Gilliflowers (18 page)

He told me a total ban was something they had considered when my condition had worsened and it became clear alcohol could act as a catalyst. They decided it was too much of an assault on my personal liberty at a time when I was already stressed.

Instead they had settled for introducing limits. It hadn’t worked out. They felt the best course of action was the one they had originally considered, a total ban. It was for my own good. Subject closed.

“Come on. Don’t look so stricken. It isn’t the end of the world by any means.” He held out his arms, offering comfort.

I rejected it. “I’m going out for a run.” Upset and angry I abruptly left the kitchen, running upstairs.

Shane was awake when I entered the bedroom. Taking one look at my face he propped himself up on his elbow. “I see Dick’s had a word with you.” He pulled back the duvet, inviting, “come back to bed for a while.”

“I’m going for a run.” I undid and shoved down my jeans kicking them off so I could put on my running shorts. He stopped me.

“Have some sense, Gilli. It’s too icy to go running, especially as you’re just getting over a fit. You know you’re more susceptible in the aftermath. You’ll have another one if you overexert yourself. You’re staying in.”

I had one of those red mist moments. Slamming the side of my fist hard against the door of the walk in closet I shouted. “I have mild episodes, Shane. EPISODES!

Not seizures and not fucking FITS! I’ll thank you to respect my chosen definition.”

He was out of bed and beside me in a second. I sucked air as his hand stung the back of my bare thighs. “When it comes to respect, boy,” he growled, “you obviously need a lesson or two and if you’re not careful I’ll set about some intensive teaching.”

“Sorry.” I pulled away from him, or tried to.

“Listen to me, master Brown, and listen well.” Holding me firmly by the wrists he leaned towards me, his eyes glittering with a dangerous light. “It’s up to you to accept with good grace the consequences of your actions regardless of whether or not you like them. Storming and stamping isn’t going to change anything. So cool your temper and get on with business as usual.” He let go of my wrists and straightened up.

“I’m going to have a shower, join me, it will help you relax.”

“I’d rather drown in the shower on my own than share one with you, thanks all the same.” My thighs didn’t appreciate my backchat as his hand launched another short sharp assault on them.

“I won’t tolerate your schoolboy brand of petulant sauce.”

“You’re your own worst enemy, Gilli.” Dick walked into the bedroom carrying my medical diary. He offered it to Shane. “You need to read this.”

“Seeing as it’s
business as usual
I suppose you’ll be wanting breakfast.”

Snatching up my jeans I walked out of the room leaving behind a dirty look for them to share between them. I stood on the landing, pulling on my jeans, hearing Shane’s exasperated voice.

“Go dig up the patio, Dick, because I’m going to murder that fucking boy.”

I ran downstairs and busied myself in the kitchen making a cooked breakfast, my emotions in turmoil. Six bloody months without a drink meant my social life was all but dead.

It wasn’t long before Shane came into the room smelling of shower gel and shampoo. Walking over to the drawer where my meds were kept he pulled it open, slipping my diary back into it. “Have you had your morning medication?”

“Yes.” I pulled the grill pan out to check the progress of the bacon.

“It was a bad seizure. You must have been frightened?”

“No,” I lied, “and it wasn’t that bad. Like I told Dick, it was hardly a grand mal or even a petite mal. It was a few extra spasms that’s all, no big deal.” I turned the bacon over and put the pan back under the grill and then opened the cutlery drawer to get knives and forks out, which I banged down on the kitchen table. “How do you want your eggs?”

“Lightly scrambled will do.” Pulling out a chair he sat down at the table.

“I’ll have mine fried please, sunny side up,” said Dick cheerfully as he came into the kitchen. He also parked his arse at the table.

“A few extra spasms are a big deal, in my book anyway.”

“Yeah, well obviously we read different books, Shane.” I plated up bacon and the requested style of eggs setting it before them with a rack of toast.

“What are you having, honey?”

“Nothing. I’ve got things to be getting on with. It might be Bank Holiday for you two, but it’s business as usual for me. My sarcasm fell upon stony ground.

“You’ve got time enough for a slice of toast. It isn’t good for you to be hungry.”

