Never Too Late To Believe - 22. Changes

Within the confines of Eric's galley kitchen, Andy shook out empty shopping bags and placed them on top of the elderly fridge. He knew from habit that was where Eric expected to find them. The older man had retreated to the living room, that week's local paper his excuse. Andy peered round the door to see him staring into space, newspaper forgotten in his lap.

Their trip to the supermarket had gone smoothly enough, with each assuming their habitual role. Andy smiled to himself. The other man appeared not to have noticed the absence of Andy's grocery list, his supposed reason for the outing. He and Adam did need a few things. They'd be easy enough to pick up on his way back.

As might be expected, turbulence still clouded his relations with Eric. In turn, Andy gazed out of the kitchen window, watching rain which had materialised out of nowhere splattering against the panes. Anyone observing them on that shopping trip wouldn't have noticed anything of significance in comparison to any other. Yet it was all on the surface – a carapace of normality.

Despite himself, Andy had kept up a flow of social chitchat. Sport, weather, current roadworks, recent TV shows – the kind of topics he employed when meeting new garden clients who came across as shy or taciturn. Eric's silence had persisted except when Andy's football enthusiasm became irritatingly intense. Then, one of the older man's wry comments made them both smile briefly.

Turning away from the window, Andy let out a long breath into the silence. Of course, their relationship still endured, partially concealed under layers of hurt and misunderstanding. More clearing-the-air needed. “Not today though.” That morning's encounter had been quite enough.

Eric stirred in the other room. He looked round. “Sorry?”

Andy gave himself a kick. “Everything's put away. Your cupboards are unusually full.”

“Thanks.” This was accompanied by a small smile, not the snark his comment deserved.

Another uncomfortable silence hung in the air.

Rifling through his brain for a topic, any topic, Andy grabbed hold of one which held promise. It was different, at least. “You've never talked me through your plans for the bathroom. Is everything ordered?”

Eric snorted. “I managed to spend more money in one transaction than I've ever done before.” He shook his head. “It felt wrong.”

“That's because you don't accept that donated money is yours to spend.”

“Well, yes.” A ghost of one of Eric's trademark looks passed over his expression. “And maybe some of us have never had the cash to waste on decorating and such.”

Andy moved into the living room. “Making a room more habitable is never a waste.” He rolled his eyes. “And yes, we are considering redoing the living room.” He hurried on to forestall any reaction. “Though Adam wants an electric charging point for his new toy. I suspect that'll have to come first.”

“Not both?”

“In succession, yes. Simultaneously, no.” A smile played on his lips. “Even we have limits on our current account, you know. God, we only managed to get our house because it needed so much work doing. For the first two or three years, every spare penny we had went towards rewiring, plastering, decorating – anything and everything.”

“I'm trying to imagine you and Adam spending each weekend doing your house up.” A little more of Eric's dry humour was evident.

“You have to be joking!” Andy spluttered. “Neither of us knows one end of a paintbrush from the other. We're quite content to provide employment for others.”

“Hmm.” Eric levered himself out of the chair, dislodging his walking stick from its arm as he did so.

Andy swiftly retrieved the stick and laid it flat on the desk. He wondered how much his friend's resumed reliance on it was physically necessary. Any limp or general unsteadiness struck him as being more psychosomatic in nature. The stick was an emotional support, in a way.

The older man looked around the room. “The wretched catalogue's somewhere. I was only looking at it the other day.”

“There?” Andy pointed towards the decidedly bulky TV on its scuffed stand. To one side lay a dog-eared publication.

Eric frowned. “Why the heck I left it there, I don't know. The joys of growing old.”

“It doesn't matter. Let's go and have a look upstairs.”

The first thing Andy noticed when they entered the bathroom was a heap of clothing abandoned down by the far side of the sink. Even in the faded yellowish light from the strip above the mirror, he noted a blue checked pattern on top and winced. Nothing said more about Eric's thoughts concerning the previous Friday. He imagined his friend getting home from the party and stripping off immediately as though doing so would make the night's happenings vanish like waking up from a bad dream. Only Eric's innate frugality had probably prevented him from throwing the clothes into the bin.

Eric's gaze followed his. A faint flush reddened his face.

Andy pointed. “Does the jacket need dry cleaning?”

“No.”

