Gilliflowers (48 page)

One guest was more or less passing through and stayed for one night only, but the other two stayed from Monday to Friday. It was an endless round of cooking, bed making and cleaning. I laundered more towels than a chain of Travelodges.

I didn’t mind the guest who passed through and I didn’t mind one of the guests who stayed on. It was the other one who pushed my button and made me reluctant to play sweet accommodating host. It was no other than Jakob the humourless vegan Norwegian. I don’t like him, hence my desire to park him in a hotel. He’s one of those guests who outstay their welcome the moment they step through the front door and dump their coat and case on you.

He doesn’t like me either. I’m probably not obsequious enough for his tastes. He insists on knowing exactly how I’ve prepared his food and what’s in it. I totally respect his right to choose not to eat meat. I’ve no quibble with that whatsoever. What does quibble me is his Morrissey holier than thou attitude towards meat eaters. It gets right on my knob. He’s the type of vegetarian who will happily see other human beings go to the wall in order to safeguard his personal business interests and wealth, but God forbid any animal be harmed or harvested for food purposes. What does he think livestock farmers are going to do if vegetarianism is ever made law? Will they keep all the pretty moocows and cute little baa lambs as pets? Not a chance. They’ll slaughter them wholesale and give the land over to growing grain and Linda McCartney nut cutlets.

On Wednesday evening he came into the kitchen where I was putting the finishing touches to dinner. As per usual he demanded to know what I was cooking for him. I told him I’d made him a vegan recipe mushroom stroganoff and again, as per usual, he demanded to know every last ingredient and how I’d prepared it. I’d made beef stroganoff for everyone else and he wanted an assurance I hadn’t sliced his mushrooms with the same knife I’d used to slice the beef. I confirmed I’d used a different knife and a different chopping board. He then wanted an assurance I hadn’t stirred his sauce with the same spoon I’d used to stir the beef dish. I lost patience and snapped I hadn’t used a spoon at all. I’d actually used my dick to stir it, figuring it was a form of meat a gay vegetarian would surely find acceptable.

He chose to take complete and utter offence at my light-hearted remark. (Lie detector says light-hearted my arse) Dramatically announcing he would cause me no further trouble he gathered up his coat and said he would eat out for the remainder of his stay. Dick quickly smoothed things over by explaining to Jakob that I had a unique sense of humour:
he’s from the northeast.
My remark had been meant as a playful jest, though obviously it had lost something in translation.

I offered an apology for my ‘northern playfulness.’ With the encouragement of his partner Espen (business not romantic) he accepted the apology and graciously seated his touchy meat free arse at the dinner table.

After dinner Dick took Jakob and Espen out to witness the delights of a big traditional fireworks display in honour of Guy Fawkes Night followed by a visit to a traditional English hostelry, as if they hadn’t drank enough at dinner. I of course was not invited. As per last year I wasn’t allowed to peek out of the window for fear the pretty sparkles would cause my brain to trip a switch and start me twitching and jerking like a live shrimp on a hot plate.

Shane also stayed behind, though not to help me with the clearing up. I got a good telling off for being obnoxious to a guest. If it happened again he would leather my backside in front of the offended party. I should have accepted the reprimand as earned. Instead I lapsed into what Dick calls one of my sub on a suicide mission moods.

I told him I was sick of fiord face gate crashing my kitchen to check up on me. I also complained about the lack of appreciation shown for my efforts in general.

He said I had no right to expect praise and thanks all the time like some domestic Prima Donna. I was paid to do a job of work to the best of my ability. Houseguests were the equivalent of customers as far as I was concerned. It was my job to serve them with good grace, not upset them by being surly and ill mannered.

IEM stepped up to the mark. Fine! Just Fine! I got the message. I was merely an employee. In that case, as an employee, I was handing in my notice with immediate effect. He could do the washing up himself and also cater to vegemite man. I was going out.

My termination of employment was not accepted and in the event the only thing exploding was Shane’s hand on my rump. It wasn’t a severe spanking by his

standards, he didn’t even bare my bottom, but I reacted with an outlay of saline and snot.

