by Sarah Bourne
‘You look like you’ve got the weight of the world on your poor tight shoulders,’ said Aidan, beginning to massage them. Ray stiffened at his touch and then gave in to it, feeling the other man’s thumbs find the knots of stress and fear in his muscles and begin to knead them out. He sighed.
‘Bad day at the office?’ Aidan’s voice was soft, concerned.
Ray looked at his briefcase. It was all but empty now he’d given the papers to the accountant. He could see why someone would think he’d been at work. Maybe he should go along with the lie, pretend all was well, that he had, indeed, had a tough day at work. But Aidan seemed to care. He was still massaging his shoulders and bit by bit, Ray felt himself soften, release. He wanted to lie down on the towel and let Aidan do his magic.
‘Take off your shoes,’ said Aidan. ‘Let’s get you more comfortable.’
Yes, thought Ray. He knows what I need. A tear gathered in the corner of his eye and a great sob caught in his chest. He keeled over, lying in a foetal position.
‘Oh, poor girl, it’s worse than I thought.’ Aidan lay down too, spooning Ray and stroking his hair, his back, whispering to him that it would be okay, he was there to comfort him.
Slowly, Ray calmed down. The sob was expelled in deep puffs of breath. He surrendered to Aidan’s hands and his soft breath on the back of his neck as he kept up the platitudes.
Ray felt Aidan’s erection against his back as he gently rubbed himself against him. A leg wrapped itself over Ray’s and Aidan’s grip became tighter. Ray was surprised but he couldn’t honestly say he was shocked. This was the Men’s Pond, after all. What he was shocked by was the need he suddenly felt, by the heat in his own body and his erection straining against his trousers.
‘Atta boy.’ Aidan smiled. ‘Shall we go somewhere a little more private?’
Ray could hardly talk. His heart hammered against his ribs.
They stumbled to a quiet patch behind the dressing rooms, into the privacy afforded by some bushes. Aidan knelt down and unzipped Ray’s trousers, taking his penis in one hand, cupping his balls in the other. ‘Well, hello, big boy,’ he said, and moistened his lips.
Ray looked down, saw his hand on Aidan’s blond hair.
He gasped. This was all wrong. He wriggled, trying to move away but Aidan took it for pleasure and kept gently squeezing his balls and now looked up at Ray with those Daniel Craig eyes before taking him in his mouth.
Ray let out a whimper of pleasure and then pulled away.
‘I can’t.’ He started zipping his trousers. ‘I’m sorry.’
He didn’t look at Aidan as he turned and ran.
He ran until his lungs were bursting. He slowed to a walk, chest heaving. He realised he’d left his briefcase behind but nothing would have made him go back for it. He felt ashamed and guilty. How could he have let it happen? Was he so needy he’d fuck the first person who showed him kindness? That wasn’t who he was. It was what the cancer had made him. Weak, pathetic. He kicked a stone on the path and looked to the sky and fought back tears.
An old man walking his dog gave him a wide berth and Ray gave him the finger, which made him feel even worse.
He pulled out his phone and booked an Uber. He had to get to Euston and onto a train home as soon as possible before he did anything else he’d regret.
Ray had had a pet rabbit called Lionel when he was young. He couldn’t remember why he named it Lionel – maybe it was after Lionel Blair. He and his mother had watched Give Us a Clue devotedly during his childhood. Lionel, the rabbit, had lived to a ripe old age and had always seemed content to live in his hutch, being moved about the lawn so he always had fresh, sweet grass to eat. When he was old and frail he’d escaped. Ray had found his body days later in a nest of dry leaves and grass he’d made for himself under the laurel bush at the back of the garden. Twelve-year-old Ray had decided he must have known he was dying and wanted to go off and do it on his own. He thought about that as he stood on the doorstep of his parents’ house in ‘up and coming’ Wandsworth. When he was a child, no one wanted to live there. Now hardly anyone could afford it. He wondered what his parents’ semi was worth these days.