“If you change your mind, Adam can get it done for you in Hereford.”

“It's fine.” The tone suggested anything but.

“OK.” For some reason, Andy was reluctant to let the subject drop. “The jacket'd do better on a hanger. Trousers as well. Especially if you're not going to wear them again until the wedding.”

Eric had turned away towards the bath. His muttered reply was inaudible.

“Sorry?”

The slightly-bowed back facing Andy stiffened.

A few moments later, Eric slowly wheeled back round. Jaw tight, he looked anywhere other than directly at him. “I said, what's the point?”

Andy's mouth opened. “Excuse me?” He tried to control his astonishment. “You think that because we… we–” His mouth worked but no more words came out. He changed tack. “Eric, Adam and I would be devastated if you didn't come to our wedding.”

A grimace of doubt mixed with hurt was his only reply. Eric now stared at his feet.

How had the fallout from one short evening come to this? Andy blinked furiously. “Eric–” He searched frantically for words. “You're our friend. We care about you. Love you.” One hand ran through his hair. “Whatever you believe happened last Friday, it has no effect–” Andy's voice cracked slightly. “No effect whatsoever on our feelings for you. I repeat, you're our friend. A very dear friend.”

Eric's eyes flicked up to his briefly before looking away. Andy thought he glimpsed a sheen of tears. He gulped. His own emotions were running high. The shock, disbelief, and yes, hurt.

Of course, he knew the other man was shy and unused to social gatherings. What he hadn't appreciated was the depth of Eric's insecurity. Neither he, or Adam, or Rob really understood that. One isolated corner of Andy's mind made a note to tell Rob before he met with Eric again.

“Eric?” His own eyes stung. He used a long breath to release the knot of tension in his guts. With anyone else, hugs and kisses would have reinforced his message of continuing friendship. Eric was a reluctant hugger at the best of times. Andy guessed then was not the time for experimentation.

The older man met his gaze, eyes questioning, unsure, before giving the smallest of nods and a dismissive shrug.

Andy stared. Was that it? An answer that cancelled itself out? He immediately slapped himself down. What did he expect? Eric wasn't a man for gestures or outpourings of emotion. As with most things, he would need time to process.

With another long breath, Andy attempted to find an equilibrium which would allow them to continue as though they'd only just entered the bathroom. “OK.”

The atmosphere between them hung heavy with unanswered appeals. Eric stood frozen, dog-eared catalogue under one arm, deep within himself.

Andy ran a hand through his hair. One of them had to get a grip. Pushing any harder on the question of their friendship would most likely be counterproductive. And after he'd resolved not to engage Eric on difficult subjects until another day. The clothes though – they overrode any such resolution. Andy plastered a small smile onto his expression. “OK,” he repeated. “Let's see what you've got planned, Eric. A good news story in the making?”

Eric jerked to. “Ehm… yeah. Err.” He looked around the bathroom, eyes never settling, seemingly at a loss.

“How about you start with the bath itself? That's what you focussed on, wasn't it?”

“Oh, yeah,” Eric fumbled through the catalogue. “Here.” He passed it over. “I'm going for a powered bath seat to help get me in and out. The white one.”

Andy quickly read through the blurb. “Sounds great. Does the job without any major work. Though the seat's self-assembly. Did you realise that?”

Another shrug comprised his reply. Eric appeared determined to employ an entire year's supply of shrugs in one day.

“It's not a problem.” Andy's smile brightened. “When it arrives, call me. Then we can fail to understand the instructions together.”

He watched an eyebrow arch. Eric's demeanour lost some of its hurt. “Trust me to know not one, but two young men who don't get their hands dirty.”

“That's us – at least when it comes to DIY. You and me though? We'll rock.”

The eyebrow remained where it was. “Will we.”

Andy stifled a snigger. “What else was on your list?”

“A shower to fit over the bath.”

“Oh, yeah?” That was new. Eric always dismissed showers as a waste of time.

The older man shuffled. “Don't like the things, but they're an alternative if I want a quick wash down.”

They came together over the catalogue and continued to chat, warily and with care, until Eric reached the end of his intended renovations.

