Christmas At Leo's - Memoirs Of A Houseboy (11 page)

The offer of a dessert was declined. Shane thanked me for dinner and ordered coffee to be served in the lounge for him and Dick before I made a start on clearing up. The inference was clear. I wasn’t wanted. It was coffee for two and work for the household serf. I reminded Dick that he had said he would wash up after dinner. Shane responded for him.

“It’s your job to wash up, not Dick’s. Get on with it.”

“Sorry, hun.” Dick gave me an apologetic look. “I’ll make up for it another time.

Shane went to the sideboard and poured two generous glasses of brandy, taking them through to the lounge, commanding Dick to follow him. Lucky sods. I began to gather up the plates from the dining room table. I could have done with chilling out over a brandy, or preferably a beer.

When I took the coffee through to the lounge they were seated on the couch. Shane had a hand on Dick’s thigh. It wasn’t a sexy touch, a precursor to physical amore. It was more a comfort touch, a fortifying action. Still, I experienced a familiar spark of jealousy. Shane saw Dick as his exclusive confidant, and it would never change. It was part of their dynamic. As well as love and respect, they shared a deep bond of trust and friendship. Shane would never be my friend. Dick wasn’t a friend either, an ally upon occasion, a lover and mentor, but not a friend. I was too far removed from them both in too many ways to serve as a true friend, not least by virtue of years. The thought disturbed me. I quelled it.

I put the tray down on the coffee table, set out the cups and poured coffee. “Do you want anything else?” I set the pot down.

“No, thank you.” Shane picked up his cup and took a sip of coffee, setting the cup back down. “Clean up and then get off to bed. Dick said you were complaining of tiredness earlier. You’ve been busy the last few days. A rest will do you good.”

I managed to subdue a flash of annoyance by moistening my lips and adopting a reasonable tone. “Bit early for bed, Shane. I wasn’t planning on crowding you. I was going to go out for a walk, maybe pop into The Rose and say hello to a few people.”

He repeated the instruction in a cold voice. “Clean up and get off to bed. I won’t tell you again. I’ll put you there.”

I said a clipped “goodnight then” and walked out of the room, closing the door behind me. I stood outside, listening, hearing Shane.

“One of these days, and I hope I live long enough to see it, that man is going to do as he’s told first time, without feeling the need to comment or argue.”

Dick gave a gentle laugh. “You’d better count on being immortal then. It isn’t within his nature. His mouth must open and have its say. Do you want me to get you another brandy?”

“I shouldn’t, but go on. It’s been a hell of a day, Dick. This bloody recession is never going to end. Just as you think things are on the up, they crash again. The long term forecast isn’t promising either.”

I heard the clink of glasses and scooted off to the kitchen before Dick caught me eavesdropping on his way to get the brandy.

Before tackling the dinner dishes, I decided to decorate my Christmas cake. I say mine, but it isn’t, not technically. Shane’s sister Penny made it. The one I made had gone mouldy and I’d naughtily switched hers for mine rather than confess that I’d screwed up. It didn’t take long to ice. I wasn’t expert enough to mess on with proper royal icing, so had opted to buy ready-made white fondant icing. It was even ready rolled. All I had to do was unwrap it, unroll it and drape it over the cake and then trim and smooth it. I finished it off by tying a broad red ribbon around it and adding a poinsettia cake decoration as a centrepiece. I dusted it with a bit of edible gold glitter and it looked great. It felt more ‘mine’ now I’d decorated it. I also fancied that it felt more mine because of the dressing I’d graced it with. It had developed Stockholm syndrome, empathising with its ‘kidnapper.’

I took my time putting the dining room and kitchen to rights. It was still too early for bed. I cast a scowl at the closed lounge door as I walked past on my way upstairs. I got undressed. I switched the telly on. Before getting into bed, I picked up one of Dick’s glossy photography magazines to flick through in between flicking through the TV channels. Time dragged. Nothing held my interest. I flung down the magazine and switched off the telly.

