by Alan Keslian
A chance for a break did come, albeit in a rather unpleasant way, and only for a weekend. At one of the meetings about the Dunblane project that the Scottish hotel manager attended we discussed itineraries for coach trips, some of which were to include lunch near Inverness. He said that the waitresses at a particular restaurant were ‘fine Highland girls in traditional dress’ and were sure to cheer up the menfolk.
‘Well, not all of the menfolk,’ I remarked humorously.
‘Oh now,’ he said loudly, ‘I’ve been forewarned about you; some of us would prefer not to hear about certain kinds of behaviour, thank you very much.’
One of Vincent’s consultants said, ‘Mark’s a good colleague, we all know he’s gay, do you have some kind of problem with that?’
‘Excuse me, it isn’t me who has the problem. I think you’ll find your US client, who is footing your bill, would be none too pleased to hear an avowed homosexual is working on their project. Organisations that provide family holidays for middle America support traditional conservative values, and quite rightly so in my opinion.’
With difficulty we returned to the business of the meeting, but the incident reminded me of all the past consternation and confusion over ‘coming out’ at Lindler & Haliburton. Even here, with colleagues who were gay friendly, prejudice had infiltrated. Whatever my problems at Goodmans Hotel, having my own business had saved me from being plagued by discrimination.
I mentioned his outburst to Vincent later in the day. ‘He’s completely wrong about the client. Our contract with them has an equal opportunities clause which covers sexual orientation. The subject was specifically raised by them in discussions, and they asked for assurances that our policy matched theirs. He is the one who is out of line, not you. You’re not going be put off by him, are you? Do you want me to speak to him?’
‘No, but Lizetta often says that companies are usually quite happy to adopt equal opportunities policies, but whether their doing so has any real effect is difficult to determine… .’
‘Don’t give up on account of this. That bigot will have won if you do. Give it another month or so. Look, for god’s sake don’t say a word about this to anyone here – my wife meets me at the office sometimes – but Lizetta and I are hiring a cottage up in Scotland in February. Why don’t you come and stay with us for the weekend?’
Vincent’s support did make me feel better. Nothing might come of his hoped-for weekend away with Lizetta, but the invitation to join them was kind. ‘A break would be nice, but wouldn’t I be rather in the way?’
‘Nonsense. You’ve played host to us at the hotel, if you spend a weekend with us we’ll be taking our turn, that’s all. My main problem is coming up with a good excuse for the wife.’
On the occasions when he and Lizetta had come to the hotel for Sunday dinner he told her that he was meeting a business associate at the airport, but a convincing excuse for a whole weekend away would be far more difficult. The affair sometimes seemed terribly precarious. At the hotel they ate Sunday dinner with Darren and me, and then spent a few hours together between hotel sheets, twice in one of the guest rooms and once, when all the rooms were taken, on the futon in my flat downstairs, like a couple of teenagers with strict parents making love at a friend’s house.
Chapter 13
Lizetta rang me at the hotel to confirm Vincent’s tentative invitation. He had a project meeting at Dunblane arranged for a Thursday in mid-February, and despite the likelihood of colder weather in the North had hired a cottage near Perth. She planned to fly up to Edinburgh Airport where he was to collect her in a hired car. They hoped to have the rare luxury of four nights and three whole days together, returning to London on Monday morning.
She dismissed my concern about being a nuisance. ‘The cottage has three bedrooms and two rooms downstairs, so we won’t be sitting on each other’s laps. If you come up it will be the first time Vincent and I will have been staying together somewhere and been able to have guests. You can bring your own transport, or hire a car up there, you won’t have to spend more time with us than you want to. Why don’t you ask Darren to come? Vincent likes him. He’s so sweet. You can’t possibly be bored if he’s around.’
‘Who’s going to look after the hotel?’
‘Close it for the weekend.’
That was out of the question. Half the rooms were already booked, and except for dire emergencies closing was something that had to be planned months in advance. If we were to go, staff would have to be brought in from Housmans Hotel or the garden centre to provide cover. However my last real holiday had been over a year ago, and Darren had not left London since the summer when he had a day’s outing to Brighton with Cheung; a weekend away would hardly be an extravagance.
