Cedilla

by Adam Mars-Jones

  Another voice spoke up from the group round the table. ‘I’ll tell you what happened to me,’ it said. The new speaker had a much more confident delivery, an almost actorly confidence. George put both mugs down on the floor at our feet.

  ‘I’d given myself a deadline to tell my mother I was gay. This was a few years ago. I wasn’t living at home, but I was staying with her for a few days. I’d decided that this was going to be it. Time for revelation. Zero hour. I had no reason to think she was prejudiced. She had a couple of friends who were in the theatre, and as if that wasn’t enough they worked for an antique dealer when they were between acting jobs. She was always saying how terribly amusing they were, what great fun, and I thought that was probably a good sign. It’s just … with her own little boy – the little prince – it might not be quite so much fun.’

  As if to emphasise the difference between himself and the previous speaker, he kept his gaze fixed on the mug in his hands, not looking up at any of us, confident of his ability to hold us without the assistance of eye contact. It was like an audition piece. And he meant to get the part.

  ‘I get terrible fits of cowardice, you know, but I was determined to see this through to the end. To make sure that I didn’t back out, I’d written my mother a letter and sent it, so I knew I would have to speak out before it arrived. I couldn’t just go on putting things off. I’d decided that to leave myself no escape hatch I would send it by recorded delivery. That was the only sensible thing to do. Otherwise I’d be tempted to hang around the front door and pounce on the letter, and then I’d have put everything off again, which I was beginning to find unbearable. I was getting so tired of not being able to respect myself.

  ‘The morning arrived for the letter to be delivered. I’d been awake since the early hours. I could hear Mother move around the kitchen, and still I couldn’t get up. I felt as if I was paralysed. I’d been doing a bit of drinking, and I was hungover, but there was more to it than that. There was a weight on my chest and I couldn’t stir from the bed. Mum was doing some ironing, for some reason, and I felt as if her iron was going back and forth on my chest, and scalding me with the knowledge of my own worthlessness. And Mother was singing as she did the ironing. Singing! She was cheerful, innocently happy, on a day that I was going to turn into blackness for her. Total eclipse. The light of her life was going to go out. And what was she singing, I ask you? She was singing “Everything’s Coming Up Roses”, that’s what …

  ‘I forced myself to rise from the horizontal. I swear it took as much effort as actually levitating. I forced myself up from the bed, by raw willpower, making myself confront my doom. To cast the shadow that would blight her happy song.’

  By this time he had started swirling his coffee mug, gently at first and then more decisively, so that the brown liquid in it began to rise up in a slurring tongue, coming just to the lip of the mug. Theatrical tour de force. If his control of his movements lapsed, even for a moment, then coffee would slop onto the table and perhaps the floor. We were all spellbound, host Tony’s hand tightening anxiously on a dishcloth.

  In trousers and also in tears

  ‘And then the doorbell rang. I shouted out “I’ll get that,” and started across the floor of my bedroom. But exactly at that moment I was laid low by a violent access of diarrhœa. Imperative diarrhœa – the runs at their most runny. I’m not exaggerating when I say that if I’d gone to answer the door I would have shat myself, and that is really not how you want to start an intense family conversation.

  ‘So I had an ignominious session on the lav, where all the tension I’d been forcing myself not to feel expressed itself in the most rudimentary terms. And then I stumbled into the kitchen, where Mum was frowning as she took a piece of paper out of its envelope…

  ‘What I’d planned to send her was the baldest possible statement. Fifteen words. IF YOU’RE READING THIS THEN YOUR SON IS A COWARD AS WELL AS A BUGGER. But then I thought that was a little crude, really. Dear Noël would have winced a bit, wouldn’t he? It wouldn’t do any harm if I took a little trouble over expressing myself elegantly, though the whole idea was that she would never have to read it. It wouldn’t make any difference, but it would be good for my self-respect. The plan was that I’d speak out like a man before the letter was delivered, and sign for the recorded-delivery packet with a virile and unshaking hand while Mother screamed the place down in the middle distance. I would exchange a glance with the postman, that glance that all men use to mean Women … how can we hope to understand them when they don’t understand themselves?

