Not just another Summer - 28. South-West France, sonatas & sex advice

Simon’s wife, Eva, was built on a similarly ample scale to him. She was giving off a rather 1950s air I think; tailored navy dress with a full skirt, sober collar, shiny red belt, red earrings and court shoes, with matching lipstick and pale make-up. As a look, it was very striking.

We had a similar table to last time, and the restaurant’s South-West France-themed evening seemed to be popular. The clientele was mainly older, and I heard whiffs of conversations about cassoulet, duck gizzard, and what Toulouse was like to visit.

Eva was as eager to meet me as Simon had been. “Simon’s been showing me the proofs for your cards. They are going to be awesome!”

“Thanks. It’s the first time that I have done anything like this.”

Simon smiled and patted Eva’s hand. “I’m only pleased that we are able to do something with a local twist to it.”

The waiter appeared with our aperitifs and the menus. It was a set menu, just a choice of starter and main course and wines to go with it.

I raised an amused eyebrow. “There’s no confit of goose?”

Eva’s eyes widened. “Would you have?”

“No idea. Probably not. I’m not particularly adventurous with food.”

Simon tapped the menu. “Dare we risk the cassoulet?”

Eva laughed. “The delights of sharing a bed, worrying about the effects of garlic and beans.”

“I don’t have that problem and may indeed have the cassoulet. It’s the only name that I recognise.”

“Do you cook?”

This led to an amiable enough chat about likes and dislikes, friends and family. Eva was eager and perfectly happy to quiz me. She was a teacher, English and Music, though with the curriculum as it was, she did little music.

“Simon was saying you were looking for a piano.”

“I have been very lucky. My brother bought me one as a welcome home present.”

The two stared at me and Eva exclaimed, “How wonderful! What sort?”

“Eva…”

“Sorry.” She smiled. “Simon says I get a bit carried away.”

“That’s OK. It is a rather elderly baby grand.”

“If you don’t mind my asking, where did he get it from?” Simon was equally nosey, just less direct.

“A shop in Ipswich, selected mainly because they had a suitable piano more than anything else. And no, it wasn’t chosen specifically, it was sight unseen.”

“And how is it?” Eva was all eagerness.

I laughed. “It’s a piano. The sort I had when I was a teenager. And it is now back in its place. And it feels great to be able to play again regularly.”

“I wish we had space for a grand.”

“I think if we got rid of one of our huge sofas, we could have a concert grand.”

“Wow! Your house is big?”

“Love, he lives at The Grange, Mac Philpott’s old place.”

“Oh, of course!” She smiled at me. “Sorry. Simon says I live in a parallel universe sometimes. The Grange is huge, isn’t it?”

“My friend Bas visited for the first time last week and said I ought to put on concerts.”

“Oh, that would be wonderful!” Then Eva looked at the two of us. “Oh, sorry!” She was annoying yet delightful. I could imagine being friends.

Our food came, and we ended up discussing food, comparing and contrasting. Only when we’d finished our starters did I return to the piano.

“If you wanted to come round and try it, bring a pianist and play through things, you would be most welcome.”

Simon looked at me. “But you play…?”

“To an extent. I’m a bit out of practice and have never accompanied anyone. I might manage a Mozart sonata, but nothing too much later. I do play a lot of easier Schumann and a bit of Chopin.”

“Mozart would be lovely”. She turned to Simon. “What do you think?”

He looked at me. “Morton, the pianist Eva sometimes works with, would make a big deal of the whole event.”

“And insist on bringing his wife”, Eva frowned, “who always takes over.”

“So Mozart would work fine”. Simon smiled.

Eva became pensive. “What would your brother think?”

“Well, it is my piano, and the hall is shared space. So if he’s around, he can retire upstairs.” I coughed. “I don’t really see Vince as a potential audience. We’re OK there.”

Simon was as interested in music as Eva, inevitable perhaps; it would be tricky having one of you so absorbed, but not the other. This meant that over our cassoulets (we all chose the dish, and it proved to be excellent) we chatted about the music that we liked. They also gave me ideas for piano music to explore, CPE Bach for one.

There was a fight over the bill at the end of the meal, but a genteel one and we ended up going Dutch. I couldn’t realistically afford to treat them. But I wondered if we could turn the musical evening (or afternoon) into something a bit more. Dinner with the two had reminded me what I was missing, and I thought that the couple were well on the way to becoming my friends.

---

Waiting for me in my email inbox on Wednesday morning was a message from Simon, copied to Eva so that I had her email address, along with a PDF of Mozart’s Violin Sonatas. It turned out that Eva played from an iPad usually. Shit. I hadn’t anything like that and would need to print out the music so that I could play it through.

