Crossing the line - 10. Mother

Mother had been hinting for ages that she’d like to meet Dan properly and that we should come for the weekend. She had met him over lunch on one of her trips to town and the results had been polite, if nerve-wracking.

My having a regular boyfriend at all was novelty enough; Mother had been barely exposed to my more active sexual escapades, and what young men there had been in the relatively brief role of boyfriend had been kept well away from her. She had met one, by accident; a rather charming German called Michael who despite being truly unreliable when it came to relationships and with rather too much of a roving eye for comfort, proved to have impeccable manners and seemed to charm her. So much so, that he had popped up occasionally in her queries, ‘Have you seen much of Michael recently?’ But I shied away from this sort of discussion.

She had met my friends, like Peter, Ron, Martin and Bart, and Martin was a real favourite, he knew how to charm. She knew we liked guys and was comfortable with it, if a bit old-fashioned in her attitudes, but Mother and I had never developed a language for chatting about my love life. And my appearing at her house with a boyfriend was entirely another matter.

I had grown up in East Anglia, Father had had a series of jobs at academic institutions across the region, ending up with a quietly distinguished post in Cambridge itself. We had never lived in Cambridge, and home had been a series of handsome neo-Georgian houses in various villages and towns, latterly in what is now prime commuter territory. Mother and Father’s taste in houses ran to the 20th century, neither wanted the bother and fuss of an old house, and both remained oblivious to the visual infelicities of our various homes, it was their practicality that counted.

Before marriage, Mother had worked as a secretary for a solicitor. I am pretty sure if she had wanted it, she could have had a fine legal career. But family came first, and life was devoted to me and my brother, Titus. His death from meningitis at the age of seven led to her return to work. Father managing to use as a lever the genuine financial necessity arising from the desire to move out of a house that reminded them both of Titus. So, she’d gone back to managing solicitors, as Father was wont to dryly put it.

Since Father’s death she’d branched out into teaching at adult education classes, and only now, at the ripe old age of 70, was she seeming to slow down. Though her involvement in such village activities as the gardening club and allotment association hardly suggested winding down.

She still drove; a battered little Fiat that she insisted would ‘see her out’. And it was waiting for us in at the station when we arrived. Mother wasn’t in the official car park; her view was that she was not paying those ridiculous prices. Instead, she was a short walk down the road. It was a bit of a squeeze, Dan sat in the front, canting his legs sideways in an attempt to make more room, and I crammed myself into the back, evoking numerous memories of car journeys with Mother and Father, with the younger me leaning forward so as not to miss a word of whatever the conversation was about. My parents had a habit of discussing, perhaps dissecting, the people we had just seen or were about to visit. Whether relatives, friends, or a seaside landlady, there would be discussion. Most of it fit for my ears, some of it designed to be informative, educational even – ‘your cousin Nigel might be entertaining, but he is unreliable, he might promise something but rarely does what he says he will do’.

But sometimes the conversation veered into sheer gossip, and that was the best – ‘Didn’t her daughter have a child out of wedlock?’, ‘No that was Martha’s daughter, Emmie’s simply had far too many boyfriends for comfort’.

Father died when I was 25, late enough for my sexuality to be apparent and out in the open. My parents were never less than supportive, old-fashioned admittedly but willing to learn. But I would love to know what their dissections of me were, or perhaps it is as well that I do not know.

Mother and I kept the conversation going during the car journey. Dan, I could tell, was accustoming himself to my Mother’s driving style. A relatively nervous passenger, she had been prone to correcting my Father’s perceived errors in driving and encouraging him to slow down. When driving her own car, she was in complete contrast, a fast and furious driver. Disciplined, yes, with a firm grasp of road principles, but she didn’t suffer fools gladly and it took strangers time to relax in her car (if they ever did). Dan had the added disadvantage of all those hours of advance driving courses that he’d done in the police.

Our conversation covered an exhibition she’d been to in Cambridge, at the Fitz. “I went to see that exhibition you wrote about”, leaving me to work out which one, from her comments.

