They may not mean to, but they do - 19. Nineteen

If the impromptu pool party on Sunday had had one consequence, it was that having broken the ice, Bart and Greg wanted to entertain Thomas and Keith properly. So, the next Saturday, Thomas and Keith found themselves knocking on Bart and Greg’s door, clutching a bottle which the man in the expensive off-licence had assured Thomas was excellent.

Thomas had arrived late on the Friday, to find Keith deep in a jigsaw. Keith had looked a bit shamefaced when Thomas saw it, slightly embarrassed at being discovered in what many regarded as a childish habit. Except that the jigsaw was anything but childish, it was large and complicated. A landscape scene based on a Constable painting. Keith had it laid out on a huge piece of plywood which, he had discovered, could be eased under the bed without disturbing the jigsaw.

“At least, that is the plan”, Keith looked at Thomas, a bit proud of his ingenuity and a bit nervous at having been ‘found out’.

Thomas stooped down and peered at the jigsaw, picking up stray unmatched pieces (which were all carefully sorted into piles), “Have you always done jigsaws like this, ‘cause this one is fucking difficult. I don’t think I’d have patience.”

Keith beamed, “Not recently, at least not big ones. There was never room before. But Gran and I used to do them, she always had a big one on the go on the dining table. This was hers”, he smoothed his hand across one of the completed sections, “so I thought I’d give it another go before I buy a new one.” He shrugged, “And I expect there’ll be bits missing, she was always losing them.”

Thomas helped Keith put it away, then Keith produced a catalogue he’d sent for. Thomas leafed through it, and he noticed Keith had marked a few. “You going to buy all these then?”

Keith laughed, “There’s hardly room. One at a time. I can treat myself.”

“There are some pretty serious ones here and some big ones.”

“I like a challenge”, and he leaned over and kissed Thomas.

Part of Keith was sad that Thomas wasn’t more enthusiastic; he’d been polite and interested, but hardly raring to go the way Keith remembered being with his Gran. Yet secretly he also enjoyed that he had an interest all his own, something besides football.

Saturday morning saw Keith waking up first, the jigsaw had raised memories of his Gran, which had inevitably led to him thinking rather too much about his Dad, and the dark stuff. He tried not to, it made him frustrated and angry, and he didn’t like that. Particularly not when Thomas was around. But he’d woken up in a cold sweat and a panic. So, he was sitting out on the top step, drinking a coffee, and enjoying the morning air when Thomas came to join him, also with a coffee. Thomas sat down beside Keith and put an arm round him.

-oOo-oOo-

It wasn’t the beatings as such, Keith could cope with them. Just. And his Dad seemed to have an in-built governor; he never went completely over the edge. Keith never appeared at school with visible damage, never ended up in hospital having ‘walked into a door’ or anything like that; the time he came off his bike had been far worse.

It was the other stuff, the constant need to police himself, making sure that nothing was said or done that was out of place. The interrogations, where were you, who were you with, what were you doing, the detail was almost forensic. If Keith had had any thought of doing something underhand with another boy, his Dad’s behaviour had cured him of that. It was too risky. The slightest hint of anything remotely resembling two guys getting friendly and his Dad was off. Guys in the pub could do it, and his Dad would come home and beat Keith just for the sake of it. To make sure.

The torrent of words that came with it were foul and angry. Adult Keith would sometimes wonder where it all came from, what had made his Dad like that. But 15-year-old Keith simply mentally cowered and tried to let it wash over him. It wasn’t him, these people his Dad called foul were not him. But it was difficult.

And then it would all be over, like a Summer storm, and Dad’d be his usual self.

-oOo-oOo-

“So, what is it? You were restless all night, and angry with someone in your sleep.”

Keith looked at Thomas a bit shamefaced, “Not just in my sleep. All the talk of jigsaws reminded me of Gran, and of Dad and…”, he shrugged and then ducked his head, “I get angry and frustrated with him sometimes. But he’s not here, and there’s nothing I can do about it.”

“Not nothing, you can talk about it. That’s what friends are for, that’s what I’m for.” They were quiet for a bit; it was remarkably peaceful. “You remembering the stuff your Dad did to you, the beatings and stuff?”, Thomas was a bit tentative, Keith had talked about his Dad but not in detail.

“After I left home, I forgot about them for a while. When they were happening, I took them for granted, after all, other boys at school were thumped by their fathers.”

“At the age of what 15 or 16?”

“Yeah”, when Thomas looked surprised Keith continued, “Not the bend over the knee sort of beating, but there are other ways. I wasn’t the only kid to have a rough Dad. You learn to live with it”, he paused. “It does something to your brain.” He squeezed Thomas’ hand, “Even now. I get frustrated and angry. And I can’t get back at him.”

“To hit him?”

“No!” Keith gave a dry laugh, “I’d never manage that, but to talk to him. As if that would help. Reason!” Keith made as if to thump the step but made a conscious effort not to. “It wasn’t really the beatings, but other stuff. Terrorising me, really, where’ve you been, who’ve you seen, what you done? Slightest breaking of the rules and you were for it. I get frustrated at the things I never had chance to do. It makes me angry.” He looked anxiously at Thomas, “Not with anyone. When I’m alone and think about him. So, I try not to think about him.”

“Is that wise?”

“Dunno, but what else is there?”

