Kissing the Dragon - 4. Monday Morning

At exactly six-thirty Monday morning, my alarm screeches across the darkened bedroom, a harsh digital soundtrack reminiscent of Janet Leigh’s Psycho bathroom stabbing scene. Not the best way to wake up, and if I knew how to change the setting, I would. Placed on top of the huge oak wardrobe, I have no choice but to snap on the Chinese bedside lamp of white and blue porcelain, scramble unceremoniously out of bed, and clamber onto a chair I placed there the night before. Even though I swear aloud because the clearheaded nighttime me has robbed my befuddled morning counterpart of a seriously steamy dream involving a muscular volunteer doctor in his hut in tropical Africa, the ploy has worked. Had I placed the clock next to the bed, especially on a sub-zero February morning such as this, I would be tempted to thump the snooze button, roll over, and try to recapture the delicious moments before digital coitus interruptus. Of course, then I would wake late and be in a panicked rush, never a good start to the morning.

Vaughan, ever the early riser, used to be my alarm clock. Often he brought me to wakefulness with a peck on the cheek and a mug of aromatic Earl Grey held beneath my nose. Six months after he left, reminders of him are everywhere. Despite my wrestles with the duvet covers, I still wake each morning baffled to find the right side of the king-sized undisturbed.

But after researching Buenos Aires and St. Matthews online yesterday and having had an illuminating ninety-minute chat with my sister, I diligently filled in all the forms and fired them off. Vaughan made his choice to move on. The time has come for me to start coming to terms and doing the same. If only new resolve came with a mentor or a step-by-step instruction manual.

Climbing down from the chair, I go over and push the bedroom door closed. Draped on a hook is the towelling bathrobe with the blue stylised S insignia on the breast pocket and below, to the right of the door, matching white slippers. Both belonged to Vaughan, pinched from the Sheraton hotel during a visit to Shanghai, items he has not taken with him. Crossing the room, I draw back the heavy velvet curtains of papal mauve with gold trim, something chosen by Uncle Dom and one of his few design choices I dislike to this day. Outside the sky is colourless, although the clouds are not as heavy as the previous day. Perhaps the cold spell is breaking. Heading through the open archway to the ensuite bathroom I flip the lever for the shower to wait for warm water to flow and begin to brush my teeth. From the main room, I hear a scraping sound comes from beneath my bedroom door and raise my eyes to the heavens. As expected, when I investigate an overweight bundle of grey and white fur sits outside on the hall carpet and immediately begins a meowed complaint. Ears pressed flat on his head by design rather than choice, the Scottish Fold was a Christmas present from Vaughan.

“Good morning, Mr Waldorf. How about a deal this morning?“ I suggest to the quizzical eyes and cutely tilting head. “You go make a pot of tea, then I’ll come and feed you once I’ve showered.”

“Already on it,” calls a voice from below stairs, catching me by surprise. Mr Waldorf bounds off towards the sound. Billy the prodigal lodger has finally found his way home. I pull the dressing gown more securely around me, secretly hoping he has not brought back a weekend encounter with him. Breakfast conversation can be embarrassingly stilted.

“Morning Billy,” I call back. “Do I need to look respectable?”

Billy Tan appears at the bottom of the spiral staircase, a piece of toast held delicately between finger and thumb. Almost instantly, Mr Waldorf turns up weaving his way in and out of Bill’s ankles. Something about the boy’s Asian features, the pixie smile and the glint in his almond eyes, the slender almost girl-like figure, means him never being short of an admirer or ten. At twenty-five, his Asian genes keep him looking much younger. Vaughan once teased him that in an attic somewhere, there had to be a portrait of a very old and ugly Billy. I spent considerable time and effort trying to explain the Wildean literary reference, but the mildly irked Billy still did not understand. Men rarely date Billy for conversation and intellectual insights. The last I had seen of him was Friday morning.

“Just me. So go shit, shave and shower, mother,” he says, then fans himself with the toast. “And be prepared for a Billy tale that will make your balls drop all over again.”

Ablutions done, dressed, tea mug in hand, and with Mr Waldorf tucking into a bowl of dried food for overweight felines, I perch on a stall at the kitchen island while Billy irons a shirt and continues his tale of weekend debauchery. His style of one-way conversation is soothing, something I can tune in and out effortlessly.

