Not just another Summer - 8. Curry & confidences

Mid-afternoon, I was pleased with my progress. I’d sent off my latest article, on time and the exact word length. To celebrate, I cycled to Castle Field, sat and wrote. Amazingly, it just started. I now had a trio of possibles for Simon. The problem was, normally I’d put early drafts of poems to one side, then come back later and polish, rework. But this was a commercial venture and time critical.

Who to consult?

Bas was good for personal stuff. I could tell him anything, but his main interest was music, not words. We’d never talked the nitty gritty of poetics. I missed Norbert; he was shitty as a lover, two-timing me and more, but we’d had great conversations. However, our last encounter, after I had received the news about my job at UEA being canned, had descended into a vulgar shouting match. My fault! So, I could hardly reach out to him.

I walked over to the gift shop. Simon was on his own, just locking up.

“Have you a moment?”

“Gray. How are you?” Beaming smile. Simon was one of those blokes who, whatever clothes you put them in, would look shabby within five minutes. I’m sure his shirt was a decent one, but it was well on the way to coming unmoored, and his trousers drooped in a very unsatisfactory way. He was obviously conscious of this, as he kept trying to hitch them up.

“I’ve been scribbling some ideas.”

“That’s good?”

“I’ve never written to order before. I have some poems sketched out.”

“When…” Then Simon shut up abruptly.

I laughed, “It’s OK. I’ve not done this before. Usually new poems sit for ages as I mull them over. That doesn’t work here, as you have deadlines. So… I could show them to you next week as long as you understand they are drafts.”

“Fair enough. And if I like them?”

“I’ll polish, like mad, and let you have something. Just give me a date.” That was me being more sanguine than I really felt. “It’s just, if you don’t like them.”

“The stuff we usually carry is pitiful.” He gave an embarrassed wince. “I want verse that’s on a par with the classy photos that we’ve had on our cards recently.”

“Fair enough.”

“Tell you what. How about we meet for a drink on Tuesday. That suit you, my treat?”

I smiled, “OK”, wondering what I was letting myself in for.

“Do you know the Shining Bottle in Cork Street, it’s not far from the Arts Centre?”

“I can easily find it, I’m sure. I know Cork Street, but I’ve not been down there for years.”

“The bar’s owned by friends; my wife, Eva’s best friend’s parents.”

“So, you get good treatment, then?”

“Better do!”

---

It was a bit early, but I wandered over to The Castle Arms and sat outside. I pulled out some blank paper and wrote good copies of the three poems about the Castle. Good being a relative term, by the time I’d finished there were a couple more mods and corrections.

It took longer than I thought; a shadow loomed over me.

“What are you working on? I got off early.” Matt smiled.

“Some new poems.”

“Cool.” He very carefully didn’t ask to see them, which was nice.

“I’ll go and get us a drink; you read them and see what you think.”

He eyed me warily, “Can I, like say they’re shit or something?”

“Sure, as long as you give me an idea why. Just don’t say they’re nice.”

He chuckled, and I left him to his reading and went to the bar.

“You really want to know what I think, then?”

Matt looked up as I put the drinks down. I’d seen him as I’d walked over from the pub; he was paying careful attention to the texts.

“Well, I don’t exactly have many people to show things to.”

“Your friends?”

“Are not here, besides, you’re a friend.”

He flushed a bit, “Your brother?”

“We’ve never spoken a word about the poetry. Until last week. So…”

Matt smiled, “OK.”

With Norbert, we’d go over a poem word by word. Perhaps because, as a non-native English speaker, he was fascinated by our use of language, the way English has multiple words which can describe the same thing.

Matt didn’t do that, at all. Instead, he talked about the images that the words conjured and about how something did or did not evoke the Castle and its surroundings. It was intriguing.

“Thanks, that was a lot of help.”

“You sure?”

“Yes, you see them differently.”

“I know shit about poetry.”

“More than you think, thanks.” And unconsciously I patted his hand. Shit. It was only brief, but it was a presumption and an assumption. Did I apologise or pass it off as a friendly thing. Matt started talking determinedly about next week, so I picked up his cue.

“I’m having a drink with Simon on Tuesday.”

“Simon?”

“As in your Mum’s boss.”

“Wow. You and he…” Matt tailed off.

I laughed, “Nothing like that! Talking about new poems,” I tapped my notebook, “and a poetry reading.”

He flushed again, “Sorry. It’s just. Well, do you have a boyfriend?”

And it simply popped out, “Why are you in the market, then?” One of those stupid, bitchy things you might say at a party.

“I’m not…” But Matt didn’t finish the sentence. He looked mortified and upset. He stood up, took a last swig of his drink then said, “I think I’d better…” and left.

Oh, fucking shit.

I had one friend in Coningham, and I’d managed to mess that friendship up. Great.