We set off before daylight on Friday morning in the newest of the Ferns and Foliage vans, the garden centre manager having filled the fuel tank for us the previous day. By the time we arrived Lizetta and Vincent would have had the cottage to themselves for twenty-four hours. We were comfortable and warm in the front of the van, and early enough to avoid the rush hour traffic on our way out of London. As the early morning light strengthened, seeing the motorway stretching into the Chiltern hills ahead of us, with Darren sitting beside me listening to music on his personal stereo, my hopes of an enjoyable trip were good. Even if the weather prevented us from going out much we would surely find enough to do for a few days in the cottage or in Perth. The escape from the constant demands of the hotel would alone make the expedition worthwhile.
We stopped for lunch at a motorway service station, two men, one nineteen and the other in his mid-thirties, descending from a white van with Ferns and Foliage painted on the sides. Darren looked good in his yellow padded coat and white jeans. He mattered to me now. The qualities Andrew had seen in him straight away, his independent nature, his fresh inquisitive mind, his loyalty and honesty, had become precious to me. Even watching him eat, seeing his bony jaw move rhythmically as he chewed his food, now gave me pleasure. He was a slow eater. During meals I would pause now and again and wait to avoid him having to rush to catch up at the end. He always stirred the sugar in his tea or coffee with excessive thoroughness, the spoon tinkling against the side of the cup for nearly a minute, an oddity of behaviour that made me smile.
Three more hours of driving took us into Scotland and we paused once more, relieved to step out of the van, straighten our backs and exercise our legs. We bought hot drinks in the café, where a noisy group of half a dozen boys and girls of his age who loitered around a couple of tables looked across at Darren a number of times. He used the toilets before we left and one of the girls stopped him with some query or other on his way back.
‘An admirer?’ I asked as he climbed back into the van.
‘After something you wouldn’t approve of. What kind of place have you brought me to, women accosting me for drugs outside the toilets?’ They were probably bored local kids who had driven up to the café in some battered old car or cadged a lift and were hanging around in the hope that something exciting would happen.
Wanting to talk I said, ‘She might have been after something else. How do we know you’re not bisexual?’
‘How do we know you’re not?’ He had become good at turning questions back on people.
‘No, tried it. Women don’t do it for me. The attraction isn’t there.’ He grinned and put his earpieces in again and went back to his music.
We drove on for another couple of hours, crossed the Forth Bridge, and followed the motorway all the way to Perth, arriving in darkness at the cottage. Vincent was ready for us with a humorous greeting at the door. He raised a hand and said, ‘One minute,’ then turning his head called inside: ‘Were you expecting two gay boys this evening, Zetta?’
‘Are they nice looking?’
‘Not bad.’
‘Well let them in then.’
The ‘cottage’ was actually a gaunt three bedroom house at the end of a short terrace on the outskirts of the town. What
happened next rather countered the effect of Vincent’s warm welcome. He took us upstairs while Lizetta prepared the evening meal. They had taken the largest bedroom at the front, and he showed us into the one at the back, a reasonable size, furnished with an old fashioned chest of drawers, a fitted wardrobe and a double bed. ‘Not up to your standards at the hotel, but will it do for a couple of nights?’
‘Bed looks comfortable. This do you, Darren?’
‘Yeah, it’s fine.’
Still carrying my bag I left Darren to settle into the room and paused near the top of the stairs, waiting for Vincent to show me the third bedroom. He followed, looked at me and smiled uncertainly, confused by my actions. He had evidently been expecting us to sleep together.
‘Is there another room? Lizetta did say there was plenty of space.’
He blushed and stumbling over his words said, ‘Yes, erm, wasn’t sure what you’d… should’ve asked Zetta, didn’t think, through here… ’ He took me into the box room, as small as that little room in the attic of Goodmans Hotel where Darren had been living when we first found him.
‘This will be okay for me.’
‘Bit small, really ought to have… ’ He coughed and went to fetch sheets and blankets from the airing cupboard before hurrying away downstairs.