I don’t have anything remotely like a printer. Neither did Vince at home (he did anything like that at work), whilst Freddie had a small LaserJet that was evidently great for colour pictures for school; however it was slow when it came to larger quantities of printing.

Vince had vaguely said that if ever I needed to print anything, to let him know and he would arrange it at work. I didn’t like to simply email him the request, but I just had time, so I dashed over to the house and managed to catch him before he left for work. With everything else going on, this was probably stupid, but my fingers were already itching.

Despite getting ready to leave for the office, Vince insisted on taking time to find out what exactly was going on.

“You are accompanying this woman at the piano?”

“I’m not sure whether avoiding her usual pianist was a genuine thing or not.”

“Or a way of putting you on the spot. Have you ever done that before?”

“Played Mozart’s Violin Sonatas? Of course not!”

“No, I’m not that musically illiterate. Accompany someone? I imagine it is rather different to playing on your own?”

“You bet. Frankly, I’ve never done anything like it, and I have no idea how things might go.”

He stared at me. “Bit different?”

“A lot different.”

“But it might be fun? With friends.”

“That’s what I thought.”

“Good. Email me the music and I’ll get the office to do the printing, it will be no bother.” He turned to go. “Oh, and Gray, do let us know whether we need to bugger off or not when you play with her. I realise you might not want an audience, even in another room.” He sniggered, then gave me a grin before running off.

That evening, when I finally got back to the annexe after everything, there was an envelope waiting for me, the Mozart sonatas neatly spiral bound for ease of page turning. Someone was very thoughtful indeed.

---

“Would you be willing to play something on the piano?”

The photographer from Essex Country Living was a young bloke with pale grey hair, an intense manner, and a tendency to look over the tops of his trendy wire-framed glasses. We’d already tried photographs of me in the garden and me lounging on the sofa in the hall, as well as me leaning against the bookshelves in the study, book in hand. I ask you! But I was unable to give him that element of casual naturalism that he wanted. I could only do one type of photograph, the formal portrait; for the rest, I simply couldn't act natural.

The whole interview for the magazine was turning into a nightmare, and we hadn’t even reached my poetry yet. It had so far all been about the photos.

The piano seemed to do it; as I played some Schumann, the photographer (whose name seemed to be Devis, unless I misheard) wandered around snapping away and murmuring encouraging noises.

Then he was gone. Finally! Though I still had the interview ahead of me, I heaved sigh of relief.

I asked the journalist if she wanted some coffee. The answer was “yes”, so I made some. She followed me into the kitchen, and we seemed to do the interview there. She was middle-aged, determinedly well preserved with a practical haircut, hair clearly tinted a reddish brown. In her floral dress, she looked more like the sort of lady who would volunteer at the church fete (not that I ever went to the things!)

“If you don’t mind me asking, you share the house with your brother?”

“Vince? Yes, and his son, Freddie. Vince’s wife died five years ago.”

“He’s the solicitor?”

“That’s it. We have the house as long as we both share it and live here. If we don’t, then it’s sold for charity.”

“Your father’s will?”

“His strange humour, yes.”

“Did you write poetry here as a boy?”

“Not really, I was too scared of being found out. Poetry was my own private thing. Though I suppose I did a bit of writing in my room upstairs, where my notebooks were hidden.”

“No-one knew?”

“My parents didn’t. When I continued with my writing at Uni and was having poems published, it was a complete surprise to them.”

“How did you come to write poetry?”

I explained about escaping to the countryside and finding I wanted to write about it, to describe it. Without getting too psychological, I tried to explain how I found my parents’ world sterile, though it was only with hindsight that I could explain this. That I wasn’t escaping anything bad; my parents’ world just was not what sparked my imagination. Very gingerly I brought out one of my early notebooks. I wasn’t sure whether revealing myself like this was a good idea, but I’d mentioned it to Matt the previous morning and he had urged it, thinking it might add human interest.

It did. She made no comment on the poor quality of the verse, but picked up on the idea of me jotting down in secret and on my journeys by bicycle, the water stains in particular. We ended up talking about my inspirations. It was perhaps more about me, the young me, than the poetry. But heigh-ho, at least it wasn’t about Dad, was it?

She was good. I relaxed, talked more than usual. We started with the easier topics and then moved to the harder ones. Eventually we circled back to the nub of the issue.

“If your writing was an escape, what were you escaping from?”