He knew as well as I did that my real sense of grievance was rooted in being denied my God given right to go out to the pub, get pissed and watch fireworks sparkle until my brain exploded and blew grey matter out through my eardrums and eye sockets. We didn’t discuss it though.

After heating the seat of my jeans he reminded me that just as he had

responsibilities at work so did I. And while he acknowledged that Jakob was a fusser with an obsession, and therefore hard work, he was also a vitally important business link. As long as he was a guest in our house it was my responsibility to keep him happy.

Once the washing up was done I went off to watch telly in our bedroom. Shane came up. I had the sound on the telly turned down and he suggested I turn it up so as to drown out the barrage of gunpowder explosions sounding from outside. I said I didn’t want to drown them out. I liked hearing them even if I couldn’t see them.

Fireworks on November fifth were part of the pattern of the seasons turning. They were a milestone on the road to Christmas and the year’s end. I liked to keep track of it and feel part of it.

He said I was a strange boy. Turning off the TV set he lay alongside me on the bed and initiated a game of fantasy fireworks. Pointing at the bedroom ceiling he matched the explosions outside with vivid descriptions of the shapes and colours of the fireworks. It was funny and sweet and I loved him for engaging in an act of rare silliness for me. It was one of those moments when the lifestyle I’d elected to live felt perfectly balanced. I relinquished all resistance and resentment and took immense pleasure in being his boy.

I visited my mother today. It was an emotional visit and I feel justified in giving it a title rather than logging it under the date alone. So far I haven’t spoken of it to the boyfriends. Some things take time to share and some things can never be shared because the meaning becomes lost in translation.

The fates spared mum the necessity of having a word with Kelly about dropping in too often. She’s landed a job at long last and now has a lot less time on her hands.

When I set off this morning I knew Frank was working a double shift so I was looking forward to spending some uninterrupted time alone with my mother.

It was clear she was having a bad day and was tired. We chatted a little, but even this seemed to exhaust her. I went to make a cup of tea and opened the tin of chocolate shortbread I’d bought her in Edinburgh. I put a few pieces on a plate hoping a sweet treat would tempt and cheer her.

When I returned to the living room she’d fallen asleep in her chair. She’d been listening to a Marti Pellow CD so it perhaps wasn’t surprising. He tends to send me off to sleep too. I’m not a big fan of his pop ballad style, but mum loves him and was a Wet Wet Wet devotee back in her younger days. I remember her listening to their music and having a dance and sing along in the kitchen as she made the tea when I was a kid.

As she slept I studied her. An odd thought came to me, bringing a flash of panic.

Who was this woman? I didn’t recognise her at all. She was a stranger. It was ridiculous. Then it dawned on me. I didn’t recognise her because I was looking for a person who no longer existed. The strongest images housed within my mind are of the mother of my childhood days, not this here and now mother. Our rift had left a gap, a dearth of images. I was still trying to view her with boyhood eyes.

Getting up I wandered around the room, looking out of the window onto the tiny garden and the street I had once played in and then back into the room. I had been a child here, but I felt no strong connection. I’d left my roots in the house I had shared with my mother before she married Frank.

I crossed over to the display unit, inspecting the collection of framed photos standing on it. One was of mum and Frank on their wedding day. Another was of her and her long time friend Marie on holiday. There was also one of her and me. I picked it up. This was my best-remembered mother, the woman in the flowery dress holding my hand and smiling. It had been taken at Flamingo Land one summer when I was eight years old. We’d had a great day out. I could still remember how happy I was.

In the photo she was wearing a necklace. I recognised it. It was made of small green glass beads and had a diamond cut gold cross hanging in the centre. It was unusual and she’d had it for as long as I could remember. It was her favourite. My dad had given it to her, she told me so. When I was very little and she picked me up and held me I would touch it. I loved the feel of the smooth cool beads and the contrasting rough ridges on the cross.

