Christmas At Leo's - Memoirs Of A Houseboy (10 page)

“Hiya, Gilli, nice to see you again. Are you looking forward to Christmas? I am.”

Mike gave me a wary nod. I’d only met him a couple of times and he always looked at me as if afraid I was about to jump his bones. It got on my nerves. According to Kelly the gob I’m the first gay person he’s ever met. He must have had a bloody sheltered life.

Kelly’s eyes fell on the snowflake box. “Oh, that looks interesting. What is it?”

Mum supplied a waspish answer. “A present for Gilli. He’ll find out what’s in it when he opens it on Christmas Day.”

It was obvious Kelly hadn’t landed for a quick visit. She settled herself down, prattling about how busy the shops were and how she was so looking forward to Christmas this year. It was going to be so cosy with just the four of them. I was seething. I don’t think mum was too pleased either, but short of calling the police to have Kelly forcibly removed from the premises there was little she could do.

I deemed it best to take my leave, before my mouth went into rude mode. Kelly wished me a happy Christmas and told me not to get too drunk. I wished her the same and told her not to overeat or her muffin top would explode. I then gave Mike a Christmas kiss, pushing my tongue deep into his mouth while groping his cock and balls. (Lie Detector says NO you flaming didn’t.) Of course I didn’t, on either score, though the look on Mike’s mug when I wished him seasonal felicitations was suggestive of me having tongued and groped him. I did think of offering a handshake, but held off, reckoning he’d only spend Christmas obsessing over whether he’d contracted HIV from me.

Mum insisted on seeing me to the front door. “It’s in there, Gilli,” she touched the box. “The song I want you to sing. You’ll see when you open it. It’s all there. You’ll be able to do it. I know you will.” She smiled. “Have a nice Christmas, son. You take care.”

“You too.” I opened the door, feeling the cold air rush in. I made to step outside, and then hesitated.

“Mum, it sounds daft, but will you save the Birds box for me?”

“Birds box?” Mum looked puzzled. “What do you mean?”

“The Birds Trifle box, on top of your fridge.” I raised the snowflake box. “To put in here. I used to help you make it every Christmas Eve, when I was little. Remember?”

“Of course I do, like it was yesterday.” A smile beamed across her face. “I’ll save it. I’ll put it with the decorations from the tree.”

I turned at the bottom of the path to raise a hand in farewell. Framed in the light shining from the hallway behind her, mum looked small and frail. I could swear there was a shadow nearby that didn’t belong to her. She was getting ready to checkout and was emptying the basket of her days, and mine. Whatever small part of me had remained in that house after I left it at sixteen was now boxed up and in my arms.

It was already pitch dark outside, for which I was grateful. It hid the tears sliding down my face. I headed for the station, carrying the neatly packaged childhood life of Gillibran Brown, as depicted in photos and crappy kiddie drawings and artefacts.

I stopped when I reached the town. Setting down the box I wiped my eyes, took a few deep breaths and made an effort to get a grip. I glanced around. I was standing outside what had been a Dolcis shoe shop. It was boarded up, another high street victim of a recession that seemed to be going on forever. I wasn’t too sorry to be honest. I didn’t have happy memories of Dolcis. Mum had always dragged me there to get my school shoes. They were so un-trendy.

In addition Dolcis had served as a backdrop to my first experience of physical homophobic abuse. Ryan Pitt, older brother of my old glitter adversary, Adam Pitt, had sauntered up to me late one Saturday afternoon and casually said he’d heard I was a poofter. Before I could respond, he decked me with a sickening full throttled punch to the face. It made my nose bleed and split my top lip.

I remember lying dazed on the ground, watching the blood flow across the pavement in a thick scarlet pool. He and his two mates walked off laughing, but not for long. There was a rack of men’s shoes on display outside of the shop. Staggering to my feet I grabbed one, a brown brogue, and hurled it after Pitt along with a barrage of verbal. The brogue hit him on the back, between his shoulders. He turned round and made a dash for me, along with his mates, yelling he was going to kill me. I threw another shoe, pulled over the rack to hinder them and then legged it with blood dripping down my face.