My brain was like a kaleidoscope, forming and reforming thoughts, but not into pretty patterns. A picture came to mind; of me walking away from mum’s house carrying the box she had given me. I felt cast adrift in some way. She had packed up the aspects of her life pertaining to me, as if cutting the umbilical cord binding us once and for all. The vague feeling I’d experienced in her house, after she told me about her plans for a home based ‘family’ Christmas, returned, only with greater intensity. It felt almost like a physical pain.

Getting out of bed, I walked over to the window, pulling aside the curtains and opening the blinds, looking out into the dark, winter garden. Cold struck through the glass, making me shiver. I welcomed it as a sensation I could recognise.

The frightening phrase my mother had used popped into my head:
end of life plan
. It made me think of Eileen’s mother, Rose, and her end of life. There had been no plan to it as such. She had just been ready to relinquish her hold on life. My mother wasn’t though. She had not been given a choice. Her end of life had been forced upon her by cruel fate and not by the natural weariness of extreme old age.

The bedroom door opened. I turned away from the window. It was Dick. He was carrying a tumbler of water.

“I’ve brought your medication.”

“Why did you have to go and tell Shane I was tired?”

“Don’t snap at me, honey. There’s no need.” Dick put the glass down on the bedside cabinet with my tablets. “He thought you looked out of sorts and asked if anything was wrong. I told him what you told me.”

“Well you shouldn’t have. I’ve been stuck up here all night bored out of my skull. I wanted to go out for a walk. I needed some exercise. I’m not tired enough to sleep.”

“Shall I make you some hot milk? It might help.”

“Milk is for infants and old people. It doesn’t help induce sleep, not unless you lace it with something.”

“Watch some television then, or read for a while.”

“What is it with Shane anyway? Why does he always exclude me from any talks about work? What does he think I’m going to do, interrupt him by cracking jokes and doing handstands? Christ!” I turned back to the window, folding my arms tight across my chest to try and contain the anger I could feel building inside me again. “It’s just an excuse for him to have you to himself and pretend I don’t exist for a while.”

“Don’t be silly.”

“Yeah, well being silly is what I’m good at, that and cleaning toilets. If we all drank our own piss instead of sprinkling it around the bathroom, I’d have less to do.”

“If tiredness isn’t souring your temper, what is?”

I didn’t reply and he came over to me. I could see him reflected in the dark window. His fringe was getting a little too long. Shane would be nagging at him to get it cut soon.

Pulling me away from the window, he closed the blinds and whisked the curtains closed. “What’s going on? Is it to do with this morning, or something else? Your mother? Was she poorly today?”

“She’s dying. You can’t get more poorly than that.”

“Don’t you dare try and trip me, Gillibran. You know what I meant.”

“Sorry.” I averted my eyes from his. “She’s fine and looking forward to Christmas, which is more than I am. Why can’t we go to Leo’s for Christmas dinner and then come away? Why do we have to stay over for days?”

“Are you worrying about who else is going to be there? There’s no need. Shane and I probably won’t know everyone who’ll be dropping in over the holiday. It’s an opportunity to meet new people. It will be fun.”

“For you.”

“This is about booze again, isn’t it?”

“It’s about making a choice. I’m choosing not to go to Leo’s. I’m sick of doing Christmas everyone else’s way.” Stalking away from him, I flopped down onto the willow bedroom chair. “I’d rather stay here than follow you and Shane to Leo’s, like some lowly page treading in your footsteps. I’m not going. I don’t want to.”

He pushed a hand through his hair and gave me one of his sad soft looks. “Something has upset you. I can see it in your eyes, and it isn’t to do with spending the holiday at Leo’s. Leo is the excuse to play out your bad feelings. I can’t help if you won’t tell me what’s wrong.”

“I don’t want to spend Christmas floating around like some sober spectre watching arseholes like Jak having a good time. I swear if he mentions epilepsy to me one more time, I’ll stick my hand down his throat and yank his cock and balls out through his big mouth. Plus, it’ll be embarrassing opening presents in front of people I don’t know.”