An early adopter of technological innovations at work, Mother had happily taken to computers, found herself a ‘nice young man’ who came round to fix things, do upgrades and such. She assiduously followed me online so our conversations often related to things I’d written about, and if exhibitions travelled to Cambridge, she would go whether they be abstract art - ‘I couldn’t make head nor tale of it, but it was interesting in a way’ – or male nude photography – ‘very educational, I’m not sure I’ve seen quite so many men’s naked bits in one place before. Rather clinical though, not very sexy, were they?’ – or the most recent, a contemporary Indian painter whose technique was based on that of the old Mughal painters but whose subject matter was modern – ‘the way he painted, it was lovely, all that detail. Don’t ask me what they meant, but I’d willingly have one on my wall.’ And when I told her what the pieces went for, we continued the discussion talking about the ethics of art pricing.

We finished chatting, or rather came to an abrupt halt when we arrived at the house. Bought ten years ago, in the wake of general reassessment of what she wanted to do following Father’s death, it was a 1930s house. Something of an anomaly in a village renowned for its picturesque Suffolk style, village green and period houses. But Mother was interested in convenience, and simplicity of maintenance. The interior had been fully modernised by the previous owners. It suited her down to the ground, she could flick her duster round in a trice. I hated it, but as she was wont to tell me, it was her house not mine, and I rarely came to stay for long. And, after all, I could sell it when she died.

Normally, arrival would involve tea and cake, but it was a bit late for that. The kitchen was almost the biggest room in the house, ironic as Mother had little interest in cooking. The kitchen units fitted by the previous owners were sleek and rather featureless, but the walls were now bright yellow with stray food themed pictures that Mother had picked up, a mix of prints and a couple of small oils by friends. Homely stuff, but characterful, and combined with bright curtains and pot plants, it remained a friendly, welcoming room. I knew that tonight’s dinner was something that Mother had bought and frozen. A young Italian woman that Mother’s friend Edna knew made dishes and sold them for pin money. It smelled good, at least and the oven’s warmth spread around the room.

As I busied with drinks – ‘I’ll let you do the honours dear. I’ll have a sherry and I got gin in specially’. So, taking the hint I made two G&Ts, a stronger one for me and a weaker one for Dan who wasn’t so keen on gin but as the drink had been bought specially!

Then we went on the tour. The sitting room was comfortable but unlovely, Mother’s taste in curtains and upholstery being too chintzy for my taste. Sitting on the sofa, with its neo-William-Morris loose covers (practical and attractive, in Mother’s eyes) was her latest project which had to be admired, a sweater she was knitting for herself. Mother was virtually the only person I knew that knitted, it was something our grannies had done, but she kept assuring me it was becoming fashionable again. She received a craft newsletter by email and devoured it regularly, and now seemed to follow all sorts of craftspeople on Instagram. Dan’s response to the knitting was polite, and that’s all; handicrafts didn’t enter his make-up or background.

But when we moved to the hall, his attention pricked up. Here was displayed Mother’s rogues’ gallery, her favourite family photographs. And she happily went over each one, telling Dan exactly who was whom, what age I was in each picture, what holiday it was and where it was taken. He was, damn him, fascinated. So, I had to stand there staring at images of my past, our family’s past. Not that there was anything bad about them, but I’ve never like pictures of myself and those of the teenage me wearing terrible 1990s-style clothes were hardly an inducement.

Titus was there of course, it was the first time Dan had seen the two of us in pictures, I kept none on show at home. I had always dealt with Titus by mentally putting him in a box and only opening it in private moments. Perhaps I should consider letting Dan join me, it was only fair. Scary, but fair.

As a family we had dealt with Titus by talking about him, but never about the underlying issues. One or two asides apart, I have no idea what Father’s feelings were, and it was only in the last ten years that Mother and I had talked about his death in any depth.