Fuck. I was going to have to have another go at explaining, Dad looming.

She smiled.

“You read the article?”

“In the Mercury?”

“Yes. I grew up with Dad’s expectations, and in a scary house that I didn’t take friends to.” She accepted that and didn’t press further, thank God.

“And now?”

I laughed. “I always say that I write because I write. I think that anything more would be a bit too close to psychoanalysis for comfort.”

Of course, after she had left, I spent most of the afternoon trying to answer the question. I gave up trying to work and went shopping for food to cook our evening meal. In the kitchen my repertoire is extremely limited. So for the evening I planned one of the dishes that Bas had shown me.

Vince and Peter were going to see Kjell and Bella whilst Freddie and Arvid were engaged with after-school activities. I hardly imagined that Vince and Peter were going to be late home, even if things with Arvid’s parents went well. And if they didn’t go well, Vince and Peter would want something to eat, to help them recover.

It wasn’t going to go well, was it? What was the likelihood of a calm and reasoned discussion given Kjell’s behaviour at the weekend? Dinner was in the oven, and I’d had time to clean up the kitchen before Vince and Peter returned.

---

“Well, you’ve been quiet, both of you. That good, eh?”

We were eating in the kitchen. It somehow happened, and was pleasanter and easier to eat a pasta bake at a table, a runny pasta bake. Don’t ask; cooking didn’t go well. But it tasted OK.

Peter grinned at me. “Are you taking over cooking, then?”

I laughed. “If you want to get bored. I can do three things, four at a pinch. But you can’t evade the question like that.”

“Hard work.”

Peter exploded. “Fucking hard work! The guy’s an idiot!”

“He thinks he can control Arvid’s every moment”. Vince gave an annoyed shake of his head.

“We had to go through it in detail. Vince told them, at great length, all the places the boys could go without Kjell knowing.”

I stared at Vince. “And you know because…”

“You pick things up”. Vince gave me a look.

“Fuck. You are so buttoned up, sometimes I forget you fraternise with the criminal element.” As soon as I’d said it, I wanted to take the phrase back; intended as a light-hearted jab at Vince, the phrase sat there between us as a rather more pointed barb at Peter.

Peter smiled and gave me a look which suggested he guessed what was going on in my head, then turned to Vince and grinned. “The insalubrious elements.”

Vince gave an annoyed shake of his head. “Not at all! They are my clients.” I thought he was going to get angry, but he saw Peter smile. “Winding me up? I’m trying to be a bit unbuttoned.”

“I noticed.” I tried to look roguish. “I did wonder about giving you dinner naked, but think that even I would draw the line at cooking au naturel.”

The two laughed.

“Peter very carefully suggested that the only way for Kjell to control Arvid’s interactions with other boys and girls was to police his every moment.”

Peter rolled his eyes. “That didn’t go down well. Evidently, children are meant to obey their parents.”

“Says whom? Anyway, Kjell’s agreed that the lesser of two evils is that we don’t police Freddie’s bedroom.”

“You’re joking!”

Peter shrugged. “Believe it!. But he was all for that, at first.”

Vince raised an eyebrow. “Peter was very patient and made him see sense. But we’ll limit time.”

“Oh, and you are a responsible person.” Peter smiled.

“I’m pleased to hear that.”

There was a noise in the hall, a shout and Freddie appeared.

“Dad, Uncle Gray, Peter.”

Vince gave Freddie a look. “Did you eat?”

Freddie shook his head. “The other guys were all going home and Arvid didn’t want to risk staying out.”

“Want some pasta? Gray cooked.”

“Wow!” He went pink. “Sorry, Uncle Gray.”

“You are lucky, it’s one of my three recipes.”

He grinned and sat down. “So?...”

Vince nodded. “We’ve spoken to Arvid’s parents. You and Arvid are OK to see each other, but time will be limited.”

“Thanks, Dad!” Then he remembered, “and Peter.”

“And you’ll be pleased to know that Gray is, in fact, ‘a responsible person’.”

They went over everything again with Freddie, though I am not sure how much the boy took in. He was going to be able to see Arvid, at least with restrictions that were not too onerous. I rather suspected we were not going to see much of the pair of them. I had visions of two teenagers arriving, stampeding up the stairs, and getting into whatever it was that they were getting into.

What were they getting into?

After Freddie departed upstairs, I lurked and when I thought it was safe, decided that I ought to bring the matter up.

“Have you thought about what Arvid and Freddie might be getting up to?”

Vince looked puzzled. “Apart from having rampant sex?”

“But what, exactly? Are they being safe?”

