Not just another Summer - 5. Not quite a date & rather a ruckus

I had neglected to get a phone number for Matt, so on Friday I arrived at the agreed pub rather early and perched at one of the outside tables. It was a relatively unassuming 19th-century building that seemed to have colonised part of Castle Field, the green space that stretched from the Castle to the river, so the pub had bags of outdoor space.

Once at the pub, I began feeling rather uncertain. I was never uncertain, but now I hadn’t a clear idea of what to do. Should I buy a drink, or wait for Matt? This was ridiculous, he’d asked me out for a drink, that was it. I’d wait. Deciding to do something useful, I started some background reading that I needed for an article that I was planning. I was completely absorbed, when a shadow loomed over the page.

“Sorry if I’m a bit late. I decided to walk.” Matt hovered, as if he was as uncertain as I.

“It’s fine, I was catching up on work.”

“You mean your poetry?”

“No, I wish!” My annoyance came out as a groan. “The writing that brings in the real money. This is an article about the influence of the Georgian poets on contemporary European literature.”

“That’s a bit over my head.” He frowned then looking a bit intrigued, “Georgian as in the country or as in the 18th century?”

“Neither! Georgian as in King George V, early 20th-century English. New poetic response to Victorian tradition.”

“And their influence on… Where was it?”

“Contemporary European literature.”

“Yeah.”

“Well, that’s it, there wasn’t one.”

“How do you write about that, then?”

“Good question. It’s for a distinguished magazine. I’m honoured to be asked.”

He gave a nervous smile, “But they’ve given you the shitty job.”

“That’s about it.”

We bought drinks and decided that we preferred a table outside.

“Can I ask you a question?”

“Sure.”

“The article in the Mercury. Was it true?”

“Everything. The journalist quoted me accurately. That’s what Dad said to me.”

“Shit. Was he always like that, then?”

“Not growing up. But when it became clear that I had no interest in going into the business things changed.”

“Sucks.”

“Vince, my brother, says that Dad was proud of me and used to say nice things to people about my poetry.”

“Just not to you?”

“That’s it. I was more of a trophy for him. Mac Philpott’s son, the famous poet.”

“Dads should be supportive, shouldn’t they?”

“Well, Dad did the same sort of thing to Vince, too.”

“He writes?”

“No, he’s a solicitor. And Dad was just as pissed off he wouldn’t join the business. Dad was proud of Vince to his mates, but to Vince’s face...” I shrugged.

“There were a couple of articles in the Mercury about your Dad when he died, and they didn’t say anything like that.”

I gave a dry chuckle, “Dad liked to be certain that he projected the right image. The great benefactor and all that malarkey. But he also liked setting Vince and I against each other.”

“That really sucks.”

“We’ve never really argued, as such, just not got to know each other and never been involved in each other’s lives. Anyway, that’s enough of me. How about you?”

By the time we reached our second drink, I had learned that his Dad had died when he was in his teens, he had no siblings, and it was just him and his Mum. Ideally, he wanted to train so that he could work somewhere like the Nature Reserve but had to restrict himself to courses at the local college as he needed to be home for his Mum. He said she was better, whatever that meant, but didn’t walk well and he wouldn’t leave her on her own at the moment. He had found an Environmental Sciences course, whatever that was, and the college assured people that they had a very high success rate for getting students into jobs.

“You ever thought about volunteering at the reserve?” He looked a bit stricken when I mentioned this, whereas usually he was pretty open. “It’s OK, if it’s a delicate subject, just tell me to piss off.”

“No, it’s just I can’t afford to volunteer. I need to work.”

“At the bakers?”

“Yeah. I’m assistant manager, now. And they give me flexible hours. It pays way better than a supermarket and”, he went a bit red, “I like working around food, too.”

I nodded, noting his penchant for baking bread and making jam. It was shitty, though, not being able to volunteer.

I grinned, “Talk of food reminded me that I’m hungry. You fancy eating?”

“I don’t know, I…”

He’d paid for both sets of drinks and I suddenly realised what the problem was. Before he could give me an embarrassed admission of poverty, “How about I treat us to fish and chips, I reckon they won’t break the bank.”

That’s what we did. It wasn’t a date, really, and he made no romantic gestures. Yet I wondered. But mainly, I tried simply to enjoy his company, to relax and be in the moment with friends.

“I’ve enjoyed this a lot.”

He dipped his head, “Thanks. So have I.”

“You up for it again next Friday?”

His eyes widened, then he smiled, “You sure?”