Next on the tour was Mother’s pride and joy, the garden. I duly admired the progress of plants, her new ideas and more. It was truly amazing, the borders were substantial in size and richly planted, whilst the lawn was almost notional. What always struck me about the garden was the colour, movement, and texture, it was far more than just rows of green plants with flowers on. Mother always said she wasn’t artistic, but when you looked at the balance of colour and texture that she achieved in the large beds, you felt that she was in a way. I wasn’t really interested in what plant was what, however Dan did want to know, so he and Mother made a tour, taking in the gardening detail.

I decided a bit of proud boyfriend would be in order. I joined them and drew out my phone, and scrolled to the pictures of my garden, or perhaps I should say Dan and my garden. I might not be so interested in the flowers and their names, but I enjoyed the effect Dan had achieved.

Mother scrolled through the pictures and looked at me over her glasses, “Well, that’s quite an achievement. I take it that it is Dan’s doing?”

I nodded, “It’s sort of how things started, he stayed for the weekend, insisted on doing the garden and came back to check on the plants.” I grinned, “I was incidental.”

Dan stared from me to Mother and back, but she smiled, “Quite right too. And it worked, didn’t it? You’ll have to invite me down properly.”

I agreed, though the prospect was somewhat alarming. Mother coming for lunch or tea, yes, Mother coming to stay? Another matter entirely. By the time dinner was served, Mother knew Dan had helped one of his Gran’s neighbours who had an allotment. But I knew also that gardening had been a form of escape for him.

There was a pause, as we contemplated the lasagne which was adequate but no more. Thank goodness, Mother had done a substantial salad with it. She then asked a question which had probably been uppermost in her mind for some time, “Do you have any brothers and sisters, Dan?”

He laughed, “No, I was a never to be repeated accident. My Father didn’t last long, and my Mother quickly decided that motherhood and childbirth were overrated”, he quirked one of his eyebrows, “it was Gran who brought me up and made me feel loved.”

“And your Mother, if that’s not too delicate?”

“No, it’s OK. She was around, sometimes. Sometimes there was a boyfriend. Sometimes not. Sometimes she had plenty of money and there were lavish presents, and sometimes she was skint and had to share my room at Gran’s. Then one day she just wasn’t there.”

“Oh. Oh, dear.”

He shrugged, “It was a long time before Gran told me the unedifying truth, she was found in a squat in Manchester, died of malnutrition it seems.”

“I am sorry.”

He gave a shrug, “It’s OK. Gran and I have talked a lot about Mum, and I hold on to the good things. It was Gran that taught me the useful things in life, including how to cook.”

I could see where this was going but kept a straight face.

“How useful, I always wished Vaughan had learned. What sort of dishes do you cook?”

“Gran is Italian, though London born and bred, she only cooks good home cooking, Italian home cooking. And hence my name Dante.”

Mother glared at me, “Vaughan never said.”

“Sorry, it never occurred to me.”

Mother tutted, but smiled, “In which case, you probably have thoughts about tonight’s meal?”

Dan was temperate, “It was enjoyable enough, but I think Gran would have had strong words. She thinks my cooking is adequate, but I can’t rest on my laurels.”

I had an inkling about what was coming; Dan would cook tomorrow night’s dinner. And why not, food was as good a way as any of breaking the ice and it wasn’t as if Mother and I were up to much in the cuisine stakes.

We all joined in the washing up, whilst Dan and Mother reminisced. The one about me as a youngster and a student, giving a rather different account of the ups and downs of my student life than I had relayed to Dan, and the other about his life with Gran.

“She sounds quite a character, your Gran. What does she make of Vaughan here?”

Dan went a bit pink, “Well, she’s not met him yet.”

“Dan’s Gran still has expectations that he’ll settle down and have children.”

Dan added more, “Settle down with a suitable woman that is, I don’t think gay men having children by adoption or by donor is within her conception.”

Mother laughed, “I learned to shed those preconceptions a long time ago”, she saw our somewhat startled reaction. “Oh, it’s not about your,” here she hesitated, “your liking for men, it’s more that young men are prone to go wandering.”