Relief lightened Andy's spirits. They'd made it through without any further silences, barbs, or misunderstandings. Turning on his way out, he spotted Eric loitering. “See you downstairs.” Andy made to close the door after him, assuming Eric needed the loo. Just before losing sight of the sink, he noted a bent-over form, one hand using the sink as a support.

Eric picking up the clothes? He hoped so.

On Wednesday morning, Rob strolled through the Plantation Garden, a late Victorian, reclaimed quarry not far from the centre of Norwich. Warm September sunshine vied with a brisk easterly breeze. He shivered slightly, wishing he'd brought a light jacket or something to put over his tee.

Rob rolled his eyes. “Jeez – you'll be buying thermal vests next.”

Lengthening his stride, he headed along a path towards the Victorian Gothic extravaganza of a fountain at the end.

Passing manicured lawn and flowerbeds, he found himself thinking of Eric. He was perfectly content to find any unknown plants pretty or otherwise. Eric would be quite different. Rob imagined the smaller man stooping, appraising, casting a long-practised eye over the displays. It was far from the first time that week he'd spent time thinking about people left behind in Herefordshire. One aspect of being away from his normal routine. Rob clicked his tongue. Free time allowed for reflection. Maybe too much. Later, he would investigate Norwich's gay scene. Drink some beers. Hopefully have a great time.

He stopped to inspect the fountain, marvelling at how much money some people were content to throw at their pet projects. That, and a wall providing the backdrop to a switchback path up to the the top of the quarry must've cost its creator a small fortune. He looked beyond the fountain and shook his head. How many people had been needed to do the job? The wall was painstakingly constructed from fancy bricks and made to look like a series of Italianate ruins.

“Different.” Rob blew out a breath. The most he'd ever earned from one job had been a few thousand quid for a ridiculously ornate pergola.

His phone rang. He purposefully stopped in a patch of sunshine to answer it.

Hi, Rob. It's Andy Harper. This a good time?

Rob smiled. “Andy! I was just thinking of you and Eric.”

Oh, yeah?

“Yeah. It's gloriously sunny here in Norwich so I'm at a small park-cum-garden set in a disused quarry. Some Victorian gent made it his project. Spent god knows how much on it.”

Wow. For me, that would be the commission of a lifetime.

“So I thought. And I could do with access to Eric's gardening brain. Haven't a clue what most of these plants are.”

He heard a soft chuckle. Don't do too badly on plant identification myself, you know. Aren't there any tags?

“Tags?”

Most public collections or displays name plants. The tags are usually at ground level. Occasionally, they're hung off tree branches.

“Oh. OK.” Rob squinted against a stream of golden light that evaded his sunglasses. He shrugged.

Anyway. Eric's the reason I'm phoning.

“Ah.” He sought out a nearby bench. “Let's hear it.”

Eric and I have had a couple of– A pause. Chats – unusually frank chats – concerning the fallout from the Standish's party. I'm not gonna include details cos Eric doesn't know I'm talking to you.

“OK. So what can you give me?”

Silence followed as Andy presumably ordered his thoughts. Rob leant back, one arm draped along the top of the seat. Idly, he regarded his legs. Tanned and deceptively hairless up to where knees met denim cut-offs, they too were stretched out in a display of shameless manspreading. A smirk grew. Who gave a fuck? It wasn't as if people were queueing to sit on that particular bench. The sunshine was too gorgeous to waste.

He stifled a yawn.

Sorry. Andy's voice broke into his incipient doze. I've so many thoughts going round in my head, it's difficult to get them into any order.

“It's OK. I'm now sunning myself on a bench. We're cool 'til lunchtime.”

Lucky you – it's wet here. A sigh. The main thing to get across about Eric is his insecurity. While we might dismiss the majority of what happened that evening as bad luck or one of the occasional kinks that can affect friendships, Eric can't. Those clothes you persuaded him to buy? He looked great in them, didn't he?

“Yeah. Though–” A spasm of guilt tightened his guts. “Don't think I said so at the party.” Rob frowned.

Hmm… that's kinda what I'm getting at. Might've another friend have demanded a compliment?

Immediately, Rob thought of Zaf, dressed in one of his sheer, shimmering outfits. “Fuck, yeah. And then some.”

A short chuckle. Yeah, I'd be like that too. Eric doesn't feel secure enough in himself or in his relationships to do that though. Or anything like it. In his mind, the fact that evening tanked has evolved into a certainty we'd refuse to have him at our wedding.