“…huge, Colin. And I am talking from considerable experience here. I swear when he dropped his silk boxers I almost screamed,” he says, his voice reaching dog-whistle ultrasonics, his eyes melodramatically widened for effect. “A semi-retired businessman from Dubai. Abdalkaddir something. And I thought that was a mouthful.”

As you can probably guess, Billy dresses his stories up somewhat. But I enjoy hearing them, taking my mind off my own lukewarm existence. Billy is not as superficial as he makes out, and I prefer his hyper-embellished highs to his sullen lows. Multi-tasking, I munch on my bowl of muesli and fresh fruit while surfing sections of the Guardian online on my faithful old laptop.

“Anyway, we fucked like bunnies all weekend. Which is just as well because he’s not much of a conversationalist. Although he says he knew the Al-Fayeds. Friend of the late son. Before the assassination.”

Besides sex, Billy is obsessed with conspiracy theories. Conversation subjects best to avoid are anything to do with celebrity deaths especially under strange circumstances, the intentional laboratory-created origins of AIDS, and the salacious truth behind the sudden resignation of Pope Benedict XVI.

“Must be tough for him. Being gay in the Middle East.”

“He’s not gay, darling. Well not out, anyway”

“Closet case?”

“Coffin case, more like. Nailed shut. I clocked a photo of a wife and kids in his wallet when he was paying for dinner. Good luck to him. Fortunately for me, when he’s over here, he likes them male, young, Asian and power bottoms. Needless to say I lied about my age. Not sure how I’m going to last the day, though. Talk about ring of fire.”

“What happened to Mr Big?” I mutter absently, clicking onto the weather forecast. “Thought he was the love of your life?”

Mr Big appeared on the scene last November. As always I only heard rave reviews from Billy who shared very few intimate details. Even the photos he showed me had been heavily censored. Fifty two, full head of white hair, eyes of flint grey—he has the kind of polar bearish good looks that Billy drools after. Since Christmas though, things seemed to have cooled off. I sense rather than see Billy stop ironing. The iron clacks back into the holder and from the silence that follows, I know he has decided to launch an offensive.

"And what about you, Bromo? What did you get up to?"

“You expect me to compete with that?" I say, eyes skipping through a caustic review of a new West End play in the Arts and Leisure section.

"Leaving the house would be a start," he says, a rebuke I have heard a number of times.

“My bike’s still in for repair. And it snowed all day Saturday—not that you would have noticed. Anyway, these days I am more productive than seductive," I reply, shrugging and trying to keep things light. “Hope you noticed I'd fixed your bathroom cabinet and put in a snazzy new head on the shower? And when you didn't come home Sunday, I popped your laundry into the washing machine."

"I already know you’re a domestic saint, Martha. But that doesn't mean a life of celibacy. There are plenty of other strays out there. Yawn was not the only one. You just have to get that cute bum of yours out there and take your pick."

Billy and his friends talk in a mix of urban slang and their own gay code. Vaughan—Yawn—and I are what they like to refer of as strays, an abbreviation of straight gays, meaning that we can comfortably pass for straight in any situation or company, without anyone being any the wiser. Billy, by contrast, boldly announces his gayness wherever he goes without even opening his mouth, something I admire about him. Friends of his call him a cat, which, having lived with one for the past couple of years I can appreciate, if watching the way Mr Waldorf preens himself and prances his backside around the house is anything to go by. It transpires that cat, in their private gay parlance, is an acronym of camp as tinsel. People are rarely left in any doubt about his sexuality.

According to Billy's group, both of our gay genres have our inherent problems; cats on the plus side usually have an easier time coming out—Billy's parents, if he is to be believed, simply shrugged as though he had just confessed to being Asian. On the downside his group are less often considered long term prospects. Stray's parents rarely have a clue about their offspring's orientation and the news is met with huge disappointment, often familial amputation. Many, like Vaughan, simply never come out to their parents.

My father, who died fifteen years ago just before I turned twenty, had never known about my orientation largely because I was not certain myself. In the early days of college, I had casually experimented with a few girls and boys but still not really understood my natural proclivities. When I finally did come out at the age of twenty three, my mother, ever one to find blame for mishaps in her life, cited the absence of a defining father figure. Even though she warmed to Vaughan, she never really understood us. Four years ago, she retired to Cyprus with her new husband, far enough away that we only ever needed to speak on the obligatory occasion; birthdays and religious festivals.

Just then the front door slams and a deep masculine voice calls from out from the living room.