Dick pulled out the chair next to him and patted the seat. “Stop being a pain. Sit down, eat with us.”

“I’m fine.”

“SIT DOWN!”

I almost jumped out of my skin and so did Dick as Shane’s harsh tones rocked the rafters. I immediately plonked my arse on the chair.

“Do you need a walloping, boy?” His eyes bored into me. “Is that the only thing that’s going to settle you down today?”

I shook my head.

“Then straighten your face and eat some breakfast or I’ll take my belt to your backside.”

I did as told, eating a slice of buttered toast and drinking a cup of tea, which I’d made so it was at least a decent one. I then politely asked for and was granted permission to leave the table. I went upstairs and unpacked our weekend bags, putting toiletries and shaving gear away and collecting the used clothes to take down to the utility room. I sorted them out and put a load in to wash.

Shane sought me out to demand a fresh brew of post breakfast coffee. I made it and took it into the lounge where he and Dick were reading the newspapers. I left them to it, returning to the kitchen to wash the breakfast things up and tidy round before damp dusting the floor.

Dick brought the empty coffee pot and cups into the kitchen. He said he and Shane were going back to bed for an hour or so and why didn’t I come too. I coldly stated I had no intention of coming too or even one and if he and Shane were after a couple of pole holes they were out of luck. They’d just have to use each other’s, because this houseboy’s portals were tight shut and strictly no entry zones.

He didn’t care for my choice of words. His attractive face darkened. “Enough, Gilli. Give it a rest. I understand you’re upset, but this attitude isn’t going to make any better of it. Resign yourself and be at peace.”

“Peace?” I scowled. “How peaceful would you feel if Shane took away your freedom to have a drink or even place a bet when you wanted to?”

“I wouldn’t like it one little bit, but if it happened I know it would be deserved and I’d accept it accordingly. I’d accept it even if I hadn’t done something to deserve it.

Shane has the right to make whatever decisions he sees fit for me, and both he and I have the right to make decisions for you. It’s the way things work around here. Now come on, chin up, stop being mulish and come to bed. You’ll soon feel better.” He attempted to caress my face.

I stepped away from his touch. “You’ve got an inflated belief in your prick’s prowess if you think sex is going to make me feel better. It’s a cock you’ve got dangling between your legs not a magic wand. I’m in no mood for fucking fucking.”

He made strangling motions with his hands. “You drive me up the bloody wall sometimes, you awkward little bugger. I’m warning you. Sort out your attitude or Shane will give you a hiding.”

He and Shane duly went upstairs to creak the bedsprings, the randy pair of bastards. I sat down at the table. The Bank Holiday stretched ahead and I was all but vibrating with malcontent. I needed some exercise to try and clear my head. Leaving a note on the kitchen table saying I’d gone to the shop for some milk I slipped quietly out of the house to walk to Tesco, the supermarket furthermost from where we live.

It was freezing cold with a layer of frost-hardened snow on the ground. I nearly went arse over tit several times. Shane had been right. I conceded the point. The conditions were not conducive to running. My breath made clouds in the rimy air as I walked along.

I bought the milk, though it wasn’t needed. With us not being at home over the weekend there was plenty left over from the milkman’s delivery on Friday morning. I did a Delia Smith and bought ready prepared ingredients for lunch, pre-prepared salad and pre-cooked salmon fillets. I indulged myself with a couple of cut-price Easter eggs. Dick had bought me chocolate eggs that were as yet unopened and given my feelings they were likely to remain so. He could fucking stuff them. Yes, yes, I was being childish again.

I trawled the supermarket from one end to the other, killing time until I caught the attention of a bored security guard who began to make it his business to be in whatever aisle I happened to be in and not because he fancied me and was after asking for a date. I paid for my stuff and left.

I ended up in the Rose and Crown public house, perhaps not the best place for a man recently condemned to teetotalism. In an act of pure defiance I bought a pint of my favourite Stella Artois lager. The pub was deserted. I was the first customer of the day and had my choice of seats. Sitting down in a corner I studied the glass of liquid. I like alcohol. It’s part of my domestic and social environment. I enjoy having wine with a meal at home with the men folk and when out socialising in general. I liked having a few pints with my mates from time to time. I also enjoyed going out to the pub on my own and ruminating on life with my lovely Stella when things got on my nerves at home. I caressed the cool, elegant amber lady. It seemed to be the end of a beautiful friendship, for a while anyway.