Lionel. Housing affordability. He didn’t seem to be able to hold on to one coherent thought. His mind was throwing useless memories and facts at him and he was unable to filter them. And what on earth had made him turn his steps towards Wandsworth now? He turned back towards the street, viewing the garden path, all four feet of it, as the drawbridge between hell and purgatory. His mother opened the door.
‘Ray – is that you?’ she asked his retreating back.
Damn. Not fast enough.
‘Yes, it’s me.’ He swung round and pulled his face into a thin smile while his insides headed towards his feet.
‘I didn’t know you were coming.’
‘No, neither did I.’
His mother stood in the doorway wringing her hands in the particular way that always made Ray feel sorry for her and want to reassure her everything would be all right. He wondered if she’d done it all her life, or just since she’d met his father.
‘Shall I come in?’ he asked. It was convention, wasn’t it, to go into the house when one visited even if it had been a mistake to come.
‘Your father’s in the loft sorting things.’
Ray nodded. His father was always in the attic. It was his equivalent of a garden shed. For as long as Ray could remember his father had disappeared there rather than spend time with his family. Quite what he was sorting, Ray wasn’t sure. It had been boxes of stuff from his parents’ house after they died, but that was years ago. Surely he couldn’t still be going through that?
His mother still occupied the doorway. Ray took a step towards her and she recoiled, flattening herself into the narrow hall. He stepped past her carefully, took off his jacket and shoes and turned to give her a peck on the cheek. She hadn’t moved but as his lips approached, she tilted her face slightly to receive the kiss.
‘Who is it?’ came his father’s voice down the stairs.
‘Ray,’ said his mother.
‘Me,’ Ray said at the same time.
‘Oh.’
‘Just came to say hello,’ Ray called to his father.
There was a noise in response that could have been an acknowledgement or it might have been his father exclaiming over a new and rather disappointing find in one of his boxes.
Ray shrugged and followed his mother into the kitchen where she fluttered around between the sink and the table as if she couldn’t decide what to do.
‘What’s he sorting now?’
‘He goes to auctions and buys job lots. He says one day he’s going to find something really valuable someone’s tossed out by accident.’
Ray rolled his eyes. ‘These days everyone watches Antiques Roadshow. Trust me, no one is going to throw out anything that might turn out to be a priceless artefact.’
The creases round his mother’s eyes and mouth deepened in what Ray recognised as her pained look. ‘It keeps him busy.’ She turned to the sink, squeezed out the dishcloth and started rubbing at the already spotless draining board.
Ray sucked in a deep breath that felt like it came from the soles of his feet and drew up all the strain and disappointment, the repressed anger and unspoken shame that was the fabric of the household. He’d thought, when he came out to his parents, that he’d been the cause of it, but when he reflected on it later, it had always been the same. His father’s remoteness, his mother’s anxiety; the distance between them set the tone for family life. He wondered now if he actually liked any of them. His sister was as emotionally cut off as their father. She and Ray hadn’t spoken much over the years, in spite of their childhood closeness. A closeness Ray suspected had more to do with offering each other a bit of warmth and comfort than because they actually had anything in common. After she’d come back from India having ‘found herself’ she’d decided to ditch the family. He hadn’t needed to go to India to know what he needed
– he’d made it a goal to be as little like his parents as he could but he had maintained contact, however limited. He was perhaps more forgiving than his sister. He’d courted outgoing friends who dragged him out when he wanted to retreat into himself, who had demanded not only his presence but his conversation, his involvement, connection. It had at times been almost too much for him, but he was proud of himself, the life he had built, the community of friends he had surrounded himself with. And his relationship with Russell.
With his next breath he tried to inhale kind thoughts about his mother. She was doing her best. She had always done her best.
‘Are you staying for tea?’ she asked. ‘Only I haven’t been shopping. You should have told me you were coming. I’d’ve got something in.’
