Never Too Late To Change - 1. Given a Chance

Eric got up out of his chair slowly. His arthritis was bad again because of a cold, damp, dreary November day, but he couldn't afford to have the heating on all the time. He shuffled into the kitchen to make a cup of tea to warm himself up. While he was waiting for the water to boil, he looked at the array of pill bottles and blister packs on the countertop. The pill organiser was empty, but that didn't mean very much.

Had he taken his doses earlier? Yes … but his next lot needed getting ready for later. Sometimes Eric imagined he could hear himself rattle.

He thought he knew what he had to get out, but his memory wasn't that good nowadays. It wouldn't do to mix them up. Though, who'd care? No friends, or relations he'd kept in touch with. Eric fumbled for the sheet the pharmacist had given him some time ago. This was a chore his home-help used to do for him until the council decided he didn't warrant any more help under their new rules.

Bloody cuts. He paid his council tax, like everyone else. Didn't he deserve something from the council in return? When had he last spoken to someone? Last week, was it? Probably when he'd last gone shopping for his few bits and pieces. That hardly counted as a conversation – the odd 'please' and 'thank you' from the check-out assistant, together with a comment or two on the weather.

He used to have a weekly phone call from a befriend-er, but he'd stopped it a couple of months ago. She'd been nice enough, but hardly the right match. What had a married, full-time mum with school-aged kids and a large, extended family, got in common with him? Nothing at all, as far as he could see – she spent most of time talking about her comfortable, busy life in the city nearest him. He never had anything of interest to talk about – an old man with nothing but his basic existence of routines and getting by.

Eric lived in a draughty, rundown cottage on the edge of a small, conservative market town. The public transport wasn't frequent, but the bus got him to the supermarket, the library, and his GP when he needed to, as long as he timed it right. At least his bus pass allowed him to travel free of charge.

His old-age pension stretched to having the occasional pint at the local pub which was just about within walking distance. It was more for a change of scenery than anything else – there were the usual regulars, but he never felt like talking to them much. He usually sat by himself at one of the tables by the flame-effect electric fire. Going by what he overheard of their loud, beery conversations, they were a bunch of opinionated loudmouths. No thoughts or sympathy for anyone who was different.

The kettle had long since boiled. Eric made his cup of tea, then shuffled back to his chair and the telly.

Was he different? Yes, he was. Inside, Eric knew he was different.

Eric Whitehouse was gay – he'd known that for a long time, but anything beyond that bald fact was an unknown. He'd always been a loner with the minimum of social skills, and he'd never felt he was remotely attractive. To him, clothes and such were necessities, never something to be fussed over, or for him to spend time and money on that he didn't have. He'd never really looked after himself even when he was young. There'd been no fooling around at school for him, and anyway, he'd left all of that at the earliest possible time. Classroom education had held no attraction for him at all – he'd been extremely glad to leave and take up an apprenticeship.

Fortunately, his status as a loner had meant he'd not been bothered by any women either. For sex, romance, or anything. There'd always been plenty of other men far better than him. He was glad he'd escaped that particular social agony and anyway, the idea that his parents could have given a toss one way or the other, was laughable. That was about the only remotely good side to the whole thing. No use crying over spilt milk.

Eric tried concentrating on the afternoon soap on the TV, but his mind kept returning to the subject of him being gay. Usually, it was something he didn't allow himself to dwell on. When he did, it only reinforced his feelings of isolation. Sometimes he saw on the telly that other gay men were living good lives, but he had no idea, not the faintest, how to join them. His usual thought was he didn't stand a chance. But today was different. Eric smiled, smiled to himself. He couldn't help it.

Did he really think something good will come out of it?

A couple of weeks ago he'd gone to the library to see if their selection of talking books had improved; unsuprisingly, it hadn't. For once, he'd mentioned it to the library staff. They'd looked at him as if he was an idiot – didn't he realise there was no money, and no prospect of any, either?

Bloody cuts, again. He wanted to know what they did spend the money on. Certainly, not on things he wanted. Probably lining councillors' pockets.

Anyway, there'd been a small promotional stall in the entrance, displaying leaflets advertising a new outreach project funded by the lottery. Almost in spite of himself, he'd picked one up. Usually, he would have walked straight past – he had no spare money to spend. It was aimed at people his age and in his situation, and promised personal visits, not just the occasional phone call.

Only, he hadn't thought it could be aimed at that other hidden, almost forgotten, part of him as well.

They'd actually given a phone number on the leaflet, a proper phone number – not one of those wretched mobile things. So, after a few days thinking about it, he'd phoned, and spoken to a very pleasant woman. They'd gone through a number of things: where he lived, what his expectations were, his interests, and what his work had been, until they'd almost reached the end.