“All young men?”

She shrugged, “Just look at Maudie’s son, three children by three different women.” She shook her head, “It doesn’t do to heap your own expectations onto the young.” I had no idea where this was going, but I certainly wasn’t going to interrupt. “Take Vaughan here, we knew that he liked men, but we never saw any, and there was certainly no sign of settling down. Quite the opposite. Oh, he was very discreet when it came to talking to us, but it was clear even to us that his lively social life”, and these last two words seemed to be in inverted commas, “was not going to lead to a relationship anytime soon. Does your Gran know? About you, that is.”

Dan wrinkled his nose, “Sort of, but I’ve never had what you could call a regular boyfriend, and life in the Force meant I kept my head down.”

“So, you’ve never talked to her about what you want from life.”

“Too scared I suppose. She has hopes; though she’s not religious, underneath there’s still something of the archetypal Catholic Nonna about her. Food and Family are her thing.”

She stared at him, “You’ll have to bite the bullet some time, and I’ll say this for Vaughan, he’s very house-trained.”

In theory we watched a film on television, but in practice we talked, Mother did the lion’s share. Needless to say, when it came bedtime Dan and I just cuddled, the house was pretty soundproof, but we were paranoid that Mother might hear something.

She and Father had always been early risers, so I wasn’t surprised to hear discreet noise from downstairs. It might not be the house I’d grown up in, but it was very much my Mother’s house, and my body automatically sprang to life. I was awake. She wasn’t surprised to see me, and we sat over coffee in the kitchen, something that we’d done for almost as long as I remembered.

“This man your Dan works for, is he above board?”

“As far as we can tell, his Father was a rogue and all, but Francis Heyward seems clean. At least none of Dan’s old police contacts have come up with anything. Of course, Heyward is a financier and they almost always having something dodgy somewhere. I asked Steve, but there’s nothing concrete been sniffed out.”

“And how is Steve?”

“The same as ever, we met up at the place in Victoria.”

“Good Lord, I remember your Father and he used to meet up there years ago.” She shook her head.

“Well, all he could come up with was society gossip, no dubious financial issues.”

“I see. It’s just”, and she produced a folder from which she extracted some newspaper cuttings. Mother was a great tearer out of articles from papers, recipes, places to visit, news items of relevance to friends and such.

Both articles that she gave me were about Heyward’s parties, neither said much that was concrete but implied a lot. I laughed nervously, “Oh, there might not be any sign of financial irregularity or criminal activity, but there’s plenty of lavish spending, self-indulgence and parties with naked young men.”

“Young men?”

“Oh yes, the ‘scandalous sex parties’ that the Mail refers to are strictly men only. If there are women guests, then you can bet your bottom dollar that propriety is observed. His bouncers make sure of that.”

“Bouncers, like at a club?”

“Yes, though sometimes more scantily clad.” Mother raised her eyebrows. “No drugs and such, or you are out and blacklisted.”

“But there are these parties”, she avoided the word sex and simply pointed to the article.

“I gather so. Young men who are entertainment, male guests in costumes revealing much, lavish entertaining, sex, and hi-jinks. Booze but no drugs.”

“A sort of moral licentiousness. What a strange man.”

“Yes indeed.”

“So does Dan…”

I knew exactly what she was asking, “At the moment he deals with outside security only – perimeter security patrols, checking visitors’ cars and such. But this is going to change. We don’t know what to expect. Maybe an element of ‘dressing up’. But quite what…” I left it in the air.

“Makes sense, you surely don’t get your security, or bouncers, or such involved in sex games.”

“You’d think not, but as you said, he’s a strange man.” Needless to say, I didn’t detail some of the things we did know, such as the men in leather jocks, or Dan’s distinctive work outfit.

“You’ve met him?”

By the time Dan appeared I was well into my description of The Manor and its gardens, though I had skirted over the nude swimming.

