Christmas At Leo's - Memoirs Of A Houseboy (6 page)

Lee’s dad would sometimes drag me into his act: ‘this lad knows a good tune when he hears one, voice like an angel. Howay, Gilli, my son, give us a few bars.’ I’d oblige and sing into the lager bottle mike, enjoying not only the limelight, but also the sense of being part of the warm-hearted chaos of Lee’s family. My mum had to drag me away from those noisy, boozy, smoky party nights. She didn’t like me being exposed to cigarette smoke and alcohol and she also liked me to have a reasonable bedtime. It made me cross. A few times after being taken home and sent up to bed I’d sneak back out and attempt to rejoin the party. I have always been wilful.

The childhood memory lifted my mood. I sang along with Gene as I mixed milk into the coffee granules, swaying my hips by way of an accolade to Lee’s dad. Bless. He was gutted when the great GP passed away in 2006. Lee claimed he had cried, but of course his dad said he did
‘nowt of the bloody sort, our Lee.’

His parents still have the odd party night, but nothing like those boisterous, unsophisticated expressions of weekend joy. Most of those big old vinyl records have been sold off on Ebay, replaced by tiny, shiny CD versions, if only by way of saving space. It’s sad in a way, like a kind of emasculation. Poor old Gene Pitney and Co cut down to size. Vinyl albums are much like the artists themselves, shadows cast on the wall of music history.

When I think about it, those party nights were a kind of intersection for Lee’s parents. They weren’t just about having fun in the present. They were a connection back to the days of their own childhood when they probably first heard some of the songs they loved to play.

Red Alert:
the houseboy is about to unleash one of his half-arsed pseudo philosophical statements:

We humans have a desperate need to cling to some aspect of our personal past; as if it is a grain of immortality we can use to stave off death. It’s an illusion. Looking back to the past does not slow down the future. Time itself is cyclical, but not so a human life. Time acts as a guard. It escorts each of us in a straight line from the cradle to the grave. A pessimistic view perhaps, miserable and even depressing, but there you go, this is the book of my days and I can fill it with whatever mind bending negative shit I want to.

“You’re in good voice this morning.”

“Hi, Eileen.” I turned and smiled as she came into the kitchen.

“Are you going to perform that as a party piece over the holidays?”

“I doubt it.” I turned the volume down on the radio. “I’m making coffee, is that okay?”

“Lovely.” She walked over to the kitchen dresser, picking up a cake tin and a couple of porcelain tea plates, which she carried over to the scrubbed pine table.

I made the coffees. We sat down at the table. Eileen took the lid off the tin. I selected a couple of the iced mince pies inside and put them on my plate. It was a comfortable routine, one she and I had shared many times. I love sitting in her kitchen having tea or coffee along with homemade cake and a natter.

“How did things go last night? Was it a good party?”

I grimaced. “Okay, I suppose. Everyone seemed to enjoy it, except me. I was glad when it was over. I went to bed sober. Christmas is going to be a misery this year with Dick and Shane keeping watch on what I drink. They’re like a couple of naggy old nannies.”

Quick digression:
Eileen has long been aware I’m in an intimate sexual relationship with both Dick and Shane. She has never judged me, or them. It makes me value her friendship even more. She has an open mind. She doesn’t know about the Daddy/discipline element of our relationship, or if she does it’s only because she’s guessed at it. She knows they disapprove of me drinking and she knows why. I’ve told her the boyfriends have a downer on me imbibing since my episodes increased. I haven’t confessed they’ve banned alcohol altogether and I’m subject to severe punishment if I disobey. It’s too difficult to explain.
End of digression.

“They mean well, Gilli. They worry about you and want you to be well. It’s only right.”

“I know, but it still gets on my nerves. It takes the fun out of a party. They’ve forgotten what it’s like to be young. Their idea of a wild time is mixing a shot of brandy into a mug of hot milk. It’s like being shacked up with a gay Darby and Joan.”

Her blue eyes crinkled with amusement. “You wouldn’t have them any other way.”