Then she'd explained apologetically that there were a few additional questions which he was free not to answer. They were the usual sort of thing: his age, ethnic origin, religious persuasion and finally, sexual orientation. For some inexplicable reason, he'd found himself answering the last one.

Why? He had no idea … except the time had seemed right, somehow.

He'd opened his mouth, and forced himself to say the word never before said to another person. He was gay. Saying it had almost made him choke, but there it was, out in the open, sort of. It couldn't be unsaid. Nor did he want to. The woman on the other end of the line hadn't hesitated. She'd asked him whether he wanted that to influence who they chose to contact him.

He didn't know that was possible. In for a penny, in for a pound. So, he'd said 'yes'. He'd never met someone else who was gay. Or, not knowingly. That made Eric stop and think for a moment. How many other people were there like him? … Living in his town? Though, all said and done, he'd be happy enough with anyone willing to help him live his life.

Again, she'd sounded perfectly OK about it. He'd been shaking like a leaf the whole time. The woman had been about to close the conversation when he'd blurted it out. That it was the first time he'd told anyone he was gay.

What had he expected? That she'd laugh? Or say something pitying? He didn't know. Instead, there had been a brief, understanding, sympathetic silence, then she'd finished up the call.

He'd woken early that morning, remembering they'd promised him a phone call today. It had come mid-morning, and he could bring to mind almost every word of it. He'd never been any good at making conversation, and he found doing it over the phone doubly difficult. Yet the young man – he'd sounded young – had kept the chat going without any effort. They'd had quite a interesting fifteen or twenty minutes. Just as well it was him paying the phone bill.

What was his name? Oh yes, he'd made a note of it. Andrew. Andy, he'd said. He worked as a landscape designer and gardener, and lived locally.

He himself had been a groundsman and occasional gardener for one of the large estates in the vicinity, The pay was poor, offset by the tied cottage and the allowance of fruit and veg from the estate. So, they'd found gardening things in common – jobs that came with the passing of the seasons, planting, growing. That was a good start. And, of course, there was the other thing they had in common which the two men hadn't talked about … They'd agreed that Andy would make his first visit tomorrow to see how they got on.

Eric peered round the living room. It wasn't particularly clean, but it wasn't filthy either. That was another thing his home-help used to do for him. He couldn't manage the vacuum cleaner any more, though he dusted what he could reach every now and again. He kept what he needed close by, and everything else was so much clutter. The kitchen and bathroom were much the same.

Although he kept himself as clean as he could, he hadn't been able to use the bath for some time. The last time he'd tried, he'd nearly slipped and fallen while trying to get himself out of the bath. That had really scared him. There wasn't a shower, not even one of the hand-held ones. A woman at the council offices had promised that the council would supply the necessary bathing aids. Of course, nothing had bloody come of it.

He ate enough, he supposed, although most of it was cold snacks – sandwiches and such. He couldn't trust his hands with hot pans or dishes anymore; the kettle was bad enough. The oven was too expensive to have on much, although it did warm that part of the cottage. Again, once or twice a week, his home-help had left something hot for him: meat and two veg, a pie or a stew.

He missed her, Hazel, more than he cared to think about. Not just what she'd done for him, but for her earthy, gossipy chat, and general cheerfulness. She had been his only regular visitor apart from the postman. Although she did still phone occasionally. Eric sighed. Sometimes, he wondered if anyone would miss him.

Eric shook his head, and sat up straighter in his chair. Feeling sorry for himself was faintly pathetic. Tomorrow was another, hopefully better day. Maybe even a new start? He was nervous and … excited? Blimey. When had he last felt like that? He refused to think about how narrow and restricted his life had become. Pointless, it seemed to him, sometimes. Not that it had ever been anything other than dull, stifled, lonely, even when he'd worked.

What was Andy going to be like? He had no idea. He'd seen gay characters on the telly now and then, and every now and again he'd pick up one of the free papers on the bus. It wasn't much to go on, and he somehow doubted the accuracy of the portrayals. Perhaps he was like any other young man? Not that such an idea made him any the wiser.

He had to give them a chance to get on, a real, good chance. Social skills weren't his strongest suit, so he'd have to try hard. Hazel had cheerfully ignored his grumpiness and one word answers, but he couldn't expect everyone to be like that. Andy had sounded friendly, willing to help, and he was a gay man.

Eric decided to spend the evening in the pub. For once, he'd go there for a pint and a hot meal. Such a red letter day demanded a proper celebration.