This was more complicated than a lot of what Thomas had dealt with, but he felt they should keep talking, “Didn’t you tell anyone?”

Keith shrugged, “Who to tell? Gran might’ve not seen eye-to-eye with him, but he was My Father”, Keith used his hands to put the last two in inverted commas.

“What about school?”

Keith opened his eyes in mock alarm, “You didn’t get authorities involved, not folk like us. Bad things would happen. You didn’t wish that on yourself. I suppose the only thing I was frightened of more than Dad was being forced to leave home. Probably sounds crazy; even though I hated him, it was home.”

“So, how come you left?”

Keith wrinkled his nose and shrugged, “The rows got worse. Thought it’d ease up, you know, when I grew up. I’d tell myself that, make me feel better. Fat chance! Never happened. He just picked on something else. Then Gran died and… No reason to stay. I’d got a decent job, thanks to Gran and the old guy who’d let me do stuff when I was a kid. Started as a Saturday job and grew. Boss took a shine to me, a likely lad”.

“You think he had hopes in that way?”, and Thomas playfully rubbed Keith’s thigh close to his groin.

“Christ, I never thought of that! If he did, he kept his hands to himself. Good job he did, God knows what I’d have done. I was real straight then and up myself.” He grinned. “Dad was pleased I got a job, a proper job. One day I simply told him I was leaving, lodging with one of me mates at the firm.” Keith shrugged, “I often wonder if he gave up on me. He never made a fuss, I just upped and left.”

“Did you go back?”

“Odd days, but we always argued.”

“Look, if you feel like this. Frustrated or angry and I’m around, then talk to me. Right.”

Keith nodded, “Thanks. It’s just it feels so lame.”

“It’s not lame. You’re dealing with issues, and you should talk. Have you ever talked to anyone about it?”

Keith looked alarmed and shook his head. Thomas backed off, for the moment, but he’d have to find a way of talking to Nate about this and get his advice. Thomas stood up, “Right, I think I’m about ready for breakfast. What about you?” Keith grinned and stood up, the two hugged.

Luckily, Saturday morning was a lazy morning, but there were still errands to run. And Keith found that talking really had lifted his mood.

In the afternoon, there’d been talk of a kick around, but nothing came of it except a bunch of messages on WhatsApp. But they’d been geared up to go out, so Keith took Thomas down to the woods at the nature reserve. Keith’s face lit up when he saw the ice cream van in the car park and he managed to persuade Thomas to have one too, even though Thomas was able to quote all the things in it that were bad for you. They walked along to the beck, eating ice cream and without a care in the world.

During the week, Keith had been re-arranging things in the flat, getting the best use of the storage and it had set him thinking. He suggested that Thomas might like to keep some stuff at the flat, and Thomas agreed. It wasn’t much, but it seemed a step further. Ice creams eaten, Thomas leaned over and kissed Keith. They’d never done anything so public before, even though there was hardly anybody about. The kiss went on for longer than planned, and as they broke away both laughed, aware they’d need to go back to the flat if they wanted to go further.

As they walked back to the car, a group of boys shouted ‘Homo’ at them and jeered. So, they hadn’t been as alone as they thought. It was disturbing and made them a bit on edge in case the aggro was more than verbal. But afterwards, Thomas commented that what made it so disappointing was quite how unimaginative people still seemed to be when it came to abusive language. Keith had laughed nervously; would it have been any better if the boys had showed more imagination? This led to a lively discussion on the journey home.

Much later, clean, and sparkly, relaxed and recovered after a shower that shaded off into something far more intimate and enjoyable, the two presented themselves at Greg and Bart’s door. They were shown into their living area, where there were drinks and items to nibble and pick at. Keith had only a vague idea what half the stuff was. It felt foolish to keep asking, but Bart wanted to know what he thought so each mouthful involved an inquest. Thomas’ eye had been caught by the prints on the walls. Keith had almost taken these for granted, stylish modern, black and white to suit the style of the modern elements in the room. But Thomas seemed to recognise the artist so that their initial conversation was a strange interleaving of food and images.

Then Greg, who seemed to have some sort of secret to tell, disappeared and reappeared with an envelope which he handed to Thomas. Thomas looked at him, but all Greg did was make a ‘go on’ gesture so Thomas pulled the picture out. It was a group of churchmen, a semi-formal grouping with everyone looking slightly ill at ease. It wasn’t a church service, though all were in fairly formal jackets, dark trousers, and dog collars.

Amazed, Thomas pointed out his Father and Greg leaned over and pointed out his own Father. Greg had a smile on him as if he’d found treasure, though he admitted that it was a pure accident. He had been sorting out some of his old photographs; here Bart rolled his eyes somewhat, as their attitude to keeping order was vastly different, but Keith could sympathise with Greg’s need to have everything arranged properly. The back of the photo did give a hint of the occasion, just Lambeth 1985, with a list of names and Greg had spotted Thomas’ surname and assumed. It was the only photo he had found.

Neither man had any idea of the occasion, and certainly no recollection of the one Father mentioning the other.

All in all, it was a convivial evening, but Keith thought that he rather preferred Bart and Greg’s more casual hospitality to the more formal occasion. As he locked the door to the flat, he was startled out of his reverie by Thomas’ comment about inviting them to the flat for a meal, it was only polite.

Shit, Keith hadn’t thought of that.