As I ran I could hear the shop manager yelling about calling the police. I hoped he would. I was terrified Pitt and his mates would catch me and beat the crap out of me. In the event, I managed to outrun them. It’s probably where my love of running originated.

I’d never thought of it before, but maybe in part the punch was motivated out of revenge for me having put glue in his brother’s hair when I was six. Folk eh? Queer bastards.

Picking up my box I walked on. I reached ‘The Rat’ and stood outside for a moment before opening the door a little, deliberating about whether to join Dave and Co. I didn’t. There would be no joy. I wanted relaxation, if not reckless oblivion, not a fucking responsible soft drink. I let go of the door, shutting off the swell of happy noise and the beery scent of festivity.

The train journey home was as cold if not colder than the one coming. I managed to get a seat with a table and plonked the box on it. I spent the journey looking at it, but not directly. I inspected its reflection in the train window, feeling a sense of detachment as I viewed it floating in the dark air.

My phone signalled a message. It was Shane texting to say something had come up and he’d be home later than planned. I also picked up a message I’d missed earlier, from Dick, to say he was going out for a couple of hours. Both messages were statements requiring no response from me. I tucked my phone away and resumed window staring, as the train carried me away from one portion of my life towards another. I felt marooned between two worlds and unsure of which one I really belonged to, if either.

Chapter Four - My Everly Brother Summer

The quasi mansion was cold, dark and empty when I got home. I switched on the lights, banged on the heating and walked upstairs to the den with the memory box, setting it down on the bed. The satin ribbon shimmered. Mum had said the song she wanted me to sing was inside. I grasped a tail of the ribbon and pulled, unravelling the bow. It was as far as I got.

Anger bubbled up from nowhere. I didn’t want to look inside the box. I didn’t want to see the contents. My mother had given me crumbs all my life and now suddenly she was offering me a sandwich. Stuff it! I didn’t want to discover the song my newly emerged dead grandfather had loved. I didn’t want to sing it at my soon to be dead mother’s funeral. I wanted to know about my dead dad, not her dead dad. He was an aspect of her childhood, and at least she’d him until she was seventeen. At seventeen, I’d been living in a squalid shit hole, scared out of my wits most of the time.

I ran out of the den, slamming the door behind me.

I threw my energies into housework, going at it like a madman on speed. I blitzed the lounge and returned the temporary dance studio back to a study, humping and dragging furniture around until my arms and back ached, ignoring the Daddy Shane voice in my head that complained about scuffing the bloody floor by dragging instead of lifting.

I hit the kitchen and cleaned it to within an inch of its life. There was still a faint smell of cigarettes lingering in the air, so I went outside and emptied the ashtrays, sweeping up the butts littering the ground, bagging and throwing them in the wheelie bin, cursing smokers and their unsightly debris. I left the back door open to allow the cold air to freshen the kitchen and ran upstairs to tidy the bedroom and bathrooms.

It was well after six when I descended the stairs, carrying a pile of dirty bedding and towels. A car turned onto the drive. I recognised the tune of the engine. It was Dick’s. I unlatched the front door for him, and then headed to the utility room to put the bedding and towels in the dirty laundry basket.

I emerged from the utility room into the kitchen just as Dick entered the house, calling my name. I responded by shouting my location. I washed my hands at the sink and was drying them when he put in an appearance.

“Why on earth is the back door wide open wasting heat?”

“Sorry.” Flinging aside the towel I closed the door and locked it. “I was trying to freshen the air and get rid of the ciggy smell from last night.”

“Fair enough.” He smiled. “Have you had a good day, sweetheart? How was your mother?”

“Okay, I suppose.” I opened the fridge door, reaching for a bag of mixed salad leaves, a red and yellow pepper and a portion of cucumber. “Where have you been?”

“I went into town to pick up a few bits and pieces. I bumped into Jak.”

