‘I won’t tell anyone. Not even Penny. But I’ll bet you anything you like that your dad would be fine about it,’ Will says.

  ‘I bet you he wouldn’t.’

  ‘Everyone thinks that,’ Will says. ‘But they’re hardly ever right. I was terrified when I told my dad, but he just said, “Yeah, I know.”’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Really.’

  ‘How did he guess, do you think?’

  Will shrugs. ‘I don’t know, really. I mean, I did have a bit of a thing for Barbie dolls. So that might have been a giveaway.’

  Bertie pulls a face. ‘Really?’ he says. ‘Or are you winding me up?’

  ‘Sadly not,’ Will laughs. ‘I used to borrow them from girls at school. Mum was fine, too, when I told her. I mean, she cried a bit. She was worried that I was going to be unhappy or lonely or something. But she soon got over it. And she loves Ben.’

  As they approach the car, Ben, who is leaning on the bonnet, gives them a thin-lipped smile and a little upwards nod of the head. ‘All better now?’ he says.

  Will nods. ‘We’re just talking about telling parents. Yours were OK, too, weren’t they?’

  ‘I only ever told my mum,’ Ben says. ‘She was convinced Dad would lose the plot, so we kept it a secret. But I reckon he would have been OK, really. I kind of regret not telling him. But it’s too late now.’

  ‘Is he . . . ?’

  ‘Dead, yeah,’ Ben says. ‘My theory is to choose your moment carefully. You have to wait till something bigger or more urgent is going on so that it doesn’t seem like such a big deal. Funerals are good, I reckon. Or flooded kitchens, exploding ovens . . . shit like that.’

  Bertie frowns. ‘I don’t understand,’ he says.

  ‘I told Mum when our car broke down in the middle of a crossroads,’ Ben explains. ‘She said, “What? Why are you telling me this now? Help me push this bloody car.”’

  ‘Oh, right,’ Bertie says. ‘I get it. So do you think I should have told them at Gran’s funeral, maybe?’

  ‘No,’ Will says. ‘Like I say, I think they’ll be fine whenever you tell them. In the meantime,’ he adds, addressing Ben, ‘Bertie wants us to promise we won’t tell a soul.’

  ‘Of course we won’t!’ Ben says. Jingling the car keys, he adds, ‘So, where to now?’

  Will turns to Bertie. ‘That café over there, so we can talk in comfort? Or another nicer café . . . or a pub or something farther down? Or straight to Penny’s? You choose.’

  ‘Penny’s is fine,’ Bertie says. ‘We can talk in the car anyway, can’t we?’

  ‘Sure,’ Will replies. ‘Let’s do that.’

  Once they are on the move, Will pulls his phone from his pocket and, below Bertie’s line of vision, composes a text message.

  Bertie, however, spots what he’s doing. ‘Who’s that to?’ he asks.

  ‘Just Penny,’ Will says. ‘Just saying we’re running a bit later than planned.’

  But it’s a lie. The text, addressed in fact to Victoria, reads, ‘Mystery solved. I can’t tell you (I promised), but I’ll work on Bertie . . . Relax and enjoy your weekend. And maybe don’t mention it to Martin just yet. xxx’

  Penny unfolds the ancient deckchair and drags it across their scrubby lawn until it is in the sun. She then returns to the kitchen and pours herself a jumbo glass of Prosecco. Now the money has come through, she is having a long-awaited break from Lidl’s boxed Chardonnay.

  It’s a stunning August Sunday, and Bertie, Chloe and Max are picnicking on the beach while Will, Ben and Sander have gone to the pub. It’s the first time she has been both calm and alone in over a month and she’s intending to make the most of it.

  She returns to the deckchair (Solomon has curled up underneath it) and takes a hefty swig of wine – it’s cool and delicious and fruity – and then, after fidgeting briefly to get comfortable, she drops one hand to stroke the cat, closes her eyes and turns her face to the sun.

