Never Too Late To Believe - 25. Communications

Enveloped in the warmth of a golden Saturday afternoon, Andy lay back on soft green turf. Beside him on the gently sloping incline, Adam appeared to be dozing, his breathing slow and peaceful. Turning over onto his front, Andy propped himself up on both elbows and once again examined the three ruined, mediaeval stone arches which formed a focal point on the crest of the rise. Ripped out of an about-to-be-demolished church in the mid-eighteenth century, the local landowner made the arches into a folly. He then built himself a new church in the latest Walpolian Gothick fashion.

Andy turned back over and let out a sigh. It was the kind of high-handed thing he imagined Adam's father would do, given half a chance, only to then lack the admittedly stunning artistic results of the new church. Or maybe Oliver would enjoy only the demolishing.

Beside him, Adam stirred and mumbled, “Fuck, I knew I was knackered, but–” He stretched lazily like a cat.

Andy admired the show. It was one of those mid-September days that harked back to August. Bermuda shorts and a short-sleeved polo shirt did little to obscure the play of muscle and sinew on a body he knew so well. He sat up briefly, confirmed a lack of any other visitors, and rolled over towards his fiancé. A playful kiss on the lips followed. Adam initiated another longer, more heated version which left them both breathing audibly when they separated.

Andy hastily looked over his shoulder. Still no other visitors. “We'd better cool it, tiger.”

Adam growled. “Why?”

“Why?” He rolled back and sat up. His eyes grew large. “How about not getting done for indecent behaviour?”

An expression of thwarted desire stared back at him. Then Adam's lips quirked. “I think you'll recall it was your dick that nearly escaped.”

Blushing, he recalled fingers squeezing, stroking, seeking entrance. Instinctively, Andy's hand reached down to the front of his shorts. Nothing amiss, except a pretty obvious hard-on.

Adam sniggered.

His reply was a single raised digit. He frowned. “You know exactly what I mean. It'd hardly go down well with your senior partners if you were charged with offending public decency.”

“True, if boring.” Adam laced his hands under his head. The shirt rode up slightly, giving a view of toned muscle and fair skin.

“Bastard.” Andy's pulse accelerated before he managed to wrestle it back down.

Another snigger followed.

“Change of subject.” He ignored the theatrical sigh. “Any news about your dad?”

“Hnh – I'd call that a mood killer.” Adam too, sat up.

Andy shrugged, though he softened it with a smirk.

His fiancé let out a long breath. “I overheard the tail end of a conversation at work yesterday which suggested he has been charged – though I don't know what with – and he's got an appearance before the magistrates at some point.”

“He's been charged? Fuck me!” Andy beamed.

“Don't go spreading it around, love. It's something I shouldn't have heard. You know I've been keeping my distance.”

“Yeah – fine. But, charged? Wow.”

“I know. Even if it doesn't go any further, mud like that'll stick. Serves the bastard right.” Adam flopped back down, a grimace on his face.

“Yep.”

They fell into a silence broken only a breeze rustling through leaves, their tired green on the verge of turning.

Andy let out a sigh of contentment. A tinge of nervous anticipation in his guts only highlighted the happiness. “Four weeks today.”

Adam's fingers trailed lazily up and down his thigh. Andy embarrassed himself by almost purring.

His would-be seducer snorted. “I love how the little things get you hot.”

“Easy meat, you mean?”

Adam rolled onto his side. The light touches moved inwards. “No – never that. You're always responsive and I know your sweet spots. Fuck, we both know what turns the other on.”

Andy shivered. His shorts felt tight in the crotch again. “Hmm – doesn't mean we know everything necessarily.”

“What–” The wicked chuckle travelled up and down Andy's spine. “Like you're harbouring a secret craving to be a furry?”

“Fuck you!”

Adam snorted. “Anyway, back to your original comment. What's four weeks away?”

He hesitated. “You taking the piss?”

“Nope.” His fiancé relaxed into a sprawl on the grass.

Andy rolled his eyes. “OK. Here's a clue. Your mum and I have spent god alone knows how many hours planning the damn thing.”

The man beside him stiffened. “Shit! Our wedding's in four weeks?”

“Second thoughts?”

Before Andy got any further, he was pulled down and thoroughly kissed. Eventually, they surfaced.

Lips red and slightly swollen, Adam asked, “That answer your question?”