“I’m not so sure.” I picked up a mince pie, demolishing half of it in one bite.

“I’m certain you’ll get to enjoy a glass or two of bubbly on the big day.”

I was certain I wouldn’t, but I didn’t say so. I finished my mince pie, took a few swigs of coffee and made a start on my second pie, finishing it before asking her how things were going with Reginald, her wannabe beau, a bloke from her church with whom she’d struck up a tentative romance. She’d recently told him to back off a little because he’d tried to move things along faster than she felt ready for.

“I’ve invited him for supper this evening, so we can exchange gifts before I go to Steve and Thelma’s for Christmas.”

I gave a grin, teasing. “What will you do if he brings a huge bunch of mistletoe with him and tries to snog you under it?”

She laughed. “Hit him with it.”

“You do like him though, don’t you?”

“Yes, he’s sweet in his way, and good company.”

I asked a question Shane would have walloped me for if he’d heard it. He’s warned me about asking Eileen for personal details. “But you don’t fancy him enough to want to sleep with him?”

She smiled, unfazed by my curiosity. “I’m too old for such nonsense.”

“Don’t say that, Eileen. You’re never too old for sex, at least I hope not.”

“Don’t worry.” She gave a small smile. “You’ve got some mileage in you yet, Gilli.”

“I hope so.”

She offered a candid opinion. “I think the male sex drive is more potent and of longer duration than the female one. Our energies get spent in just being female with all it entails. I honestly believe men get more pleasure from sex than women because actual sex, the act, is all you’re concerned with. You lucky creatures don’t have menstruation, childbirth or menopause to contend with alongside your natural urges.”

“Thank God for huge mercies,” I gave her a cheeky wink. “So don’t you miss it at all, sex I mean?”

She looked thoughtful. “I suppose, once upon a time, after my husband died, but not now. I think the more sex you have, the more you want it. It creates its own momentum, but once the momentum is broken, the need and the desire diminish. I miss the emotional intimacy more than the physical.”

“Maybe you’ll find that again with Reg.”

She shook her head. “I enjoy his company, his friendship, but it isn’t the same thing I had with my husband. He was the love of my life.”

“Look at me. I’m a living testimony to there being more than one love for each of us.”

“You’re a fortunate young man.” Picking up the tin lid, she tapped me gently on the head with it. “Do you want another coffee?”

Being a gentleman I took the hint and let the subject of sex drop. She made more coffee and we moved on to more general chat. She said she was looking forward to spending Christmas with her nephew and his wife and their young family, to which a new addition was coming soon. She was setting off early on Christmas Eve after visiting the cemetery to lay wreaths for her husband, baby son and her parents.

I asked another question. “Do you miss your family more at this time of year?”

“Yes. I suppose I do. It would have been nice to grow old with my husband instead of on my own. I miss what might have been for Tom, my son. I often wonder how he would have turned out. I’d have loved to have grandchildren.”

“What about your mother? You must miss her being around?”

“I thought I’d miss her more than I do. She’d had a long life, Gilli, and she was ready to let go of it. She was frail and confused in the last few years. It was hard to see her afraid and in pain. I was glad for her to find rest. I miss her most as she used to be, when I was young with my brother. She always made Christmas special. I think our best memories are of family times.”

I swallowed down a sudden lump in my throat. I hadn’t spent a ‘family’ Christmas with my mother since I was fourteen years old, and it hadn’t been a happy one. My face must have clouded, because Eileen stretched a hand across the table.

“What’s the matter, Gilli? Are you fretting about your mother? How is she doing?”

“She’s good. I’m going to see her today.”

“Give her my best. Tell her she has a beautiful son.”

“Who’s that then, have I met him?”

“Behave.”

I laughed as she tapped a playful admonishment onto the back of my hand.

We finished our coffee. I handed over the gift I’d bought her. She gave one to me. I then took my leave with hugs and wishes for a Happy Christmas.