  ‘So what Mother was reading was just a teeny bit less direct. I swear her lips were moving as she read out loud,

  MY FIRST IS IN QUEST BUT NOT IN GRAIL,

  MY SECOND IS IN DUGONG BUT ISN’T IN WHALE,

  MY THIRD IS IN ERIC AND ALSO IN ERNIE,

  MY FOURTH IS IN VOYAGE AND ALSO IN JOURNEY,

  MY LAST IS IN TROUSERS AND ALSO IN TEARS …’

  He looked around expectantly, raising his eyebrows, but his audience didn’t catch on quickly enough for his liking. ‘I’ll give you another ten seconds, shall I? Oh, for God’s sake – Queer! I was giving her the clues for Queer. MY WHOLE MEANS YOUR SON IS ONE OF THOSE QUEERS.’ His eyes went back to the contents of the mug. ‘As I say, I’d been drinking rather a lot … I’m not sure there was alcohol of any description left in the house by this time.

  ‘So I finally open my mouth and hear myself coming out with the words I’ve longed to say (and dreaded to hear) for so long: “Mother, there’s something I have to tell you …” Only she says, “Shhh! dear, I’m concentrating.” She doesn’t take her eyes off the piece of paper in her hand. “Can’t it wait? Someone’s sent me a word puzzle and there must be a prize for it – why else would they go to the trouble of sending it registered? I wonder what the prize is! Don’t just stare, darling, give me a hand …”’

  At this point he looked up from the swirling coffee in his mug and winked at me, with such precision that it was like watching the interior workings of a camera, the shutter flashing down and back. The wink seemed to be saying, ‘That’s the way to do it. That’s how you do a telling-your-parents story.’ As if the proper delivery of the anecdote was all that concerned him.

  This time there were follow-up questions: ‘So what did she say? Did she work out the riddle? Or did you manage to tell her first?’ But he seemed to have lost interest in his life history now that the performance aspect was over. He said matter-of-factly, ‘Oh, I told her myself. It turned out she was relieved if anything. From the way I’d demolished the drinks cupboard she was afraid I was going to tell her I was a dipso …’

  This wasn’t remotely how I had visualised my first gay meeting, but really I shouldn’t have been surprised. I should have anticipated something of the sort. What I’d expected was somewhere between an orgy and a prayer meeting (with readings from Oscar Wilde). But if I’d used my common sense I would have realised that in a university town there was likely to be an element of performance in people’s testimony, a certain amount of showing off. The bantam displays of the ego weren’t going to be suspended just because people were exploring a taboo identity. Rather the reverse. In some people it went into overdrive. Sexual self-disclosure was something of a competitive event.

  ‘What do you make of that?’ George whispered.

  ‘Dunno,’ I said. ‘I’m just going to keep very quiet and hope nobody asks me any questions.’

  ‘Same here.’

  In fact testimony hour seemed to be over. Our host Tony stood up again. ‘Apologies for repeating myself, but not everyone was here when I did the welcome.’ This was for our benefit, for George and me. ‘So here goes again: Welcome to CHAPs. This is an independent forum where issues of sexual and political liberation can be freely discussed and worked through. We’re not affiliated with CHE or with GLF. I can’t emphasise enough that this is not a university organisation. Gay people in all Cambridge are invited to attend and challenge our prejudices
if they feel excluded in any way. Of course Tony and I met when we were students – my lifemate is also called Tony, which is handy because he’s not very good with names – but if we wanted to stay in our own little world we would never have founded CHAPs. I’m the Co-ordinator, by the way, and Tony is the Secretary. This is our house, and I hope you feel welcome. Tony, are the snacks ready?’

  The Tonys were home-makers, and their kitchen turned out wonders. Grisly wonders, on this occasion, laced with blood – pâtés and terrines. I nibbled awkwardly at some crisp curling sheets of Melba toast, to show willing.

  George and I made small talk for half an hour. He worked for Eaden Lilley, Cambridge’s less glamorous department store, in China and Glass. If Joshua Taylor was the Harrods of Cambridge, Eaden Lilley was its Bourne and Hollingsworth. He thought everyone at the meeting was a bit young. There only seemed to be one person in his own age group, mid-thirties.