“Pretty much.” Andy smirked. “Though I can be dense sometimes. You may have to repeat some elements.”

A little later, his phone rang. They were brushing off grass and insects before a stroll down to where the Jaguar was parked.

Andy glanced at the screen. “It's Rob Bairstow.” That got a shrug. “See you at the car?”

“Yeah.”

“Shouldn't take long.” He watched Adam stride down the slope for a moment before answering the call.

Andy? It's Rob. D'you have a couple of minutes?

“Yeah, sure. Adam and I are just on our way back from Shobdon.”

Shobdon. Isn't there something about the church?

Briefly, Andy explained the significance.

OK. I'd like a quick chat about something involving Eric. There's a proposal from the county's Children's Services that he meet with the individual who damaged his cottage and garden. It's for what is formally termed a reconciliation. You know about this?

“Yeah.”

Documentation had appeared out of the blue at A Helping Hand the day before. Addressed to Eric, care of himself, Andy wondered whether the various newspaper articles were the reason papers hadn't been sent direct to Eric. Whatever motivated the roundabout mode of delivery, Andy was glad. Eric might've consigned the whole packet to the bin.

“I'm curious how you know about it, Rob. This sort of meeting isn't broadcast beforehand.”

True. It's the reason I'm calling. There was a pause. In my spare time, I act as a volunteer role model or mentor for young people at risk of losing their way. It's a scheme the county council runs. I tend to be partnered with individuals who may be experiencing difficulties with their sexual orientation.

Andy's eyes widened. Now there was a different side to Rob.

My current client is the individual behind the reconciliation proposal.

“Tyler… Johnson?”

Jackson. Tyler has asked me to be his supporter should Eric accept.

“Oh.” Andy ran a hand through his hair while he tried to think it through. “It's probable I'd be Eric's, if he agrees to the meeting.”

I guessed that too.

Another pause followed. He wondered if Rob was nervous.

Eric and I have started to make up the ground lost after the house-warming. Just an email exchange so far.

“OK?”

Yeah. We'll need a couple of face-to-face conversations. Did you know Eric and I are only about fifteen years apart? I can't believe how differently we see things. Especially gay stuff.

“He's working on that.”

Great. And– Rob let out a breath. I need to get off my high horse. Anyway, all this leads to a concern that he'll somehow see me as the enemy in this process.

“That's understandable. … Rob, I can't allow the fact of your presence to influence Eric's initial decision.”

Of course not. It's more, if he does agree, would you then introduce me and the reasons why I'm going to be there? I'd rather not it comes as a surprise later.

“We'll both be named in the documents.”

True, but it might not sink in properly until he sees me in the room.

“Hmm… I'll think about it. I need to talk the whole thing over with Adam.” Andy paced down the slope, thoughts requiring movement. “You'll have to fill me in more on what it is you do. Not now though. Adam's still in love with his shiny new Jag.”

Can't keep him waiting?

Andy laughed. “Yep – got it in one.”

Eric swore under his breath. How did anyone manage to operate a mobile phone? He chose to ignore the fact millions of people seemed to have the damn things welded to their hands. In the spreading evening shadows, he sat at his elderly desk. The new, obstreperous gadget lay on the wooden surface and glowed. He imagined it grinning evilly.

He pushed cheap, off-the-shelf reading glasses down the bridge of his nose. Holding the wretched phone in one hand, he moved it slowly back and forth to find a point at which he could read the screen without squinting. Maybe it was hopeless. A frustrated growl escaped. He shoved the spectacles back into place and tried again, muttering as he did so. Finally, he decided on the least worst spot.

“Glasses on.” He re-checked, just to be sure. “Arm like so.” It was about the same distance that he now had to hold a book or newspaper. Which made sense. “Text's still too damn small.” As soon as he leaned in closer, the letters blurred.

Andy had shown him stuff. So much damn stuff, most of which sailed through his brain without stopping. Eric frowned in concentration. He knew one thing. Narrowing his eyes, he searched the glowing screen for the tiny messaging button.

Selecting his one and only contact, Andy, a ridiculously small virtual keyboard appeared on the screen. While he glowered at it, two stiff, arthritic fingers ventured to pick away at the letters.

Ten minutes or so and a steady stream of bad language later, Eric regarded a short paragraph of gibberish. What should've been a banal list of the day's happenings had taken on the form of a bizarre incantation. Random rogue letters, numerals, and punctuation were littered throughout the text which was further broken up by equally random line breaks.