I went on to visit Dot and Alma, delivering their gifts. It was heading towards noon. Both of them wanted to share a Christmas drink with me, and not tea or coffee. I made excuses about needing to keep a clear head for visiting my mother, joking about not wanting to fall off the train and onto live track. I left their respective houses feelings I’d somehow disappointed them. In all likelihood the sense of disappointment was something I generated within myself and imposed on the situation. Whatever the source, it left me feeling restless and conflicted, something I was beginning to experience a lot of lately.

The train I’d planned to get was running a few minutes late. I sat in the station waiting room in preference to waiting on the cold platform. I’d forgotten to pick up my iPod before leaving home, so had to put up with the festive tunes being piped out of the tannoy system in between train announcements. Shane MacGowan and Kirsty MacColl sparred their way through ‘Fairytale of New York’ the signature song of Christmas pissheads everywhere.

The person responsible for choosing the music compilation was obviously a raging alcoholic because next up was Cliff Richard warbling sentimental slop about ‘Mistletoe and Wine.’ The corny lyric about gifts on the tree aggravates me beyond all reason. Gifts on the tree, my arse. No one puts gifts on the tree, under it maybe, but not ON it, not unless the tree is the size of the one Norway sends to London for war services every year. Your average household Chrissy tree would keel over if you tried to hang a bottle of wine on it, never mind a PlayStation, a new bike or a big telly.

To my relief, Cliff was cut short by the announcement my train was approaching platform two.

Red Alert:
the boy is about to leap aboard his preacher soapbox yet again:
I don’t care much for Cliff at the best of times, and not just because his songs make me want to simultaneously perforate both eardrums with sharpened chopsticks. There’s a lot of evidence to suggest he’s gay. If he is, then it’s a shame he’s never found the courage to come out. As a prominent Christian he could do a lot of good if he had the balls to stand up and be counted. The role played by religion in continuing to vilify GLBT people and make them third-class citizens is a wicked disgrace. It needs to be challenged and folks like Sir Cliff Richard could help do it. (I am houseboy, hear me rant.)

Shane says I’m far too idealistic. I need to keep my nose out of other folk’s business and remember everyone has the right to deal with their sexuality in their own way and time. He says it’s CR’s business and his alone as to when and if he ever comes out. I suppose he’s right.

It was freezing cold on the train. I huddled down in my seat, tucking my hands under my pits to try and keep them warm. I stared through the grimy window as the train rattled from station to station. The urban landscape soon gave way to open fields. I tried to focus my mind on the view, but it kept returning to the conversation I’d had with Eileen. It had stirred up a host of memories. They were whirling in my mind like particles in a shaken snow globe.

My fourteenth year wasn’t an easy one. I don’t think fourteen is an easy age for any of us. It’s an intersection. You’re full of raging hormones, caught on the thorn between childhood and young adulthood. In my case it was the year I contracted meningitis, which in turn triggered the epilepsy. It would have been a hard enough time if I’d been straight, but I knew I wasn’t. I was terrified. I felt like a child of the damned and was unhappy in every sense. My mates were discovering girls and could talk openly about it. It was tits with everything. My attractions lay elsewhere and were not blessed with the same legitimacy.

Of course, if homosexuality had been a part of the sex education curriculum in schools it might have helped me have some kind of frame of reference for my feelings and helped normalise them. It wasn’t and probably still isn’t, certainly not in church schools. Love was promoted as only permissible between a man and a woman. Anything else was a filthy aberration.

I used to cry myself to sleep night after night wondering why I’d been cursed with the dis-ease of homosexuality. I even wondered if the meningitis had been a divine punishment for me being gay. If so, then God, The Great Creator, is a cruel and contrary bastard. It’s a bit off to create millions of gay, lesbian and transgender folks and then have every twat on the planet persecute them for it, using your name as the justifying factor. In reality, of course, it has nothing to do with God, whoever or whatever
God
is. The real problem lies with the loveless, judgmental people who hijack the notion of
God
and use it as an excuse to persecute and control. Yes, yes, I know, I’m lecturing again.