The old me would have just walked away, but I couldn’t. There was something about Matt’s face, the sign of the upset that I’d caused. He’d legged it, but I caught him up by the Castle. He didn’t stop but slowed down, so I still had to jog, pant and apologise.

“Since coming home, I’ve only made one friend, and I’ve managed to mess that up. I’m sorry, it was the sort of vicious queeny thing that would go down well at a party, and I should know better. For your information, I am crap at relationships, so I have no boyfriend. I am not on the market for one either. Coming back here, I had been hoping to make one or two new friends. Look…”

I sighed and panted. He’d finally come to a halt.

“I will understand if you do not want to see me again but can we at least part on civilised terms. And can I just say that I am going to miss your jam sandwiches.”

He nodded and there was a hint of a smile at my comment about the sandwiches.

There was a Costa Coffee, still open, populated by just a few sad faces with a solitary bored server. Once we’d sat down, the silence stretched out between us, then he finally said something. Surprising.

“I’ve never had a relationship.”

“By choice or…”

“When I got to 18, Mum was worried.”

“That you didn’t have a girlfriend?”

“Yeah. That I wasn’t interested in all that stuff. She worried there was something wrong. In hospital she did a lot of reading and got ideas.” He gave rueful shrug. “I’ve never actually done it. How can you do it without getting to know someone properly, first. And there was never anyone I wanted…” He tailed off.

“What did your Mother do?”

“Dragged me off to the doctor.”

“How old were you?”

“Nineteen, fucking embarrassing. They got me to talk to some sort of therapist.”

“Holy shit.”

“It’s OK.” He wrinkled his nose in distaste, “It was only talk. Everything functions OK, I get urges. The therapist talked about how some people need to develop a relationship, properly, before they start doing stuff.”

“Demi-sexual.”

He looked surprised, “Yeah. That. They think. Or just a low sex drive. Not really convinced and managed to ditch the therapist.” He gave a nervous smile, “Sorry.”

“I am the one who should be sorry.”

“Nah. What you said. Just a joke, I get that. But at school, I got made fun of. I was awkward, tall and you know…”

I could imagine, “And I’m a bitchy queen who sometimes says things. Right. We OK?”

He nodded, “Yes, ta.”

“And we didn’t get to finish our drinks.”

“This coffee’s shit.”

“And I’m hungry. Fancy a curry? My treat.”

“You sure, you said you were skint.”

“My fifteen-year-old nephew has sorted my accounts out, has set me up with a budgeting app, and has plans to keep me in order.” I raised my eyebrows, “So, I’m OK.”

He grinned, “I’m on, then.”

We walked to the nearby Indian, The Estuary Raj, brisk and modern with a friendly young man on the door. I bit back a comment to Matt on the waiter’s slim physique and apparent lack of a genital bulge. No need to push things.

“As a joke, some of the guys tried to fix me up with a tart.”

“You are joking. When?”

“First year at college.” He shrugged. “I knew some of the guys, ones that gave me gyp at school, and I was the thicko who had to repeat a year, too.”

“But not your fault.”

“Don’t make no difference.”

“What happened?”

“It was done through some stupid app. I got an email, confirming. I cancelled. It were a bird, but…”

“You didn’t think…”

“Nah. Not with a bird”, he looked at his hands. “I sort of knew that if I did it, it would be with a bloke.”

“Not if, when.”

He coloured but laughed. “Yeah. I told Mum. At Christmas. We were watching one of those stupid quizzes on tele. And there was some daftness about your fantasy date with a girl and it just popped out.”

“She mind?”

“Nah. She wants me to be happy, that’s what counts. Can I ask, what about you?”

So, as I ate a surprisingly excellent biryani, I talked about the challenge of growing up gay in this place, how it felt like the middle of nowhere. Being my Father’s son made me conspicuous, and how none of my small circle of close mates identified as anything but straight. There were experiments, but I only finally found my feet at Uni.

“You ever write about it; you know all that teenage stuff?” He looked at me earnestly.

“It never occurred to me. Writing was an escape, has always been. I certainly never felt much like exploring my urges and confusion over sweaty explorations at parties in words.”

He giggled, “Can’t imagine your poetry describing that.”

“Besides, I’ve never been much good at putting emotion into words. It’s all done by proxy.”

“Wintery landscapes of the soul.”

“Bloody hell, you’ve gone poetic all of a sudden.”

He gave an embarrassed grin, “Was reading summat in Mum’s Mail on Sunday. Book review, never read the news, that’s usually crap. But that phrase stuck. Thought of you.”

“Thanks.”

When we parted, I felt simply saying goodbye didn’t hack it. Tonight, had been something more. I wouldn’t kiss him, but I stood on tiptoes and gave him a hug. He stiffened but relaxed into it.