“What?” He jolted upright, all posing forgotten. “How the fuck–”

It's not complicated. Eric's had few relationships of any sort during the course of his life. I think he believes friendships have to remain uniformly positive. At any hint of disruption, stress, or negative vibes, he–

“Expects the connection to fracture or break.” Rob nodded to himself. “Yeah – get it.”

Yep. He doesn't seem to grasp the idea that disagreements and expressions of annoyance, anger even, can be healthy for a friendship.

“Have you discussed that?”

We've touched on it. Anyway, it's something to have in mind when you next speak to Eric.

It was. Rob stared vacantly at a patch of grass, mulling over the implications.

Rob?

“Sorry. Yeah, you're right. Are things OK between you now?”

Improving. Slowly.

“Good. Thanks for reaching out, Andy. Appreciate it a lot.”

Yeah. Have a great time, Rob. See you soon maybe.

“You bet. Bye.”

Rob stepped into Logans Sandwich Bar in the centre of Norwich and was immediately confronted by too much choice. He seldom ate lunch out, preferring to either take his own or get back home. Cheaper and there was less temptation to put on the pounds. He stood inside the entrance, trying to take in several boards covered in menu choices.

Someone pushed past. Rob's instinctive half-apology was met by a brusque, “Don't stand in the way.” Several other people followed the first man, all of them glossy, well-put-together, smug retirees of the sort Rob disliked on principle. They too made sure to brush some part of him on their way in.

He glowered at their backs before writing the whole thing off and returning to the altogether more important question of his lunch. Deciding to eat in, he realised there were menus on each table. OK, so he didn't need to clutter up the takeaway part of the shop but that hardly excused the guy's comment.

Rob sat down, scanning options for a build-your-own salad. He liked the cafe's clean, modern simplicity and the apparently cheerful, efficient staff. Mr Obnoxious was already clicking his fingers in the air and generally making an idiot of himself. Rob hoped the staff would let him stew.

For his own interest and possibly, amusement, he analysed the earlier instinctive loathing. For an amateur counsellor, unpaid social worker, or however he saw himself, it wasn't the best practice to condemn someone on sight. A rush to judgement before he'd gleaned any facts. Echoes of Eric Whitehouse and that damned party slid into his thoughts. Another instance, when maybe he'd let cider – or its aftermath – cloud his response.

Noise from the other table increased. Loud, overlapping statements of white, hetero-normative privilege which made Rob roll his eyes. Who would be next after their current target of foodbanks and their clientele? Probably queers. Or immigrants. Or how their offspring found it impossible to get the right childcare or gardener. He tried to block it all out.

Why had the possibility of Eric's disapproval cut so deep? Rob flushed as he recalled the sudden bubbling mass of anger in his guts, threatening to erupt at his hosts' breakfast table. Eric wasn't an opinionated bigot with no concern for anyone else who wasn't like him. And yet, as gay men, they'd led two entirely separate lives.

Once Rob had nailed down his own sexual identity and secured his freedom, he'd taken every opportunity to expand his knowledge of the gay universe. In theory and practice. His adopted family's struggles became his, though he was far from a natural activist, anti-Section 28 demos apart. He took pride in being an out gay man. Another aspect to that pride was a defensiveness which came from the knowledge that parts of society still regarded his rights, his identity, as something which might be rescinded on a whim. He was hardly the only queer individual to harbour that constant, barely perceptible edge of threat.

“Are you ready to order?”

Rob blinked. “Err.” A younger guy, mid-thirties maybe with a head of brown curls, stood next to the table, pen and pad at the ready. “Yeah.” He refreshed his memory, then went methodically through the options, giving his order for the salad. “And a large Americano, thanks.”

The guy regarded the sheet on his pad, getting ready to repeat back the order when a flare-up from the other table made them both look round.

“Make the most of the peace,” Mr Obnoxious was proclaiming. “Soon the whole damn place'll be swarming with students.”

Out of a loud chorus of assent came a woman's comment. “Where are the police when you need them? Drugs, drink, sex, parties – only an idiot would think they're here to learn.”

“Learn? The only thing they learn is wokeness. Women's rights, queer rights, Black rights. God, it makes you sick. What about our rights?” Mr Obnoxious raised an arm and clicked his fingers again. He pointed to an empty water carafe.