His expression settled into a scowl. “Hell and damnation! How does everyone else find this so damn easy?” One part of him wanted to just send the wretched text. Andy was welcome to waste his time sifting out the actual message.

The unexpectedly raucous, tinny sound of the phone's ringtone made Eric jump. Shock at its unfamiliarity was swiftly replaced by panic. How was he meant to answer? Experimentally, he held the phone against the side of his face and barked, “Hello?”

The phone's irritating chirping continued. Had Andy shown him what to do? He squinted at the screen. Where his nonsensical text had been a moment ago was replaced by a short series of instructions. Why did they use symbols and pictures when words worked a hell of a lot better?

By the time Eric tried sweeping downwards on the screen with one stiff finger, the noise stopped. He cursed. When he clutched the phone to his ear again, another “Hello?” was met with silence.

After a moment or two, the chirping resumed. With increasing desperation, Eric scrabbled at the phone, stroking, sweeping, doing anything he could think of to get the call to connect. The racket cut off like before. “Bloody thing!” He glared at the phone as if looking at it would cause the wretched gadget to vaporise. “Why did I ever allow Andy to talk me into buying it. Complete waste of–”

A chuckle burst out of the phone. Eric nearly dropped it.

How's your latest encounter with technology going, Eric? And yes, I admit the phone's mostly my fault.

The older man flushed. “It's enough to try the patience of a saint.”

You're doing fine. We're talking. You sent me that Hello text this morning.

Eric recalled a pulsing in his head as he'd struggled to get a single, short sentence looking right. “Rubbish.”

I'm being serious. You've never had a phone like this before. If all you ever do is text and call, that'll be good enough.

“The letters and words look like a spider's crawled across the screen.”

Too small?

“Yes.”

It's easy enough to make them larger by going through Settings.

“What?”

The cog wheels? Don't worry. I'd like to come over for a quick chat before supper. We can sort that out at the same time. Suppose we should talk about the optician again – that dropped off our lists. OK if I come now?

Eric blinked. “Err… yeah, I suppose so.” Now he thought about it, his stomach rumbled. He shrugged. It would just have to wait.

Andy clattered around Eric's kitchen getting tea ready. He knew the cramped space as well as he did his own, much better equipped surroundings. Reaching up for two mugs, he noticed a lack of washing up in the sink.

He frowned and peered round the door. “You not eaten yet, Eric?” Andy recognised the grunt he received in reply as being part acknowledgement, part self-consciousness. He sighed. “Why didn't you tell me to go away?”

“It sounded important and that damned phone made me lose track of time.”

“You need to eat. What have you got in?”

Information garnered, Andy rapidly assembled a plate of Welsh rarebit. The grilled bacon made his own mouth water. He snatched a rasher and munched it while he got everything ready.

“OK.” He watched Eric tear into the toast and grilled cheese and hid a smile. “Once you feel more human, I'll get to the reason I'm here.”

Eric waved his fork in what Andy interpreted as an invitation to continue.

“It's about the vandalism.”

The older man frowned.

“Not the police – I think we both gave up on that a while ago.”

Eric chewed his latest mouthful in such a way that Andy thought he'd otherwise be grinding his teeth. He swallowed. “Useless buggers.”

“Yeah. Anyway, this concerns an individual who's recently admitted to causing the damage.”

“What?” Eric lurched forward in his chair, nearly dislodging his plate. “If they know who the bastard is, why aren't the police doing their job?”

“Your anger's understandable, Eric. However, the local authority has decided to pursue a course other than going through the youth justice system.”

“Why? Why should some hooligan brat escape punishment?”

Andy took a breath. “Eric, if you had an opportunity to speak with this person, what would you want them to say?”

“Sorry.”

He waited.

“And why my cottage was the target. Why me?” Eric's empty plate now lay on the floor, forgotten. “What was the point?”

“OK. What might you want to say to them, given the chance?”

“Me?”

“Yes. This kind of meeting's usually a two-way exchange. Maybe, how did the attack affect you? At the time and later. How much has it cost you?”

A wry smile appeared on Eric's face. “I think I came out the winner on that front.”

Andy grinned. “Very true – that's where your vast fortune originated. I'm sure there are other, less rosy aspects.”