  Music Lovers man and Recorded Delivery man held court at opposite ends of the kitchen space. No one came to talk to us. There was no welcome apart from the statement of welcome. Welcome was a policy rather than a fact at that address – or perhaps the snacks were supposed to do most of the work. One or other Tony kept offering us snacks until George got tired of eating them (and flicking the crumbs from his white suit) and I got tired of waving them away.

  George lived in Chesterton, and would have driven to the meeting if he hadn’t been so nervous he was sure he would crash. He had walked instead. ‘Will you be coming back?’ I asked.

  ‘Will you?’

  ‘I will if you will.’

  So it was agreed. I’d give him a lift to the bus station, but in the future he would pick me up from Downing. In the Mini George said, ‘Meetings like that are all right for a student like you, you’re a brainbox. I’m different. I don’t want to talk about issues of sexual and political liberation. I want to find a nice boyfriend, someone calm and sensible and nicely dressed, and I want my mother to ask us to dinner after the first few years, when she’s got over the shock.’

  I was in no great hurry to go public with my own fantasies of fulfilment. I suppose I wanted a boyfriend. Calm and sensible – why not? Nicely dressed – I didn’t care one way or the other. As far as Mum went, fine by me if the shock never wore off. No dinner invitations wished for in either direction.

  I didn’t want to lose my heart to a straight man if I could help it, and I certainly didn’t want a beauty, of whom in any case only one or two ever showed their faces at CHAPs meetings. I didn’t want to go down Cyrano de Bergerac’s road. I know everybody is supposed to love Cyrano de Bergerac, but I don’t. What a fraud! As far as I’m concerned, he’s just Pinocchio gone to the bad. His nose is so swollen that no one notices the effects of yet another lie, and it’s so long since he’s told the truth that he doesn’t remember what it feels like. If there was ever a talking cricket to give him sound advice, he’s long since ground it beneath his riding boot or skewered it with his sword.

  Cyrano is brave, honourable and unsightly. He isn’t desirable, and this is horribly unfair because he is beautiful where it really matters, on the inside. External beauty isn’t the real thing. It’s a distraction.

  With whom I shared my liver

  So does he fall in love with a woman with a club foot or a boss eye? Does he even fall in love with a flawed paragon – the woman who would be lovely if her ears were a little smaller, her ankles less thick? No, he falls in love with an acknowledged beauty, the hypocrite, and of course it’s taken as read that her inside is as beautiful as her outside. Because her outside is beautiful. Cyrano doesn’t want a fairer world, he wants an unfair world that lets him in, but he blackmails the world into sobbing on his behalf. Well, my eyes are dry.

  The alliance of cowards I made with George to go to CHAPs meetings had obvious advantages, but there were also some drawbacks. We were treated as a sort of couple. Once a Tony came over and said, ‘Tell me, where did you two meet?’ And I said, ‘Here – the first time either of us came to a meeting.’ The Tony almost purred, as if he couldn’t be happier about us. There was occasional mild pressure on George to offer some personal testimony, but I was exempt. Everyone could see that I had nothing to say.

  In theory there was no age discrimination at CHAPs meetings, in fact there were constant tirades against its evils, but the subtle fan of wrinkles round George’s eyes and the slight thinning of his hair disqualified him from full participation in the life of the group. In the same way, the group’s goal of reaching out to the town and not just the university didn’t stop him from being patronised somewhat, as if he might need subtitles during discussions.

  It suited everyone to think of the two of us as an indivisible subsection of CHAPs, a sort of internal splinter group. This was disconcerting for both of us. He wasn’t used to the full blinding spotlight of invisibility, and I wasn’t used to sharing it.

  We were a couple without ever having been an item. The group invented a closeness for us, though I doubt if anyone wanted to think about how we fitted together. We were a sort of Darby and Joan couple. Or I might have been the rather withdrawn fellow, yawning and grumbling, who always seemed to tag along when one of the original Siamese twins (Was it Eng or Chang? I should really look it up) wanted to play billiards. If ever I ran into a CHAPs member in town he’d be sure to ask, ‘Where’s George?’, as if I’d unaccountably mislaid the twin with whom I shared my liver.