Rob exchanged a glance with his server. They both grimaced before Rob was left alone again.

The coffee appeared with commendable swiftness. Rob noted a rainbow braid on one of the server's wrists. He took a chance. “I'm here on holiday. The Castle's been recommended as a good pub. Is that right? I'm looking for somewhere to go this evening.”

The guy pushed curls behind one ear. A smile made him look younger. “Yeah – it is. Friendly, good beer.” He eyed Rob. “I'm usually in with a couple of mates one or two nights a week.”

Rob smiled back. “Might see you there then.”

“Yeah. You might. Name's Will.”

“Rob.”

They exchanged another smile before Will left to collect the ordered salad. Rob's spirits lightened. The possibility of a pleasant evening ahead beckoned.

At the end of the week, Eric stood just inside his front door, summoning up the energy to go shopping. He felt hollowed out in a way he'd never experienced before. From watching TV, he knew emotional turmoil fuelled the actions of some soap characters, usually the ones he despised. Now it seemed he'd become one of those characters.

After Monday's bruising encounter with Andy, he'd spent the rest of the week alone. Not going into town, refusing any distractions, he instead retreated inside himself. Whoever said the past was a different country was spot on. Great sections of the map were blank though. Eric frowned. How did people manage to write memoirs which included detailed descriptions of their youth? His was largely a fog of nothingness, punctuated by odd incidents at home or school, none of them good.

It was probably a reflection of the featureless tedium that constituted his life. And a desire to forget, or not to remember. The frown deepened. That description fitted most of his adult life as well.

With a sigh, Eric opened the door to see an unknown van parked at the bottom of his path. He stared. His puzzlement only increased when Andy's well-known form ducked out of the driver's seat and bounded up the path.

“Morning, Eric!”

He waited, unsure.

“Fancy a trip out?” Andy, beaming, was dressed in an ancient pair of jeans, work boots, and a battered tee.

Startled, Eric held up his empty shopping bag. “Need some food.”

“That can wait 'til later. Come on.” Andy held out one arm in invitation. “We'll eat lunch when we arrive. I'll pay.”

The first smile in ages stretched his lips. “Not somewhere posh, I assume?”

“What?” A bemused expression flitted across Andy's face. He looked down. “Oh – yeah. Well, if I'm gonna be moving stuff, that's all I need.”

Now it was Eric's turn to lose the plot. “Moving stuff?”

They stared at each other.

“Sent you a text earlier. Sure I did.” Andy froze. His eyes widened. “Fuck me, I'm an idiot. Jeez – I've spent the entire morning chasing my tail. Trying to get our part of Felicity's move sorted.”

“Don't know who received your whatever it was, but it certainly wasn't me.”

Andy shook his head. “Of course it wasn't. You don't have a phone. I'm a complete dickhead.” He fished his phone out of a trouser pocket. “Didn't even send the bloody thing.” Both hands signalled disbelief. “There it is. Dear god.”

Eric bit his lip. He'd missed this. He'd missed Andy. It had been less than a week and his life already felt empty again. “So what's this trip?”

“Err… Felicity – that's Adam's mum – needs to get herself moved into a new flat. I offered to do a run for her. It's in Ross-on-Wye. Thought maybe you'd like the chance to explore for an afternoon.”

It said a lot about his life when a trip of less than twenty miles was billed as an expedition. Eric swallowed a sigh. Was it any surprise he came across as gauche? Unsophisticated in so many areas. He pulled himself together. “That's nearly Wales.”

“It is. And I'm going via the M50 for speed.”

Eric peered at the van.

“It's fine. There's not a huge amount of stuff.” Andy turned to go. “Oh, and Ross has some good shops. And cafes.”

“OK – you've sold it.” He couldn't keep the smile out of his voice.

“Knew I would.”

Later, Andy stood in the bright, airy living space of a one bedroom flat. He turned to Felicity, flaked out on the sofa, her face tired but also alive with happiness. “Welcome to your new home.”

“For now, at least. Thanks for everything, Andy.”

He shrugged. “I'm glad our few things helped. Adam would've been here as well–”

“Only he didn't want to draw attention.” More of a grimace briefly replaced the smile.