“Only me.”

Martin Hogan. Gay geology teacher and my lift to school in bad weather. As the most sensible and trustworthy of my current friends, even before Vaughan’s departure, he is not only my confidante but one of the few I trust with a set of my house keys. Strange though, he is not supposed to be here today.

“Talking of cute bums,” says Billy, his eyes widening.

“In the kitchen, Martin,” I shout, and then get back to Billy. "I did go out. I joined the pub gathering on Friday night.”

“The teacher’s Derby and Joan? Please! How original and adventurous,” says Billy, rolling his eyes theatrically as only Billy can. His gaze comes to rest on the Guardian lying unread next to me. “And incidentally, why don’t you cancel that thing. You’re reading it online right now, aren’t you?”

“Sometimes I complete the crossword at lunch,” I answer, defensively, which is partly true. If I have a quiet period I scan through again and attempt the crossword puzzle. The main reason I keep the delivery is habit and familiarity. Not mine, Uncle Dom’s. With Vaughan’s help, I finally got around to cancelling most of his subscriptions and changing utilities into my name. But seeing our shared family name scrawled in pencil at the top of the paper each morning makes me feel as though the old guy is still around. Lame, I know, and one day I will cancel—but not yet.

“Even though I entirely approve of your source of news, you should listen to him. He talks sense,” says Martin, sauntering up to Billy and giving him a kiss on the cheek. Billy’s mood improves visibly at the sight of Martin.

Early fifties but well maintained, Martin exudes the quiet competence of middle aged gay men who have navigated and survived life’s significant troughs and peaks, have faced off their demons, and, on the surface at least, seem comfortable in their own ageing skin. And Martin has had more than his fair share of challenges.

“You want news? Friday night I managed to talk to the American.”

Both of them turn my way, Martin in the process of filling a coffee cup and Billy clunking the iron back into the holder. Martin has undoubtedly heard Phil’s gay theory about Kit.

“So is he or isn't he?” asks Billy.

I huff a sigh. Somebody please click another button on the remote.

“Heavens, you sound like Phil. Our conversation wasn’t that long,” I say, and before Billy can berate me, I continue on. “And I don’t have your mystical powers of perception when it comes to People Like Us. But he did invite me to play tennis on Wednesday after school. Followed by a drink and a bite to eat.”

“Homo-lujah,” says Billy. “Finally a toe in the shallow end of the gay-ting pool.”

“But I think he’s straight,” I add.

“Like you would know.”

“And I bumped into Denny Harrison. We had a quick drink. I helped him home.”

“How nice for you,” says Billy grimacing, his tone falling so dramatically he almost sounds male. “Do you know Denny, Martin?”

“I’m not sure,” says Martin, turning to me. “Do I?”

“You might do. He’s always propping up the public bar.”

“Trust me, Martin, you would know if you’d met the tired old queen? So how was she? Still suffering from BMS? Tell me she didn’t try to hit on you again?"

"He apologised, actually,” I reply, glad to have distracted him. “Although he was horribly plastered. Barely coherent. Vomited down my overcoat."

“What’s BMS?” asks Martin.

“Bitchy Man Syndrome,” I reply, winking at Martin, something I remember from previous Billy conversations.

“He puked on you? Why does that not surprise me? And did he have any of his nasty Henry the Fifths with him?” he asks, his attention back to the shirt being ironed. At some point or another Billy had fallen out with Denny. Nothing I had been around to witness, but proof is in the way Billy's voice changes on the rare occasion I mention the older man’s name. To be honest, after last Friday’s encounter, I have made a vow to keep in touch more often. Sounded like Denny could use a friend.

“Henry the Fifth?” asks Martin. We both get a more rounded education when Billy is in session.

“Derogatory term for a rent boy,” I answer. “Comes from a line in Shakespeare’s Henry V about men holding their manhoods cheap. And no, he didn’t have any Henry Vs. Just him. Propping up the bar.”

“So, husband-in-waiting,” says Bill to Martin, already bored with the topic of Denny. “Why were you not at the sad bastards gathering on Friday? Thought you were the main instigator.”

“Martin was on a field trip,” I offer, and then turned puzzled to Martin. “Thought you weren’t due back until tomorrow?”