  The heat on her eyelids, the red light filtering through, the purring of the cat, the distant screams of families playing on the beach at the front of the house . . . it’s all lovely. She sighs with contentment.

  She listens to the gulls screeching, to the distant swell of waves upon the beach. She thinks about her mother and feels the loss all over again, but in a softer, gentler kind of way. She thinks of Bertie, who seemed strangely, almost hysterically happy on arrival, and wonders if she will ever find out why he has been so unhappy at home. She thinks of Sander, who claimed he was spending the entire weekend painting but who has now gone to the pub instead. And then, as she starts to drift, she pictures Chloe swimming, and then Chloe painting a portrait of Bertie. She dreams of Bertie painting a portrait of the cat, and then the cat painting a seagull, and then the cat and Max jumping in a canoe and paddling off over the horizon.

  She’s dragged from her dream by the chime of the doorbell. She groans, tries to sit up, but then decides to ignore it and reaches for her glass instead. But the wine is now warm. She wonders how long she has been asleep.

  When the doorbell chimes a second and then a third time, she sighs and manages to lever herself from the deckchair.

  She opens the front door to find Victoria standing on the doormat. ‘Oh!’ Penny exclaims. ‘Gosh. It’s you.’

  ‘Ha!’ Victoria says, already squeezing past her. ‘I was worried no one was in.’

  Penny frowns and watches her as she advances towards the kitchen. She looks at Victoria’s bag, pulls a face, and then turns and closes the front door again.

  ‘Um, lovely surprise and everything,’ Penny says when she reaches the kitchen. ‘But why are you here?’

  ‘Huh
,’ Victoria says. ‘That’s a nice welcome for your big sister, isn’t it?’

  Penny shakes her head sharply from side to side and blinks repeatedly. She’s still struggling to wake up. ‘Seriously, Vicky. Why are you here?’

  Victoria puts down her bag and turns to face her sister. ‘It’s just something I needed to do, OK?’ she says mysteriously. ‘So are you going to make me a cuppa or not?’

  Penny shakes her head. ‘Make yourself a cuppa,’ she says. ‘I’m on Prosecco.’

  Victoria shrugs. ‘That’ll do,’ she says, reaching for a glass. ‘Yes, that’ll do nicely.’

  Penny watches as Victoria opens the refrigerator, pours herself a drink and then heads out to the back garden. ‘What a lovely day,’ she calls back.

  Penny wrinkles her nose, mutters, ‘It was,’ and then pours a fresh glass for herself. The bottle is already almost empty. When she gets outside, her sister has stolen her seat, so she sets the glass aside and, feeling resentful, puts up a second deckchair. ‘Everyone’s out,’ she says. ‘I was asleep in the sun, to be honest.’

  ‘Right,’ Victoria says. ‘Where are they all?’

  ‘The kids are on the beach. I’m surprised you didn’t see them, actually. And the men have, as tradition dictates, gone to the pub.’

  Victoria nods and sips at her wine. ‘This is nice,’ she says. ‘It makes a change from that horrible stuff in a box you usually have.’

  ‘Right,’ Penny says. ‘Well, that horrible stuff in a box is all we could afford. I’m sorry it offended you.’

  Victoria turns a frown on Penny. ‘Am I getting bad vibes here? Am I correctly sensing that I’m not welcome? Are you upset with me in some way, Sister?’

  Penny laughs. ‘What, you mean other than being upset about the fact that you broke your promise by not coming to Vivian Court?’

  ‘Ah,’ Victoria says.

  ‘Yes, ah,’ Penny mockingly repeats. ‘Plus, the fact that Bertie is supposedly here so that you can all have a break from each other. I’m not sure how that works now.’

  ‘So you’re still angry about Mum’s flat?’

  ‘It was yesterday, Sister,’ Penny says. ‘So yes, I’m still angry about it.’

  ‘Martin helped you, though, right?’

  ‘Yes. Martin was lovely. But it was supposed to be you. You promised.’