After breakfast I took Dan on a long walk round the village, whilst Mother went to ‘get myself sorted out and put my face on’. We got back for strong coffee (something Mother did well) and biscuits (bought). Then we set off. As I had suspected, it was arranged that Dan would cook dinner that evening. He was more than amenable and after the previous night’s effort, glad to introduce some home cooking. Mother suggested going to the Waitrose in Sudbury, but Dan had other ideas. I could tell that his definite opinions about food amused her, rather than annoyed.

We did drive into Sudbury, but we visited a deli or rather a high-class butcher that doubled as a deli. And then went to the greengrocer. It was a side to Dan that I had started to see, but Mother was intrigued. As a family we had never taken that much interest in food, or rather in the raw ingredients that went into food. We came away with a positive mound, and a bill rather higher than Mother was used to paying. I hoped that we enjoyed it.

By way of lunch, Dan had bought a picnic from the deli, and we sat by the river Stour to eat it. Mother smiled after we’d finished and commented that she would definitely have this again as a treat. Then a walk by the river and round the water meadows; this was usually a feature of visits to Mother and Dan enjoyed being outside. The talk was general, thank goodness, Francis Heyward, naked men, and such were a long way away.

Dan’s preparations in the kitchen took on a friendly, communal atmosphere as he even set us on. Mother commented occasionally on what he was doing, usually to say something like, ‘I’ve never seen that done before’.

Overall, the visit was a great success, but I invented an excuse to leave earlier than I would normally have done on Sunday, and we went home and got drunk. It was such a relief, and until I sank that first glass of wine, I had not realised quite how tense I’d been. We laughed over some incidents, but Dan, I think, felt similar.

“How well did I do?”

“Well, I don’t think anyone was awarding you marks out of ten. But Mother has never been backward in coming forward if something displeases.”

“But she’s very lady-like, polite.”

I laughed, “Oh indeed, and she’d love to hear you say that. But she can be very lady-like and still give you hell if things go wrong.” He started to say something, but I held up my hand, “Don’t think she wouldn’t have given you hell if she’d wanted to, whatever happened. But there was no need, you did more than well.”

“It’s a relief to know that it went far better than OK. Are you going to ask her to stay here? If we planned the dates, I could be around a lot to help.”

“I will, though the prospect of entertaining Mother still makes me quail. Having her around and noticing every little detail.”

He smiled, “There’s a lot you don’t tell her.”

“Precisely, as you gather it’s always been like that. At university, I developed a life, all sorts of lives that I didn’t really share. Not just the sex, but the politics and even the hours spent looking at pictures and getting excited by strange new pictures.”

“Would that have mattered?”

“Maybe not, but they didn’t understand the central role art and looking played in my life. And there was a whole arty crowd that I ran with, but never really talked about. And now she’s met you.”

He smiled, “That cat’s out of the bag.”

“Hmm. It’s clear that a visit is imminent.”

It probably took the right amount of alcohol to get to Titus.

“You don’t talk about him much?” It was a question, not a statement.

“Almost never.”

“When you were a kid?”

“Oh, if I mentioned him then there were answers, but never anything deeper, nothing like reminiscence about him or digging into what his death meant emotionally. So, all I have is a sort of fuzzy memory.”

“And when you were older?”

“It was a long time ago”, I shrugged, “Very sad but…”

I could see that this idea of putting something away and not making it the focus was odd to Dan.

“Blimey, Gran would have been chattering about him all the time. Granpa was a constant presence even though I barely knew him”, he shook his head and smiled.

“And your Mum?”

“Mum was always there, whatever she got up to, Gran would be talking about her. There was often only the two of us, but I lived in a world full of people, out of Gran’s head.”

“I don’t think Father ever came to terms with Titus’ death, and it was easier not to talk about it. If I had questions, then I learned it was better to ask Mother.”

“Did you never, kind of talk about what happened, how you felt.”

I shook my head, “Not at all; till after Father died. Then Mother and I did have a conversation about Titus’ death. Even now, she doesn’t see that it would have been better for me to talk more.”