“Enough! There’s no reasoning with you when you get into one of these tempers. Take your medicine or I’ll call Shane to come and deal with you. He’s got serious work issues, so believe me, he’s in no mood to deal leniently with one of your pissy fits.”

As if on cue Shane shouted from the hall. “Dick?”

“Master calls, best away.”

It was snarky cheek too far. Dick made a grab for me, yanking me out of the chair by the scruff of my top. My feet barely touched the floor as he hoisted me from chair to bed, manhandling me into it. He thrust his face close to mine, hissing, “be a good little boy and go to sleep, or this Daddy will take a paddle to your backside.”

“Dick?” Shane’s voice boomed again, sounding irritable. “What are you doing up there?”

“I’m on my way, Shane.” He addressed me again. “Take your meds. If they’re still there when Shane comes to bed, he’ll skin you alive, and I’ll help him.”

He left the room. I lay still, until my adrenaline level returned to normal. Dick is as tough as Shane when he puts his mind to it. My body felt jarred from his rough handling. He’d moved me across the room and swung me into bed as easily as if I were a rag doll. He has a tensile strength honed by the strenuous bondage games he plays with Shane.

I took my medicine and switched off the bedside lamps. Curling on my side, I closed my eyes, surprised by how tired I suddenly felt. The encounter with Dick had dissipated my tension. Sometimes I need my balls busting.

I woke in the early hours. The men folk were sound asleep beside me, Shane spooning Dick. Both were naked. They’d had sex. I could smell their sperm, especially Shane’s. It has an acidic scent, and a sharp taste, probably because of all the coffee he consumes.

Digression:
believe it or not, what you eat and drink affects the smell and flavour of your love juice. So if you’re planning to partake of cocktails, encourage the donor to hog out on strawberries or Parma violets for a few days beforehand. Voila, nice sweet semen.
End of digression.

Sleep was gone. I tried to reclaim it by closing my eyes and snuggling down into the duvet, but it refused to come. I was wide-awake. Details from the day before crowded my mind: the cold train, Birds Trifle, the Amazonian nurse, my mother’s increasing frailness, the plastic Christmas tree loaded with coloured baubles, lights, garish tinsel and childhood memories. I thought about what mum had said, about it being the last time she would have those memories as she hung my primitive artwork on the tree.

Slipping out of bed, I located my bathrobe and went downstairs to make a cup of tea. It was freezing. I put my hands in my robe pockets, hunching my shoulders as I waited for the kettle to boil, gazing out of the kitchen window. There was nothing much to see. It was just after five. Darkness had a while to rule before light claimed dominion.

I took my tea into the lounge to drink, setting it down on the coffee table. I turned on the tree lights, but they failed to enchant. The tea failed to soothe. My thoughts turned to the memory box my mother had put together. Bringing it into the house had disturbed me. Parts of my life usually kept separate had collided. As a result, I felt fragmented. I was downstairs in the lounge, but also upstairs in the den, and I wasn’t alone up there. My long gone grandfather, a man I had never known, had now taken on a shadowy dimension. Aspects of him were shut in a box with a grandchild he’d never set eyes on.

I tried to distract myself from unsettling thoughts by putting the telly on and watching a cookery programme for a while, but the festive recipes failed to engage me. I turned it off.

The men folk were still sleeping, their bodies locked together in peaceful slumber. As always, they looked good, well matched. I admired them for a few moments before gently closing the bedroom door and making my way up to the den.

I shivered as I removed the box lid and not just with cold. Inside were envelopes and packets, all with hand written messages describing the contents. It felt weird. I picked up a small packet reading the note written in my mother’s hand:
my dad’s gold signet ring, given to him by his parents on his twenty-first birthday. He wore it every day.

Mum was right. The heavy oval ring was much too big for me. I smoothed a thumb over the fancy engraved initials, trying to connect in some way to the man who had once worn it. Thomas Duncan. I had some Scottish blood in my veins. Maybe it helped explain my temper. The Scots were renowned for hot temper. It might also explain my contrary streak. One of the patrons of The Rose and Crown was a Scot. He took offence if you spoke to him and more offence if you didn’t.