“Yeah. Have you had any news?”

“About Oliver?” She stretched. “Well, the restraining order's in force and a guy installed the panic button yesterday.” Her mouth twisted. “Meanwhile, work's going on to disentangle my financial affairs from his.”

“That should hurt.” He knew from Adam, his mother's money had been keeping the estate afloat.

“Yes. Eventually.”

Andy shrugged in sympathy. “And the court case?”

“I'm not involved. I hear on the grapevine pressure's been applied to the police.”

“To?”

“Do anything.”

He gaped. “It couldn't be any fucking clearer.”

Felicity sighed. “Don't forget Adam's father still has influential friends, applying similar pressure.”

“Bastards!”

Adam kept himself scrupulously clear from whatever strategies his law firm was employing. Neither of them knew anything about the case apart from what appeared publicly.

“Andy, don't worry.” She leant forward. “Mud sticks. Sometimes that's bad; other times, not so much. Even if it doesn't come to court, Oliver's done himself no favours.”

One of his infrequent growls escaped. “I fucking hope the case does get prosecuted.”

“We'll see, darling.” Felicity stood. “Thanks for coming, Andy.” She moved to give him a kiss on the cheek. “You'd better go and rescue your friend.”

“Eric'll be OK. He was planning to have a look round Ross. We've agreed to meet at some memorial garden that looks out over the River Wye.” Andy pursed his lips. “We need to continue a talk from earlier in the week.”

Felicity tilted her head. “A year ago, I would've said that was a likely recipe for disaster. Now?” A fond smile blossomed. “I believe you'll work out whatever the problem is.”

“Yeah. I think so.” Andy blushed. “Eric's changed me in so many ways.”

“And the other way around.” Felicity shooed him towards the door. “Go on, before he thinks you've abandoned him.”

“See you soon.”

“Love to Adam. Bye, Andy.”

Striding up the hill – a mound really – Andy spotted Eric leaning on the railings of the garden, gazing out at the vista. He joined the older man. “Great view.”

“So many shades of green and brown. Infinite, almost.” Eric squinted against the sun. “Can we see into Wales from here?”

Andy shrugged. “Imagine so. The border's pretty close. This golden light makes the countryside look gorgeous. Magical.”

His companion smiled. “That's one thing I used to love about walking round estates on my own. Colours far beyond anything I could hope to produce.”

“Done any painting recently?” Andy thought he knew the answer.

A sigh followed. “No. Not been in the mood.”

He waited, looking down into the depths of the river.

Eric shifted and cleared his throat. “I've missed you,” he muttered.

At first, Andy thought he'd misheard. “What? You missed me?” He turned to face the other man who was resolutely staring into the distance. “Eric, you know I'm only ever a phone call away. It's been a busy week for me.”

“It's not that. It's more–” The older man shifted again, unease painfully on view. “I didn't know whether you'd… you'd–” He swallowed. “Want a call from me now.”

Andy's heart lurched. Here they were, back at the start of the week, talking like two strangers. “Eric. You're my friend, Adam's friend. Our dear friend.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Hell, you're part of our family now. A much loved member. And you're still my client.” A smirk appeared. “Can't get rid of me that easily.”

Eric examined the railings in front of him, biting his lip. Andy spared a quick glance around the park. There was a merciful lack of schoolchildren and any office workers had yet to be released. Now was the time for action.

He took a couple of paces forward, arms open in invitation, supplication almost. Eric watched his approach. After several seconds hesitation, indecision clear on the other man's face, Andy wondered whether he'd chosen wrongly. Then, with a choked sob, Eric stumbled the short distance into the comforting safety of his embrace.

Andy held him tight, head bent, murmuring nothings into his friend's ear. At first, Eric only allowed himself to be held. Later, Andy felt an answering pair of hands at the small of his back, tentative at first. “That's better,” he whispered. “You're safe with us, Eric, whatever happens.”

In the park, something moved at the edge of his vision. Gently, he kissed Eric's head and disengaged. The other man sniffed and brushed fiercely at his eyes. Andy smiled. So typically Eric.

“Let's go home, shall we?” He got a nod and watery smile in return. “It'll be easier to talk with a mug of tea and cake.”

“Cake, you say?”

Andy sniggered. “Yes. Cake.”