They may not mean to, but they do - 39. Thirty-Nine

The trip to Moortown had all taken rather less time than they had planned, even their lunch had been rather early. On the motorway back, with Keith driving, Thomas was looking at the rather elderly book of maps. “Do you fancy calling in at the Yorkshire Sculpture Park? It’s a bit late, but we’d still have a couple of hours?”

“What is it?”

“It’s a country park which has sculpture in it, you wander round and look at contemporary sculpture in the landscape.”

Keith sucked his lip, “Sounds good.”

They had a couple of hours before it closed and decided to avoid the visitor centre and the gallery. But there were information boards and leaflets, so they took one of the pre-planned walks around the landscape. They were brisk; it was sunny with a bit of a breeze, and it blew the cobwebs away. Frankly, Keith wasn’t thinking much about sculpture. They walked around the landscape, stopping periodically to look at the sculptures but enjoying the green, the trees, the breeze and the sense of organisation and the layout just as much. They rarely agreed on the sculptures, that was part of the fun, Keith found some of the more abstract pieces rather satisfying, though he couldn’t say why, whilst some of the rather lumpy figures didn’t seem to work for him. Thomas would read the details from the map they had, though the names meant little. Some figures with rather realistic genitals caused comment and Keith’s ‘do yourself an injury on that’ raised a snigger from both of them.

They’d bought some cake and a drink from the café and once on the far side of the lake they sat down in the sun, a lovely view dotted not just with trees but with sculptures including some in the lake itself. Keith was staring at the lake, but seeing somewhere different, a far smaller, far shabbier patch of water.

“You can’t go back; the place is different and I’m different. I was hoping”, he shrugged, “but it doesn’t bring you back. And I’m not going to look for Tim. What would we say to each other?”

“The other guy might be around too?”

“Donald? Yeah, he probably could be. We were in our teens, and he seemed old, but he might have been in his 30s so he could be around. I wonder what happened to him?”

“Do you want to know?”

Keith wrinkled his nose, “I don’t think so. I’m not sure. If his life went on the rubbish dump after prison, then I’d feel guilty, even though I couldn’t do anything about it.”

They ate in companionable silence, watching the other visitors coming to terms with the sculpture.

“You know, something I’ve been thinking about. How did they know, how did Dad know?”

“Know what?”

“Well, Tim and I used to visit Donald and swim, which was not illegal. But he was arrested, and Dad knew that I’d been there and that things had gone on.”

“Did you and Donald ever?”

Keith shook his head, “Nah, I were too scared. I watched Tim and Donald that time.” He paused and thought, “I reckon that that was the only time, but your memory plays tricks, Tim and Donald might have done it more. But how did Dad know, how did the police know?”

“Were there other boys?”

“Mebbe, but not that I knew of. There were rumours, I heard things after, like. But it were only talk. I reckon that either Donald told or Tim did. My betting is that Tim’s Dad found out and told my Dad.”

“And got the police involved?”

“Yeah, no love lost for queers on the estate. Queers on telly were funny but running around the estate they were a danger to kids”, he grimaced. “And that was that.”

Keith thumped the seat on which they sat; it wasn’t loud but coming from someone who was usually relatively reserved, it was a big surprise.

“Back then. When I were pretending, I didn’t think that much about Dad and that. But recent like, I’ve been thinking and remembering. I get frustrated and angry.”

Thomas nodded, “But no-one to get angry with?”

“Yeah, that’s about it. I don’t think we’d have ever managed to have a proper conversation about it.”

“Being gay?”

“Yeah, there were so many things that set us off, arguing. Being gay, queer would have been just one more. I think I hoped that visiting Moortown might clear the air like.”

“Would it help to talk to someone?”

Keith looked at him and smiled, “I’ve got you!”

“I was thinking of someone professional.”

“A psycho you mean?”

“Not necessarily a psychologist, but I’m sure there must be people you could talk to.”

Keith wrinkled his nose, “I don’t think so. I reckon that I’m not that far gone, as long as you’ll listen to me ranting.”

“Hardly ranting. And I reckon that we both have a lot to talk about, so I think you’ll be doing a lot of listening too.”

Keith smiled, “Ok by me.”

There was a pause, and Keith was just about to suggest carrying on round the lake when Thomas started quoting something,

“They fuck you up, your mum and dad.

They may not mean to, but they do.

They fill you with the faults they had

And add some extra, just for you.

But they were fucked up in their turn

By fools in old-style hats and coats,

Who half the time were soppy-stern

And half at one another’s throats.

Man hands on misery to man.

It deepens like a coastal shelf.

Get out as early as you can,

And don’t have any kids yourself.”

“What was that?”

“This Be The Verse by Philip Larkin.”

“Who’s he?”

“Poet, around in the 1950s and 1960s.”

“I’ve not heard of him, but it makes a lot of sense.”

They smiled at each other and got up.

Part of the way around the lake there was another group of sculptures, but generally, they were aiming to return to the car.

“You know you suggested I write stuff down?” Thomas looked a bit blank. “You know, in case Maria came back. Well, I tried, and it didn’t go well. I’m rubbish at writing. But then I thought of telling you about it. And I started a series of letters.”

“Was that any easier?”

“Think so, leastways I’ve managed to get a lot down. And when I think I’ve missed summat, I can come back and slip another letter in.”

“Good”, Thomas smiled, and his eyes danced, “and do I get to read my letters?”

But Keith was still serious, “I reckon so. Some time. Not yet. OK?”

“OK, whenever you’re ready” and he put his hand into Keith’s. Normally they weren’t that demonstrative in public but there weren’t many people about and this felt right.

“Well, I started to write a letter about what happened with Dad, and then there was another. I reckon I might add more. Not right now, but when I think of things like. I’ll let you see them some time, but it has to feel right.”

Thomas shook his head, “That’s fine. Perhaps I ought to do something similar?”

“What, about your Dad?”

Thomas nodded. “I think I might have something to write about.”

They made their way back to the car, hand in hand, smiling in a way that might have seemed ridiculous given what they’d been talking about.