Darren came in, saw me holding the bedding and tried to take it from me. ‘You should take the bigger room. You’ll feel claustrophobic in here.’
‘No. Claustrophobia is not one of my problems. For once you have the bridal suite. Really – it’s not worth arguing about. We’ve only been here five minutes and we’ve already embarrassed Vincent. Don’t say anything when we go downstairs.’
After unpacking we went down and found him sprawled on the sofa, arms stretched out and legs wide apart, watching rugby on the television. ‘Sit down,’ he said, nodding towards the one armchair. ‘Come and sit over here, Darren.’ He straightened himself up on the sofa to make room and handed him the TV remote control. ‘You’re probably not interested in this, find yourself something you like. I’m sure there’ll be at least one gardening programme on.’
Darren, instead of changing channels, muted the sound and asked, ‘How do people get to make gardening programmes? Do you have any idea? They may be all right as entertainment, but most of them tell you hardly anything, and what they do tell you is stuff you know already, like sprinkle some seeds on the soil and cover them up. Do they make a lot of money out of it, those presenters?’
Vincent at first tried to dodge the question by saying that careers advice was Lizetta’s field, but quickly recovered his credibility by suggesting Darren ask one of the lecturers at the college about contacting the BBC or one of the TV companies. The exercise might, he thought, be made into a project that could be marked as part of his course work.
Seeing that Lizetta had begun laying the table, I went to help. Our meal consisted of a traditional broth followed by sole bought from a fishmonger in Perth that day. Vincent repeatedly topped up everyone’s wine glass, opening a third bottle as we helped ourselves to pudding, with the result that when Darren stood up from the table he was slightly drunk and staggered backwards. He offered to help me clear away, but worried about breakages I persuaded him to sit and relax with Lizetta and Vincent.
When I went to join them in the lounge, Darren was perched on an arm of the sofa holding a glass of whisky.
‘You’ll have a hangover in the morning.’
‘No I won’t.’
Vincent said, ‘My fault, for encouraging him, a glass of malt whisky on his first ever night in Scotland… was it the wrong thing to do?’
‘No, of course not. I’m tired after the drive. Take no notice of me.’
Darren held the glass out towards me with a quarter of an inch of whisky remaining. ‘Do you want to finish it? It’s too much for me really.’
‘No, you deserve a glass… well, let me taste it.’ After I had taken a sip Vincent coaxed me into accepting a glass of my own, dribbling into it such a tiny quantity of malt whisky that to refuse would have been rude. We watched TV and saw a late weather forecast that threatened overnight snow, then went up to bed. Darren thumped up the stairs in front of me and crashed into his room.
In the morning he had a definite aura of wanting to be left to nurse his headache, but Lizetta helped him recover by giving him fruit juice and a cooked breakfast. He helped her clear up in the kitchen afterwards, whilst Vincent continued his policy of letting others do the housework. A couple of times Lizetta called on him to do something for her, to empty the kitchen waste bin and to lift a heavy bag of potatoes, and I realized that they were enjoying playing the traditional roles of man and wife. To an extent Darren and I found ourselves acting the roles of the children, two good boys who offered to help lay the table, clear away and wash up. They referred to us as boys, as in: ‘You boys go off on your own if you want to. You’re welcome to join us for a look around the town, but do whatever you boys feel like doing.’
Three or four inches of snow had fallen during the night. I was not particularly keen to take the van into Perth after so many hours at the wheel yesterday, and we all travelled into town in Vincent’s hired car. We stopped first at some gardens which Darren said were famous for rhododendrons and varieties of heather, but hardly anything of the plants could be seen under the snow. Vincent had one of those expensive cameras with all sorts of settings and attachments and took photographs of us beside an ornamental shelter, and asked Darren to photograph Lizetta and himself together.