Not long after the trip to Flamingo Land the necklace string snapped, worn thin from constant wear. She was taking me to school when it happened. I had watched in horror as the pretty little beads cascaded to the ground. Mum gathered them up, but some were lost, rolling into the dark cracks between paving stones. She said she would have the necklace restrung, but she never did, though she put the cross on a gold chain and wore it.

As I stood there staring at the photo I fancied the necklace to be emblematic of our relationship. It had broken and portions of it separated and rolled away into dark crevices. The beads that eventually re-emerged were the same and yet different. They changed in the dark.

It occurred to me that perhaps the necklace was emblematic of all parent/child relationships. There has to come a point of separation, a point where the beads move apart. Some necklaces have a knot in between each bead, they’re separate and yet still linked. Some necklaces sever altogether, the pieces scattering in all directions. It doesn’t mean they can’t be gathered and restrung in some way.

I sensed being watched. Turning round I met mum’s eyes. She smiled. “I love that photo of you, all eyes and a cheeky grin. It was a good day, Gilli. Do you remember the flume ride, how wet we got and the parrot show?”

I laughed. “Yeah, they were cool when they rode those little bikes.”

She laughed too. “You were so excited. You talked about it for days afterwards and made me promise to take you again. We never got round to it.” She went quiet for a moment and then said sadly. “We got lost somewhere, Gilli, you and me. We got lost to each other, became strangers.”

Her words were so incredibly close to what I’d been thinking I was shaken. I didn’t know what to say.

She continued. “I’m not sure when or why or whose fault it was, but we’ve found each other again, we have, haven’t we?”

I nodded. I’d never known her speak in such a way. The photo blurred. I put it down, trying to collect myself.

“I tell myself what happened was meant to happen and it sent you to a good place in the end, a place where you could be you. I still regret the lost time though. I was so glad when you turned up on my doorstep that day. I’d just found out the cancer had returned. Seeing you again made me determined to try and beat it. I didn’t want to die without getting to know you again.”

Tears ran down my face. She held out her arms and I went to her, kneeling down on the floor next to her chair. She put her arms round me and comforted me. The images came together. She was my mum again.

I had a bit of a contretemps with Dick over the weekend. Shane was away. He and Leo set off for a weekend of deer stalking in Ashdown Forest on Saturday morning.

Dick stayed home to baby sit despite me insisting it wasn’t necessary. I said if he wanted to go blast bullets at pretty unarmed deer then he could do so. I’d be fine.

He decided we would have a card night instead of going out for dinner on

Saturday evening. I don’t mind a game of cards, but I’m not into the heavy stuff with money stakes. Neither is Shane, which is why we don’t often host card evenings at our house.

I said I’d prefer to go out for a meal or to the pictures, but Dick said tough and told me to stop moaning. It would be fun. It wasn’t. As things turned out Mike and Jak were the only people in attendance. Rob and Howard declined due to a prior engagement. Dick’s OCD pal Alan had also been invited, but cried off at the last minute. He was probably disinfecting his loose change. Alan is a nice bloke, but he has to make sure everything is germ free.

Jak got my back up by mentioning my ladder accident, asking if I’d had any more.

I told him it was none of his business. I felt like decking him. He further pissed me off by saying he was thinking of having another tattoo done and then suggesting Dick should design one for him. He wanted it for his inner left wrist. Dick obliged. In less than five minutes he’d sketched out a design on a bit of paper. It was brilliant. He drew a unicycle using the BDSM Triskele symbol as the wheel. The frame and pedals were composed of a spreader bar, chains and cuffs. The seat was patterned with a garland of red and white roses to symbolise aspects of submission and domination.

Jak was thrilled. He loved it. Dick told him he’d refine the design using suitable paper so he could use it as a flash to make a transfer from. It wouldn’t take him long.

He could call by and collect it on Sunday afternoon. There was a proviso attached. It was for Jak’s personal use only. Once the transfer was made he wanted the flash disposed of. Jak agreed.

Was I jealous? Damn right I was. Perhaps I wouldn’t have minded so much if the design had been neutral, but it wasn’t. It was pertinent and meaningful to Jak on several levels.