  It helped to establish this coupled image that on our second visit George said, ‘John had tea in the yellow mug last time – can he have it again?’ So someone nicely ensconced on the sofa went bright red and surrendered the mug for my use. There was nothing special about the mug, though it wasn’t too big and the handle was a good shape for me. I could have made do with most of the others, but I didn’t want to correct George when he was going to so much trouble on my behalf.

  But after that the yellow mug loomed larger and larger. It was absurd. There was any amount of chafing along the lines of ‘Use any mug but the yellow one, that’s John’s, you’d better not get on his bad side.’ Once the yellow mug couldn’t be located right away, and the place was pandæmonium. I said I didn’t mind, any mug would do. Finally it was found lurking in the sink with the rest of the washing-up. The blessèd mug was given a priority cleaning, polished with a tea towel until it squeaked. Then it was filled with tea and offered to me with a triumphant smile, as if some desperate disaster had been headed off at the last possible moment. All the people in the group seemed to compress their sense of my singularity and then stuff it into the ruddy mug. As if what made me different wasn’t John needs a wheelchair to get around, but John’s very particular about his favourite yellow mug. Bit of a prima donna, you know.

  I even managed to drop the yellow mug once, though I was solicitous of the Tonys’ floor and waited until the mug was empty. Unfortunately I’m not far enough off the ground to break crockery reliably. I dare say Edith Piaf had the same problem, but her flinging talents were far beyond mine.

  At our second meeting we made the acquaintance of Ken, the group’s one-man intellectual vanguard and ideologue. It was obvious from the first glance that he had been typecast in the rôle by his looks. He was squat and entirely bald, which was not then a possible avenue to attractiveness, being only voluntary among the fearsome tribe of skinheads. In Ken’s case it was beyond his control, thanks to childhood alopecia after measles. Without his glasses he might have been able to lead a normal life, but baldness plus strong glasses, strong enough to make his eyes look small, could only mean one thing – ferocious intellectualism.

  It didn’t matter that he wasn’t necessarily the cleverest person in the group. A style of combative extremist theory became his lifeline, the vindication of his off-putting appearance. He spoke at length about sexual evolution, about unstoppable changes in society which would lead to heterosexuality, poverty and war becoming obsolete. We were the first wave of a new creation.

  There was a certain
amount of mismatch between the jaunty acronym of CHAPs and its rather hard-line name, the Cambridge Homosexual Activism Project. It was no secret that the name had been hammered out to justify a desirable set of initials. If anyone had been able to come up with a better name for the group then it would generally have been accepted, as long as the acronym could stay. I thought ‘homophilic’ might do for the H and ‘assimilation’ for the A, but hesitated to make the suggestion. Only Ken liked the austere ring of the name, and would have liked to use it in full on every occasion. There were frivolous elements in the group that sometimes seemed close to sniggering at him.

  I had more or less crawled on hands and knees to my first meeting, as to a place of healing or punishment, Lourdes or Golgotha. What I had found, as I gradually realised, was closer to Mum’s sewing circle in Bourne End, although no single stitch was sewn. I suppose it was more of an unpicking circle than a sewing circle. I tell a lie – a few stitches were sewn. I had a Greek tapestry shoulder-bag which I had bought in the market, like a huge external pocket marginally easier for me to rummage through than anything actually attached to my clothes, and a member of the group sewed a discreet lambda onto that.

  Thread of exasperated fondness

  Our leader Ken seemed to have a nickname, though people were careful not to use it in his hearing. At first I thought it was Sarge, which didn’t seem quite right since his manner, even at its most dogmatic, was more pleading than authoritative. It turned out to be Serge, still puzzling although his earnestness might have seemed a Russian quality.

  Finally it was explained to me – Serge meant Blue Serge. The material used to make certain uniforms. Our doctrinal leader had a thing about policemen. This explained a number of references that had been unclear to me, murmurs of ‘Evening all’ and ‘What’s all this, then?’ when Ken turned up or launched into an aria of dialectic.