Later we stopped the car near the sea so that Vincent could photograph a couple of men fishing from a pier in defiance of the icy wind. A little further down from where they sat waves crashed violently against the curved arm of the harbour. Vincent took ages finding a viewpoint which would enable him to picture the fishermen with a cascade of surf in the background; he showed Darren the camera’s features and let him take half a dozen or more shots, while Lizetta and I watched from the warmth of the car. Despite having children of his own, Vincent was clearly unable to resist Darren’s appeal; it was as though he gave off some kind of pheromone that made us all want to play at being a parent to him.
We wandered around the town looking at restaurants and going in and out of various shops. Lizetta bought a tartan scarf for herself and a doll in traditional Scottish dress for a niece, and I bought an attractive glass jar of wrapped sweets that would look nice on the hall table back at the hotel.
We went back to the cottage with our purchases, and in the evening returned to town for dinner in a restaurant where mounted heads of deer stared down at us from the walls. After the meal Lizetta and Vincent drove straight back to the cottage, probably intending to make full use of their double bed, and Darren and I walked around the frozen streets until we found a pub that looked comfortable and not overcrowded. Having brought the van down for the evening I had to restrict myself to soft drinks because of driving back. The other customers were regulars with pints of ale who watched football on the large screen TV and took little notice of us. After an hour we had had enough of the place and went back to the cottage, letting ourselves in quietly so as not to disturb Vincent and Lizetta. For the same reason we were reluctant to turn on the television or listen to music, but we made ourselves coffee and chatted in the kitchen.
‘Do you think they’re about the same age?’ Darren asked.
‘I don’t know exactly. Lizetta must be nearly forty. He’s probably a bit older.’
‘Do you think it matters, people being a similar age?’
‘Some women seem to be happy with men a lot older than themselves. The same doesn’t hold true for most gay men, unfortunately. Youth counts for so much; however well you take care of yourself you slip down the league table as you get older.’
‘That’s true for being picked up in a bar. But in a relationship, could it work between men of different ages?’
‘A long term relationship? Anything’s possible, but the bigger the age gap the harder it
becomes. A man who looks good for forty-five will quite likely be losing his hair, have wrinkles and be putting on weight at fifty-five. What do you think his chances are of holding on to someone ten or twenty years younger?’
‘You don’t think it would work out, then?’
‘Everyone’s different. How would I know? Boyfriends let you down, one way or another. Casual sex after the nth time makes you feel like a sexual automaton. With your interest in plants a relationship with a tree might not be a bad idea. A big strong oak would never let you down.’
‘You can’t have sex with a tree.’
‘Don’t be too sure. Some people probably manage it. Things are different for “straights”. They produce children, the next generation, and that creates the need to stay together and excuses all their shortcomings.’
‘Gay men can have children, through an arrangement with a lesbian couple, say.’
‘Yes, but that’s much more difficult than being a “straight” at a party and falling into bed with someone of the opposite sex while drunk. How did we get onto this?’
‘We were talking about age differences. In a relationship.’
‘Oh yes. What about Andrew and you?’
‘You know he wasn’t interested in me in that way. Because he took me to all sorts of places some people might have thought he was, but he never expected sex as a pay-back. He wasn’t like that.’
‘He took you to Paris once. Most people would assume you were… ’
‘They’d be wrong. We shared a twin-bedded room and he saw me coming out of the shower naked. He just smiled and looked away. He told me he liked treating me. I gave him a reason to see places he’d not visited for years and years and would never have gone to on his own. Getting away from business did him good.’
After finishing our coffee we went up to our separate rooms. Randiness made going off to sleep difficult. How easy it would have been to quietly slip across the landing, gently open Darren’s door and whisper the words ‘Are you awake?’ into the darkness. Could we not, this one night, so far away from our familiar surroundings, extend our friendship by giving one another a little sexual relief? In asking about age differences in relationships, had he been hinting that he would be receptive? Yet, if we did go to bed together, would we be content with one night only? What if he expected a new phase in our relationship to begin, while my feelings towards him remained unchanged, as they surely would. He did not arouse in me that overwhelming mix of intense emotion and physical desire that gives rise to a love affair. Cheung was probably a much better boyfriend for him than I could ever be. To have him sexually, feeling as I did, would be to take advantage of him; the bedroom door remained closed.