“I'm on edge.” Eric's expression darkened. “Anything I hear in the garden has me looking for trouble. Remember those bloody dogs?”

“Only too well.”

“Planting new stuff is something I keep putting off. I feel less secure in my own home.”

Andy nodded. Pretty much what he expected. “OK. Put yourself in this individual's shoes for a moment. Would you find it easy to listen as your victim – a real person with a name – describes how your actions made them feel? Asks you questions? Looks you in the eye.”

The older man sat back, teeth nibbling at one thumb. He breathed in deeply and gradually let the air out. “No.” There was still an air of uncertainty.

“Eric, most people would agree with your initial reaction. Those who break the law should face the consequences. With someone this young, all that being sentenced is likely to do is set them up for a life of crime. Or dealing in drugs. Or taking drugs and committing more crimes to feed their habit. This kind of mediated encounter delivers a sharp slap in the face for the perpetrator and helps push them towards a more structured, productive future.”

Opposite, one eyebrow went up. Eric's gaze was fixed on nothing in particular. Andy reached behind him for the packet of official documents. He'd done all he could for now to influence the other man's decision.

“Have a read of these. They're the formal proposal for a meeting like the example I described.”

Eric eyed the packet.

“It's your call. You are free to refuse, now or at any time up to and including the meeting itself.”

One old, gnarled hand reached out. “Sounds a laugh a minute.”

“Maybe. Take your time reading everything.” He handed the papers over. “Right, let me have a look at that phone of yours.”

Early Monday afternoon, Eric locked the front door and hurried down the path. The sky was a dull grey. A persistent drizzle trickled down the collar of his ancient waterproof. He sighed. Not the most auspicious time to start his gardening lessons with Emily Standish.

As he opened the gate leading onto the pavement, the yaps of a small dog made him scowl.

“Mr Whitehouse!” The dog's owner scurried down her own path, the Pekinese waddling along behind. She smiled. “It's been so long. I don't seem to have chatted to you in ages.”

And for that, Eric felt gratitude. Deborah Turner meant well. Or, at least, that's how he imagined she'd describe their one-sided encounters. He summoned up a smile. “Can't stop. I've an appointment to keep.”

“Oh, yes?” A pair of over-mascaraed eyes visibly sharpened.

Part of Eric decided to play to the gallery. “Yes, I have a gardening client. Can't keep her waiting. Time's money, you know.”

The eyes widened. “Really? Something new? How interesting. Who's your client?” She simpered. “You can tell me. I'm the soul of discretion.”

Somehow, Eric doubted that. It would be no skin off his nose to say though. Doing so might make up for the numerous times he'd stood listening to her tales of holidays, cruises, and who knew what. He nodded towards the three-storey, redbrick Georgian house on the other side of the road. “There. With Mrs Standish.”

Deborah Turner's look of astonishment was almost comical and at the same time, deeply satisfying. “You know the family there? I haven't made it any farther than the gate. I'd love to see inside.” She eyed Eric. “Part of me expected an invitation to the house-warming they held a few weeks ago. That would've been neighbourly, I think. It looked to be a very classy affair.”

Eric made a noise of agreement. “It was. Excellent buffet and I got to see the garden.” Pity about everything else, he continued to himself. He reinstated the smile, ignoring his neighbour's look of open envy. “You'll have to excuse me, Mrs Turner. I'm already a little late.”

With that, he crossed the road as briskly as the damp allowed.

Emily Standish showed Eric into the kitchen. The drizzle, thick and drenching as any downpour, gave no signs of stopping. “Tea? Or there's local apple juice.”

Apple juice stirred up memories of the damned house-warming. “Tea, thanks.” Eric shifted in his seat. “I don't want to take up your time if–”

“Eric, I rather think it's the other way round.” Emily smiled. “Nigel pointed out that if I'm to pursue gardening, I need to have proper equipment. The bad weather makes this a good time to write a shopping list.”

He nodded. It certainly beat being stuck out in the garden. In his mind, he assembled the likely tools.

Emily set down a mug. “OK. Let's hear it.” She sat with a laptop to one side.

He eyed the machine. “Unless you want to pay for cheap stuff or rubbish endorsed by telly gardeners, you'll do better to try out things or at least, handle them before you pay.”

His student gave the computer a guilty look and closed the lid. “It's so easy to shop online, one forgets some the reasons physical shops matter.”