“Definitely. And I’ll see you for breakfast on Monday.”

“Yeah.” Another smile. “You like peanut butter?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” And with that, he strode off.

---

“What the fuck got into you? Freddie’s only 15. Suggesting…” Vince came to a halt, glaring at me. “And why the hell aren’t you dressed?”

It was Sunday morning. I’d got up and made coffee in my little kitchen and was working, sprawled on the sofa in my sitting room. I was naked, and comfortable. Freddie was off with friends, and I gathered that Vince usually read the papers on Sunday morning; I had anticipated peace and quiet. Instead, here Vince was, glaring at me like… Well, like Dad, I suppose.

“I’m naked because I am comfortable this way, and it’s my sitting room.”

“Aren’t you going to get dressed, I certainly can’t talk to you like that.”

I rolled my eyes and drew my knees up so at least my junk was hidden. “You barged in, so I’ll stay like this, if you don’t mind. What’s so urgent?”

“Freddie. You persuaded him to shave. Down there.”

“Shave his junk? I certainly did not have to do any persuading; it was all his own idea.”

“Where did he get the idea from, though?” Another glare.

I sighed, “He barged in the other day. Like you. I suggested that either I dress, or he get naked. He chose the latter, and we hung out together like that.”

“You!” He was so furious that he spluttered, and Vince was rarely this incoherent. “He’s only 15, for God’s sake, I’ll…”

“Hang on there. We had a drink and a biscuit. That’s it. How dare you!” I glared back, I was 16 again, this was stupid. I took a breath. “The boy’s 15, seeing his uncle naked is surely no big thing. There are families who routinely get naked together. It is healthy, having regard for the body with no inhibitions. Nudity is not sex.” The last four words said with exaggerated emphasis.

“But the shaving?”

“Was his idea. I simply explained the mechanics, gave him a few tips and advice. I’ve no idea who he’s doing it for.”

“Whoa there. What do you mean? Who? He’s too young for…”

“Hold on. He’s a 15-year-old boy, sex is probably what he thinks about most of the time. And yes, I’d guess he was doing it for someone. To be seen by someone. And before you ask, he didn’t let on whom.”

Vince almost visibly deflated, “I don’t think I can cope with this.”

“What. The nudity?”

“No!” Annoyed, now, “Freddie, sex and relationships.”

I sniggered, “It’s going to happen, somehow.”

“He say anything?”

“No. Truthfully. We’ve talked about queer life, but only the social things, what bars and clubs are like, places to meet, never about sex or relationships.”

“You think…”

“He’ll not say anything unless there’s a problem. I am his uncle after all.”

“Shit. You’re right. You’ve been seeing a lot of him?”

“He’s popped in for tea most afternoons. Gets naked, we chat for ten minutes or so and that’s it. He’s getting to know his queer uncle.”

Vince nodded, “OK. You think he’s gay?”

I stared at him, “How do you tell with a horny teenager. He’s probably at the stage where he’d hump anything. He’s curious, certainly. Can’t say more.”

“Fair enough.”

“Look. Now you’ve calmed down, do you want a coffee?”

“I’d love one, please.”

“Well, you’ll need to get naked”, I grinned. “My house, my rules.”

He glared at me. “You really are mad.”

With icy precision he drew off his-shirt, pushed down his cotton pants then with momentary hesitation, pushed down his boxer shorts. Only my brother would wear boxer shorts under lounging pants. Before I could comment, and I barely registered how simply hairy he was, he glared, said ‘There, satisfied!’ and stalked out.

Bugger.

I spent the rest of the day working. Really working. I ordered a take-away for dinner and avoided the main house.

---

Bas

Well!

Intriguing developments at Philpott Towers. Nephew Freddie caught me lounging au naturel as usual. Freaked AND curious, so I gave him two options. He chose the unlikely. Picture it, my nephew and I having foursies bollock naked.

And no, I didn’t! He’s only fifteen AND my nephew. But well-enough looking, though more of a lad than a young man. And curious, too. Quizzed me about queer life. Methinks he’s queer, or bi-curious. Then he decides the shaved look is for him. Kid you not. NO influence. Honest.

There must be someone in his life. Buggered if I know whom. Yet…

V. found out. How? I wonder, does he perv on the lad? Think not, somehow. V. furious, freaks at the idea of a nudist family. Then does a typical Vince. Strips off, says THERE, and then stalks out, pissed off.

He’s seriously hairy. Everywhere. We keep having moments, then things flare again.

Sigh

G