“Bumped!” I snorted. “He was probably stalking you in the hope you’d design him another tattoo.”

“He’s thinking of taking up golf. I said I’d take him to the club to have a look around after Christmas. He said he’d be happy to caddy for me by means of learning the ropes.”

“Did he.” My hackles rose. I got a chopping board out of the cupboard and slammed it onto the counter. “Then he’s even more of a fucking masochist than I thought he was. Does he know you morph into a sadistic tyrant when you’ve got a gold club in your hands?”

He issued a snooty denial. “Wanting something done properly does not amount to tyranny.”

“Will he be at Leo’s over Christmas?”

“Yes.”

“Great!” I sliced the top off the red pepper and scraped out the seeds. “Who else is going to be there besides wonder boy Jak?”

“Mike, of course, after that I don’t know to be honest. Leo is being a bit coy about it. Does it matter?”

“Perhaps not to you.” I beheaded and gutted the yellow pepper taking it and the red one over to the sink to rinse, prior to slicing and tossing it in the salad.

“There’s no need to worry, babe. You’ll be fine.”

“Will I?” I put the rinsed peppers on the chopping board and began slicing the red one into thin strips. My temper was rising. I could feel it taking a grip of me. It must have shown in my demeanour.

“Are you harbouring bad feelings about this morning, Gilli? Because if so it needs to be talked out.”

“I’m fine.” I attacked the yellow pepper with my knife.

“You’re giving off angry vibes.”

“I’m tired.” I made a start on the cucumber, slicing it lengthways and scooping out the seeds. “I’ve been on the go all day.” I shot him a resentful look. “You could have washed your breakfast and lunch pots instead of leaving them for me to do when I came in. It’s not like you’ve been at work today. Surely I’m entitled to some consideration.”

“I’m sorry.” He inclined his head in acceptance of the rebuke. “You’re quite right. It was thoughtless of me. I’ll wash up after dinner to make up for it.”

The front door sprang open. Shane’s voice boomed an irritable observation down the hall. “Dick! You’ve left your garage door open.”

“I know.” Dick hastened into the hall. “I have bags in the car I need to bring in. I was just saying hello to Gilli.”

“Get them brought in and then lock up.”

“Will do.” There was a pause. “Something wrong, Shane? Can I help in some way?”

Shane’s voice took on a softer tone. “We’ll talk later, cariad. Go and close up your garage. It’s gaping an open invitation to thieves.”

Dick went to do as bidden. Shane popped his head around the kitchen door. “Dinner almost ready?”

I nodded.

“Good. I’m going for a shower. I won’t be long.”

He disappeared. I pulled a face, muttering a sarcastic, “hello and good evening to you too, Shane.”

I opened a couple of cartons of Covent Garden lentil and bacon soup and poured them into a pan to heat. I put some rolls in the oven to crisp up and then finished the salad, adding cherry tomatoes and sliced red onion. I dressed it with a drizzle of lemon juice and extra virgin olive oil before crumbling feta cheese over the top.

Shane set the tone for a quiet dinner. He asked after my mother. I responded in brief. He then issued a mild reprimand because he’d had a phone call from Jakob, his gay vegan Norwegian business associate. He’d complained because I’d spelled his Christian name with an English C instead of a Norwegian K when I’d addressed the envelope on his Christmas card.

I rolled my eyes. “I didn’t do it on purpose. It was a language slip. It’s not like he stands the envelope on his mantelpiece is it. It goes in the bin. You spelled his name right on the card when you signed it, that’s all that matters.”

“Getting a name right is a question of manners. He’s touchy about such things.”

“He’s touchy about everything. Never has the word gay been so misapplied. I’ve never seen him crack a smile. It must be a rib tickling riot living with him.”

“Be quiet. Eat your dinner.”

Dick chanced starting a general conversation, but Shane silenced him by shaking his head and touching a finger to his lips. It suited me. I wasn’t much in the mood for talking, or eating. I stirred the soup around my bowl, shoved salad about my plate, forcing down a few mouthfuls of each.