“If you’ve watched the news you’ll know the weather has been appalling across the whole country. And if you think here was bad, the Peak District was subarctic. No choice but to abort in the end. Got back early Friday evening. Could have joined you at the Duck for last knockings but after waiting to get all the kids picked up from school I was shattered. Talking of which, what happened at the ponds over the weekend? Police cars and coppers crawling all over the place when I drove past Sunday. Whole side bordering the wood was cordoned off.”

“No idea,” I say, and then look to Billy who shrugs.

“Don’t ask me, mother,” he says, a smirk on his face. “I spent the whole weekend in Mayfair.”

“Talking of which, are you in tonight? Or do you have another round with the sheikh?”

“The sheikh?” asks Martin, intrigued.

“Don’t ask,” I reply, shaking my head slightly.

“Come on, guys,” he says, amused and intrigued. “You can’t put that out there and expect me to be quiet. I want details.”

“Who knows,” says Billy, narrowing his eyes at me. He shrugs his shoulders and turns away, pretending not to care, something he is very good at. “He has my number. Said he’d call. But I’m not holding my breath.”

“If not, fancy doing something boring and normal? Movie night and a takeaway? My treat. I have new menus. And I promise there’ll be lots of soft cushions to sit your sore sphincter down on."

“Lord. I’ve changed my mind,” says Martin, grimacing. “I don’t want to know.”

“Boring and normal?” says Billy, while throwing on and buttoning the crisp white shirt that he has just ironed. “Can you hear yourself? For the sake of all that is gay and true, somehow or another we are going to have to get you laid. Either that, or you give up your homo membership. If you don’t have a date soon, you’re coming out with me and the Bang Gang—somewhere less morgue-like than the teacher’s watering hole. As for tonight, let me gym first. Now I need to go and earn my rent money."

“Yes, off to work with you, waif,” I say. “Go fold some shirts. We wouldn't want Top Shop going bust.”

Martin chuckles into his coffee mug while Billy, in the process of tucking in the shirt, freezes instantly and fixes me with a look full of throwing knives. He can peck at me all he likes, but I know how to ruffle the little chicken’s feathers.

“You do that to annoy me, don’t you? I am a professional retail merchandiser. Okay, maybe not one of those cute aberzombies with their pecs and six packs, but I am painfully employed in our niche designer store,” he says, before finishing tucking his shirt, throwing on a suit jacket and checking himself in the kitchen window. Distantly, I hear a car horn tooting from out the front of the house. “I’m dropping a suit off at the dry cleaners on the way to the station. Anything you want taking?”

"No," I say, but then stop and grin apologetically at him. "Yes. Any chance you could take my overcoat? See what they can do. It's by the coat rack . Still stinks of Pernod puke, I’m afraid."

"You ought to get the bastard to pay," says Billy, pulling a face while messing with his fringe.

“Need a lift to the station, Bill?” asks Martin, a short name that Billy detests from anyone else. “Brass monkey weather out there. They haven’t salted the pavements yet.”

“Aw, you are such a sweetie,” says Billy, brushing himself up against Martin, something he must have learnt from Mr Waldorf. “But Marcus already offered. Although a ride from you sounds far more enticing. Keep that thought for the future and I’ll let you buy me dinner, too.”

“Bye bye, Bill,” I call out, while he is in the process of giving an amused Martin a lingering kiss on the cheek and letting his hand wander down the man’s left leg.

“See you tonight, grandma,” he says, giving me the evil eye before heading off towards the front door.

Funny how the static electricity dissipates when Billy leaves the room. Martin has nothing short of a calming effect but he knows me too well and his first question is an arrow straight to the throat.

“Did Vaughan call?”

Instead of answering, I snap the laptop closed, stand and throw on my jacket. When I turn around, Martin lounges there still staring at me, the coffee mug held frozen before his mouth.

“Yes, he called. Yes, we spoke. No, he isn’t coming home any time soon.”

In fact after the email on Friday, his call had been a huge anti-climax. Vaughan had simply provided me with a postal address in Singapore to forward on important letters that continue to arrive at the house. Why he could not have mentioned that in the email I have no idea. He would have saved me an angst filled Friday and Saturday worrying about what he wanted to say.

“For Christ’s sake, Colin. Why don’t you give yourself a break one weekend. Let the calls go to the machine?”

“You know I can’t do that. If it rings, I have to answer it.”

“Then get out of this bloody place. It’s beginning to resemble a mausoleum.”

“Are we going?” I ask, testily.

“Let me finish my coffee first.”

“Fine. How’s your mother?”