Would it look odd if he left now, having just arrived – if he went into the hall and put on his shoes, his jacket and slipped out the front door? Would it matter? He couldn’t imagine himself doing it. His mother’s disappointment would follow him down the road, sit with him on the train, add a heaviness to his steps as he walked home from the station and accompany him to bed ensuring he didn’t sleep.
‘Perhaps we could order a takeaway,’ he said.
‘Oh, no. We never get takeaways. You don’t know what they put in those meals. Your father says they spit in them.’
Ray sighed. ‘All right, how about we rustle something up from whatever you’ve got in the fridge?’
His mother looked in the fridge, went to the larder, back to the fridge. ‘I haven’t been shopping, I told you.’
‘Well, what were you and Father going to have tonight?’
His mother looked in the larder again, as if hoping some food had miraculously appeared since last she looked. She shrugged. ‘Your father was going to take me shopping, but he must’ve lost track of time.’
Ray wondered how often that happened. ‘Why don’t you order your shopping online? It’s very easy. I can show you if you like.’
‘Oh, no. I couldn’t do that. I like to smell the fruit and veg. They give you the bad stuff if you don’t handle it yourself. And what if they don’t have what you want and you’re expecting it to arrive and it doesn’t?’
He sighed again. He’d forgotten how much sighing he did at his parents’ house. It was better than shouting. ‘I was just thinking it would be easier for you, seeing as you don’t like going out on your own. You wouldn’t have to wait around for Father.’ Ray could feel the old anger rising. Anger at his mother’s passivity, his father’s insensitivity. He took a deep breath.
‘You look tired.’ His mother always changed the subject when she didn’t like the course the conversation was taking.
Ray sank into a chair. He felt a strange sensation starting in his nose. A pinched feeling almost like the beginning of a sneeze, that spread to his sinuses. A pressure, not unpleasant, that reached behind his eyes and out to his temples. He felt the wetness on his cheeks and the weight of his mother’s arms around his shoulders.
‘What’s the matter, love?’
He couldn’t speak, was lost in the warmth of his mother’s embrace. This was what he had come for. This was why his feet had led him to Wandsworth. His mother. The comfort she could give. He could be needy and scared and she would provide succour. He leant into her and allowed himself to cry. He hung on to her, hands around her waist as she stood beside him holding him tight.
‘What the hell’s going on?’ His father came into the room and sat heavily in the chair at the head of the table.
His mother pulled away abruptly. Ray almost fell sideways off his seat.
‘Ray’s a bit upset, that’s all,’ she said, wringing her hands.
‘Hmm. What’s for tea?’
Ray didn’t hear his mother’s response. He made his way to the downstairs toilet and locked himself in. Sitting on the loo, head in hands, he bit his lip to stop himself from screaming. It had always been the same; his father came first. Demanded it. Made life so unpleasant if anyone dared put their needs before his that, over time, they’d all given in. Maybe his sister had been right after all to cut off all contact. At least she’d spared herself the hope it would ever change and the disappointment when it didn’t.
He felt stupid for thinking it would ever be any different, for allowing himself to be vulnerable in this house.
He washed his face, looked at himself in the mirror, drew his shoulders back and lifted his chin.
Back in the kitchen his mother was standing by the cooker, stirring something. An empty baked bean tin sat on the countertop. Two slices of white bread were ready to go into the toaster. His father was reading the newspaper.
‘I’ve got cancer,’ said Ray.
His mother dropped the wooden spoon and turned to him, her face drawn into a mask of shock. She looked across at his father who shook his newspaper and turned the page.
‘I just thought you should know,’ he added into the lengthening silence.
His mother put her hand out to him across the kitchen but didn’t move from her spot by the stove. Eventually his father put his newspaper down.
‘AIDS, is it?’ he asked.
Ray clenched his teeth. ‘No, actually. Not all–’
‘That’s enough. I don’t need to hear any more about you and your – your men friends.’
‘–gay men get AIDS,’ Ray finished. His father flared his nostrils and looked away. Ray noticed the redness of his anger rising above his shirt collar and wondered what was going to happen.