Eric resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “Top of my list is gloves. Proper, thorn-proof gloves that fit comfortably.”

The woman smiled. “I recall you saying pretty much the same thing when we first met.”

His eyebrows rose. “So you already have gloves?”

A self-deprecating chuckle from across the table followed. It quieted some of Eric's nerves.

“No. It's been manic the past couple of months. My brain can only cope with so much.” She pulled a scruffy pad of paper closer. “What else?”

They slowly made their way down Eric's list, starting with trowels and hand forks, then progressing through to long-handled pruners and shears.

“What kind of budget d'you think I should allocate?”

Eric shrugged. “I have no idea. My last tools came courtesy of Andy's cast-offs.”

“Hmm… that young man has his uses. In fact, I wonder if he could advise on garden furniture?”

Eric ceased to listen. His heart thumped and a video played in his mind. One August afternoon when he visited Andy in his garden for lunch and noted how the metal table looked scratched and worse for wear. He'd decided then and there on the wedding present. Had he done anything about it? No. Sweat prickled his skin. Why hadn't he? How long was it until the wedding?

He was mentally counting off the days when Emily interrupted, clearing her throat. “Eric – you OK?”

A flush of warmth added to the sweat. “Sorry.” He decided honesty was best. “You mentioning garden furniture reminded me I haven't done anything about a wedding present for Andy and Adam.”

“Ah. The wedding's soon, isn't it?”

Eric gulped. “Less than a month.”

“Have they set up a wedding present list?”

“A what?”

She cocked her head to one side. “Somehow, I suspect any list of theirs would be quirky and definitely not your usual crockery, kitchen appliances, bedding, and so on.”

Eric blinked, not sure what was happening.

“So your thought is to maybe buy them a new patio table?”

“Ehm… yeah. I hoped to ask someone I know to make one.”

“Really? Wow – a unique piece? That would make a fantastic present.” Emily hesitated. “Have you enquired about prices?”

His heart lurched. No, he hadn't. It was hardly a get it from the B&Q online sale kind of situation.

Something must've shown on his face. Emily leaned forward. “Eric, we don't know either groom well enough to buy them a present on our own, but we'd happily contribute to yours.”

He chewed this over. It would be better to get the lads something really special. Maybe Rob would knock a few quid off the price?

“One other thing, Eric. Have you asked Andy whether that's what they would like?”

Shock at his own idiocy made his mouth hang open. There he was, making all kinds of grand plans, without any idea whether the extravagance would be appreciated. “Err.”

A warm, gentle hand touched his. “It's a wonderful idea. It will be doubly so if you're sure it's something they will cherish.”

Cherish. The word soothed Eric's heart. The thought he might give his two lads something that important was scarcely believable. “Err… I'll need to get on to it today.”

With a squeeze, Emily withdrew her hand. “Let's leave it there. Hopefully, the weather will cooperate next time.”

“Thanks.” Eric scraped back his seat, thoughts running on the phone call to Rob. “See you soon.”

“You will.”

Rob slouched on the sofa, beer in one hand and something instantly forgettable on the TV. It had been a tiring day. His mobile rang. Picking it up, he didn't recognise the number. That wasn't unusual, though business calls weren't a common feature of Monday evenings.

“Rob Bairstow.” He had to intercept a yawn. “How can I help?”

It's Eric. Eric Whitehouse.

He frowned. “Hi, Eric. You borrowed someone's phone?”

No. A pause. Andy forced me to buy one. Damn thing's nearly driven me mad.

Rob cackled. “Dragged kicking and screaming into the twenty-first century. Good for you, Eric. Seriously, that's great news. It'll get better. Easier. Promise.”

It'd better do.

“I'll add you to my contacts. Wow – didn't think I'd be saying that any time soon. Anyway, is this a test call?”

No – I need to talk about a wedding present for Andy and Adam.

“OK. Something from my existing designs – they're reasonably quick to do – or a commission?”

Not sure yet. I've got to speak to Andy first.

“OK – how about we meet when you've got a better idea? Can't leave it too long. A commission can take time – finalising the design, sourcing the wood.”

Friday?

“Fine. How about you come here again? I'll feed you lunch and we can chat.”

Great. Another pause. If I can get this bloody thing to behave, I'll send you a text on the day.

Rob grinned to himself. “Look forward to it.”