As the badly chosen words fall from my mouth I feel instant remorse. On the surface Martin may appear well balanced but he is more like a post-tsunami house, battered and scarred, but left standing once the tide has been and gone; the mast of the shipwrecked galleon weathered and beaten but still standing proud. While in the throes of caring for his longtime partner, Paul, who finally lost his battle to lung cancer two years ago, Martin’s mother was diagnosed with dementia. Confirming my insensitivity, his smile drains and he turns to stare off through the kitchen window.

“Good days and bad. Never going to get any better, though. Didn’t get there this weekend because of the field trip. But I’ll pop up next weekend, weather willing.”

“She’s lucky to have you.”

“Yes, well. That’s what families do.”

“I mean it, Martin. You’re making life as comfortable as possible for her, giving her the best care and attention at a time when everything she knows, all her memories, the very things we hope to cling to in old age are being stripped away.”

These are not just vacant words of sympathy, and he knows it. I did what I could with Uncle Dom during his early onset Alzheimers, and brought nursing care into the home he had lived in all his life. Only when his condition demanded more constant specialist attention, when he recognised none of his surroundings or the people inhabiting them, did I resort to a hospice. Although I am unsure of the exact detail and am loathe to ask, Martin has reportedly spent a large sum of money to put his mother in a reputable care home outside Northampton, near the town where she grew up.

“Are your brothers helping out?”

Without turning back to me Martin snorts softly.

“Without consultation, I seem to have been nominated as family carer. Not that I’d expected either of my brothers or their wives to lift a finger. They’d probably have spent weeks arguing about what to do while she sat there deteriorating. And besides, as I am constantly reminded, they have families to consider. I only have myself.”

“Nevertheless. Must be hard on you. Sounds like you’re more in need of a lucky break than me right now.”

“Ah yes,” he says, turning at last, his eyes bright, “but you see, you’re forgetting. I’m almost fifty and I’ve already had plenty of them. Paul was everything. And call me old fashioned but I believe happiness should be valued in terms of quality not quantity, and in the memories left behind. Together we had the home, the lifestyle, the cosy evenings by the fire. Even a holiday beach house in the States. But most of all we had each other. And I don’t regret a single day. You, my friend, are still young and have everything to live for. But that’s never going to happen if you stay hidden behind that bloody front door.”

Negotiating the kitchen island, he stops in front of me and smiles. While his critical gaze takes in my attire he reaches over and adjusts my tie. “You know I’m only trying to help, don’t you? Are you really wearing this? Some kind of history teacher uniform?”

“What’s wrong with it?” I reply frowning down at my white shirt, dark grey suit and matching grey tie combination. In all honesty, my gruelling cycling regime since Vaughan’s departure has left the trousers tight around the thighs and backside—not uncomfortably so but enough to know that I need to get my next suit tailored soon. After a quick self-evaluation, I take in his attire. “And if that’s the case, Mr Geological Adventurer, shouldn’t you be wearing khakis and a pith helmet, rather than Armani?”

“Simple, but not achromic, Colin. A touch of colour never did anyone any harm. Clean shaven is a masterstroke, but the whole vampire effect is simply not you,“ he says, putting his coffee down and pulling a shiny Burgundy tie from his computer bag.

“Here. I always keep a spare. Try this one,” he says, yanking the other off me and tying the new one. Apart from Vaughan, Martin is the only man in the world I would allow to get this close into my personal space. Not that I am happy with the result. Apart from being uncomfortable wearing someone else’s accessory, the reflection in the kitchen window is too showy, too noticeable for my taste. Although I smile and nod my agreement, he is not fooled.

“Bear with it. At least you have a reflection now,” he says, a hand on my shoulder before his eyes narrow on me. “There’s something else going on, isn’t there. What’s bothering you, Colin?”

How do people learn to do that? To read another person without a word being spoken. I bite my tongue, resist telling him about the possibility of a position in Buenos Aires, even though Martin is the one person in the world I know I could comfortably confide in.

“Nothing,” I say, turning to him with a heavy sigh. “Trivial stuff. Let’s go.”

“You sure?”

“Double sure.”

“Come on then, old man,” he says with a sigh, patting my tie and letting me go. “Let’s go and dazzle ‘em. Enlighten the young and alive about the old and inanimate.”

“Same old, same old,” I say, as I pick up my briefcase.

Except that today is going to be anything but.