“Well, I’ve talked about safe sex and that.”

“And have you made sure they’ve got plenty of condoms?”

Vince went red. “Shit! I assumed…”

“Don’t assume. They might be a bit reticent”.

Peter smiled. “Or they might not. They are both big, active boys. With an urge to explore everything. Especially as they know that you, me and Gray all get up to that sort of thing.”

Vince started to get annoyed. “You don’t mean…”

“Of course not! But the idea that your dad and his boyfriend have sex and might go all the way could be a mighty strong inducement to try it yourself.”

“To see what Arvid’s dick feels like up Freddie’s bum.” I shrugged. “Or vice versa.”

Peter stood up. “You replenished the supply as we said?”

Vince coloured but simply agreed.

“Right, well perhaps it might work best if I do it. A bit of friendly advice and plenty of condoms. What do you think?”

Vince frowned, but nodded. “It beats the profoundly awkward talk from his dad or his uncle.”

“That’s what boyfriends are for. Perhaps we should start a blog.” Peter grinned at Vince; it felt like the continuation of a previous wind up.

Vince guffawed. “Bloody hell! Stories about our family all over the internet!”

I joined in the laughter. “With pictures!”

Peter dashed upstairs and Vince cleared his throat. “Thanks for that. We’d have probably got there, eventually.”

“Well, it was only because I had the vision of the two lads arriving from school, pounding up the stairs and spending their entire two hours, or whatever the allotted span is, having sex. And that made me wonder what they’d be doing.”

“Have they asked?”

“No, it’s been mainly social, homosocial, you know what the places are like. I doubt they want to talk sex technique with their uncle.”

Vince gave another snort. “Until they run into problems.”

“Well, there is that. They might, then come to us when it’s too late.”

“Jesus. Hope Peter’s gift of the gab works.”

Vince turned the TV on and we watched a documentary until Peter returned.

“You were some time. It go OK?”

Peter gave a weak laugh. “Yes. Amazingly. He was a bit unnerved at first about being offered condoms and wet wipes. But then I explained that if they were exploring, we wanted them to be prepared, rather than not being prepared and regretting it later. Then with much humming and hawing and erm…”

Vince sighed. “And teenagers are supposed to be articulate.”

“Not when it comes to asking advice on how to fuck your boyfriend, whether it hurts and what’s the best way to start.”

“So they’re not?”

“Evidently. But they’ve got over the ‘ick’ factor and been using fingers. And we talked about cleanliness, emptying, the lot. Christ!”

He sat down and Vince gave him a hug and a kiss. “Thanks. It probably came over a lot better from you.”

“Well, I don’t want to bloody do it again, thank you.”

Vince grinned at me. “Next time we’ll ask Gray.”

I rolled my eyes.

I didn’t go to the annexe till later. We had a sort of family evening, Vince, Peter and I watching a stupid documentary that none of us liked, but which enabled all three of us to make snarky comments about it. At one point, Vince went for a piss.

Peter stared at me, earnestly. “You don’t have to worry, you know. I’ve had comments far worse and dealt with them. I know that whatever you say will come from a position of trust.”

“Sorry, it’s just that I understand with one part of my brain, but the other doesn’t quite keep up.”

“I’ve learned the hard way that it’s not language that counts, but behaviour. What people do rather than what they say. There are some volunteers at the Centre who are not what we might call PC”. He grinned. “But they mean well, and their behaviour shows a degree of trust that some more-well-meaning folk entirely lack.”

“Thanks. Point taken. But I will try to reduce my references to the criminal element.” I tried to make it lighter.

“When I first knew Vince, he never once made me feel less, never rubbed it in that I’d been inside. Oh, he knew and took it for granted, but he gave me space to work on myself and turn stuff around. And trusted me.” He looked quite fierce.

“I can imagine that.”

“And the first time I met Freddie, after Vince had told the lad, I was shitting myself.”

“What happened?”

“He stared a bit and had been clearly told not to ask questions. I told him he could, and we had the usual Q&A about life in prison. But novelty over, he treated me just the same.” Peter looked at me earnestly. “It doesn’t always happen, even now. It’s not something I can ever take for granted.”

“Thanks. So…”

“Be yourself. If some things are a bit off colour, then don’t worry. I’ll soon let you know if it goes too far. It took a long time for me to convince Vince that he didn’t need to bridle every time someone mentioned prison or criminals.”

During this latter, Vince had returned and sat next to Peter. Vince simply gave a wry smile.

Peter continued, “It’s out there, let’s not pretend otherwise, but it doesn't define me.”