I was taken aback by the nature of the punishment imposed on me. To my mind it was a case of over-fussing by the boyfriends. It wasn’t like I got stinking drunk every night of the week and it wasn’t like I fell into a coma after having one over the odds. I twitched a bit that’s all. I’d found it galling enough to have limits put on what I drank.

To have the privilege removed altogether and on a potentially permanent basis was infinitely worse. It was more than a punishment. It was an enforced lifestyle change.

Oh come on, Gilli, I hear you say, stop bleating. You have a choice. You can refuse to accept the decision. Fuck it! Decline. Say nein to no wine.

I brooded on it. Did I have a choice? Could I refuse to fall in line with the decision made on my behalf? The answer was obvious. No. I couldn’t, not if I was committed to the relationship. I was either in or I was out. There was no halfway house.

However, being committed to something, be it a religion, a system, lifestyle, whatever, doesn’t always mean you happily and easily accept all its codes and judgements. There are always internal battles to be fought with the id.

Sitting in the pub with a pint of forbidden hops in front of me I was conscious of reaching a hard point in my relationship. It was definitely one of those moments when the cold reality of what I’d signed up for made itself felt in a serious way. I went over the events in my mind.

I didn’t think I’d been dealt with particularly fairly. I hadn’t wanted to go to Penny’s in the first place and none of this would have happened if I’d been allowed to stay at home, but then, as had been pointed out, fairness didn’t come into it. Ah-ah, no way! I’d always known that.

The potential for unfairness is often part of the background buzz in relationships incorporating discipline. It’s the sadomasochistic trade off giving a delicious thrill of threat and an element of danger. It isn’t a problem when it stays in the background, fuelling sexual tension, but when it comes sharply to the fore, impacting on areas beyond the bedroom, it can be a real testing point. Was I going to pass or flunk? I was uncertain.

I took my leave of Stella without so much as a parting kiss, wishing her a sad au revoir. Heading homewards I was certain of two things. I loved and wanted the men who lived there and the lifestyle practised in preference to living a vanilla life where I was answerable only to myself, but I hated the particular punishment they’d imposed on me that morning. My autonomy had been limited in a significant way. I was angry and frustrated.

By the time I got home I was developing a headache. I often do after an episode.

Shane came out of the lounge as I stepped into the hall. He was annoyed, barely waiting for me to set down my bag and shed my coat before swiping the seat of my jeans and reprimanding me for leaving a rude little note instead of saying I was going out in person. Another swipe illustrated his annoyance at me not taking my phone so he could call me. In my defence I said I hadn’t wanted to disturb them and my phone was on charge so it was pointless taking it.

I picked up the bag of shopping. “I’ll make lunch. Do you want to eat in the kitchen or dining room?” He opted for the dining room and I headed for the kitchen.

Un-bagging the salad into a serving bowl I slung in some cherry tomatoes, black olives, and a drizzle of oil and balsamic vinegar. I warmed the salmon fillets in the microwave, arranging them on plates with lemon wedges. I also heated some assorted par-baked Italian bread rolls, set everything on the dining room table and declared lunch to be ready.

Dick said it looked lovely and tried to hug me but I sidestepped him. Shane said it looked effortless, in the sense of being all pre-packaged. Then he casually asked Dick if he wanted a glass of red or white wine with his lunch. Dick said white would be nice and Shane told me to open the bottle of Soave in the fridge.

I was hurt. It felt like having my nose rubbed in it, but I got the wine, opened it and set it down on the dining table with a couple of glasses. I should have sat down, kept my mouth shut and got on with eating lunch. Instead I announced my intention of eating in the kitchen in preference to dining with people who seemed to take pleasure in taunting me. I swear my mouth operates independently of my brain at times.

“Don’t be so bloody infantile, there’s no taunting involved,” said Shane mildly.

“You’re going to have to get used to the idea we can have what you can’t have. It’s part of your job to serve wine at the table, so,” he pointed at the wine glasses, “be a good boy and get on with it.”