‘Have you seen a doctor?’ asked his mother, a deep crease appearing between her eyebrows.
‘Two, actually. I came to London for a second opinion today. It’s prostate cancer.’
‘And?’ There were tears in his mother’s eyes waiting to fall the minute she heard the bad news.
‘And nothing,’ said his father. ‘I’ve had prostate for years.’
‘Cancer?’ asked Ray.
‘What other sort of prostate is there?’
Ray and his mother gasped in unison.
‘I didn’t know that. Why didn’t you tell me?’ She was hovering between the stove and her husband, clearly unsure what she should do.
‘And what, precisely, would you have done if I had told you? Worried, asked me every minute how I was feeling, made me feel like a bloody invalid, that’s what.’
Ray felt his mother’s frustration. She had been deprived of worrying over something that mattered for a change. She looked like she’d been slapped and he found himself, as he so often did, wanting to protect her. But he knew if he did anything she would be accused of weakness by his father, of not being able to stand up for herself. So he watched as she went and put a comforting hand on her husband’s arm which he moved away from her touch. She looked hurt and tried words instead.
‘Oh, Stan, if only I’d known. Surely there must be something I can do?’
‘There’s nothing.’
‘But I could look after you.’ She turned to Ray. ‘Tell him, Ray – tell him how I could look after him.’
His father shook his head and snorted. ‘See what I mean? Now you’ll never shut up, will you, woman?’
‘That’s a bit harsh,’ said Ray, and his mother looked at him in surprise. He realised he had never actively supported her before and felt ashamed.
‘Oh for pity’s sake, shut it the two of you. I don’t need anyone to look after me.’
‘It’s just–’ his mother started. She stopped when Stan glared at her.
Ray begrudgingly admitted to himself his father had probably been right to keep his cancer to himself and realised, too late, he should have done the same. He had opened himself up to daily phone calls and offers of unspecified help for months to come. He felt a weariness seeping into his bones. But he also felt angry. This had been his hour, his opportunity to receive his mother’s care. However she might act later, she had been holding him when he needed it, had been providing what comfort she could. Until his father had spoiled it.
‘So
it’s prostate adenocarcinoma is it?’ he asked.
His father nodded. ‘That’s what the doctor said.’
‘And the Gleason score?’
‘Seven. Always been seven. Not getting any better, not getting any worse.’
‘And when, exactly, were you diagnosed?’
‘About twenty years ago.’
Ray took a long, slow breath. His hands curled into fists. ‘You bastard. You selfish bastard.’ He had the pinched feeling in his nose again, the pressure in his sinuses. He didn’t want to cry. He drew his lips in and clamped his jaw.
‘How dare you say that to me.’ His father rose abruptly from his chair, fists clenched.
‘Now, now, you two. Be nice to each other,’ said Ray’s mother.
They both ignored her.
‘So you think it’s all right to keep these things to yourself. You probably think you’re being brave or strong, toughing it out on your own. But if I’d known – do you have any idea what it’s been like for me these last few weeks? I thought I might be dying. If you’d bothered to tell anyone what was going on for you, I wouldn’t have been so terrified. But, no. You have to go on in your selfish, self-absorbed way keeping everyone at arm’s length, hiding away in your fucking attic. You’re pathetic.’
Ray’s father straightened himself to his full height and jabbed Ray in the chest. ‘Get out of my house you disgusting poofter. That’s why you’ve got cancer – all that bumming.’
Ray started laughing hysterically. ‘So how did you get it? One rule for me and another for you, is it? Or are you a secret “poofter”?’
‘How dare you? You make me sick. Get out. Now.’
‘It’s okay. I’m going.’ He looked at his mother who was holding her hands over her face, the tears escaping between her fingers. ‘Sorry, Mother. I’ll call you.’ He gave her a quick hug. She didn’t respond.
Closing the door quietly behind him, he took a deep breath. He had never stood up to his father before and he felt elated.