And so, the evening ended, with me trying to conjure up that hazy memory and bring to light what little I remember and knew of Titus. I opened my metaphorical box and shared its meagre contents with Dan, and then did the physical equivalent, digging out my photos of him, and of the two of us, with a view to putting them on display.

--oOo—oOo—

“I met your Mother today, she seemed to be in fine form.” Dan had a broad grin on his face.

“Mother! Where on earth was she? Where were you?”

“At The Manor. There was a visit by a group of old ladies, shown round the garden and then given tea. Evidently, it’s a regular event, showing the garden off.”

“Of course. Her friend Edna goes on garden visits with a friend of hers who is a member of something, I know, she’s a Friend of the Garden Museum and they do garden visits. A couple of posh gardens in a day, with lunch, tea, and a talk at each garden. Presumably Mother was there with her friend Edna and the other woman.”

“There were two others with her, Edna I think was one. They came for the afternoon, met by the head gardener, taken on a tour, and tea. They even got to say hello to Mr H.”

“Indeed. No doubt she will be telling me all about it, I expect there will be a phone call tonight.”

And there was!

“I gather you met Dan today day?”

>Edna had organised one of those garden visit trips with her friend Julie. Another friend was supposed to go but pulled out at the last minute.

“So, you got a tour of Francis Heyward’s Manor?”

>Yes. But I didn’t know that was where we were going, or I’d have mentioned it. The trips usually include two visits, one in the morning and the other in the afternoon. The first one was an Elizabethan place in Surrey with a modern recreation of an Elizabethan garden. That was what interested Edna, and all I knew was that the second place was modern, and no expense spared. It was a pleasant surprise to find Dan greeting us at the gate.

“And did you enjoy the visit?”

>Oh, it was lovely. The trips are expensive, but they always go to such interesting places, and are so nicely organised. The Manor is quite something isn’t it? We were shown round by the head gardener, and he was very proud of it and full of fascinating information about the designs. We even met the owner.

“Francis Heyward.”

>The very man. He was charming but somewhat strange, we thought.

“What did you expect. Besides, rich people aren’t like us.”

>Still, he seemed rather off-hand. Charming but…

She paused.

>He was hardly suitably dressed, and he even suggested that we might use the swimming pool.

“Did you?”

>Oh, we were hardly prepared and, after it, it was not that sort of trip.

“We swam at his garden party, with the man himself.”

>Really. Did you take your costumes with you?

“No. House rules, swim without costumes.”

>No! And Frances Heyward as well?

“I said he was strange.”

She started giggling.

>You think he expected us to do that. The very idea. Was that all?

“Mother! It was a garden party; the mayor was there.”

>Yet Francis Heyward disported himself naked.

“I told you, strange.”

And having gone that far, I told her about our theory, getting me and Dan naked.

>You think it was deliberate?

“He does play all sorts of games.”

>Dan’s suit.

Shit, so she’d noticed. It was inevitable, I suppose.

“It’s his uniform. Custom made by a good tailor, two suits each with spare trousers.”

>No expense spared. But it is very…

Another pause.

>Revealing.

“We’d noticed.” There was a noise on the other end of the line, but she did not say anything. “But Dan is being careful. A job is not worth giving up your dignity for.”

>And Dan?

“Has not lost his dignity. Yet.”

>He is a very attractive young man, even Edna noticed. Those trousers are well cut, but very revealing. Edna says to tell you that you are very lucky.

She laughed.

Good Lord, I was talking with Mother about Dan being sexy. And the image of her and her friend Edna, noticing the cut of Dan’s suit and commenting on what it contained. The mind boggled. I shook my head and steered the conversation back to gardens. But Dan’s advent in my life certainly seemed to be changing things.

“We had a conversation about your package. Mother and I.” Dan snorted into his wine, “And Edna says that I’m a very lucky man and I gather the two were discussing your, erm, attributes!”

“No kidding?”

“Nope. I’ve never had a conversation with Mother quite like it.”

“And?”

“It takes some getting used to, but why not?”