Date: Mon, 3 Sep 2007 13:22:39 +0000 (GMT)
From: Nexis Pas <nexispas@yahoo.co.uk>
Subject: The Cinque Ports, Part II

The Cinque Ports, Part II
Nexis Pas

Copyright 2007 by the author. The author asserts the moral right to be
identified as the author of this work.

nexispas@yahoo.co.uk

5. Past Tenses

I leaned against the stone wall and looked down the quiet hillside toward
the Channel in the hazy distance. The day was late enough in the spring to
be warm but not yet hot with summer. A few feet in front of me a column of
gnats danced in the sun. Their mysterious ritual of rising and falling and
darting forward and back absorbed my attention for a few
minutes. Occasionally a shadow from a cloud would sweep up the hill and
block the sun for a moment, swiftly chilling the air until the shadow
passed. Here and there the green countryside was alight with the reds and
purples of azaleas and rhododendrons. A good portion of West Sussex was
visible from that vantage point. Had it not been for a recently built
development of "ye olde country manors" with its half-timbered houses
poking up from a wooded area a mile or so distant, it could almost have
been the English countryside of myth and legend.

To my back came the sound of clippers as Mike cleared the grasses away
around the tombstone, as he done for many years on his annual visit to this
small cemetery beside a boarded-up and shuttered church. For him, I suspect
it was more in the nature of a pilgrimage to a shrine. For the past five
years he had asked me to bring him here. The visit always leaves him
depressed, and he does not trust himself enough to drive the road back to
Brighton. I knew from previous visits that he preferred to tend the grave
alone. A caretaker visits the churchyard occasionally and chops the weeds
back and hacks at the shrubberies, but he never cleans the mosses off the
stones or cuts the grasses that grow close around them. Even this early in
the year, clumps of nettles were already overreaching the top of the wall
in many places. Mike was one of the few people who still stopped to visit
the cemetery. Most of the burials had taken place so long ago that no one
living in this neighbourhood remembered these dead. When Mike finished each
year, his grave stood out as a neat patch in the otherwise overgrown and
ill-tended grounds. `Jonathan Crowley, 1962-1981.' That was all that was
carved on Mike's grave. Just the bare facts. No `in loving memory'. No
`always in our hearts.' No `taken too soon'. A short life with a long
impact, at least on Mike.

Behind me, the snickering of the clippers stopped. I turned halfway
around. Mike was standing with bent head before the grave. To the casual
passer-by, it would have looked as if he were praying. Perhaps he was. As
he straightened up, I turned away to give him some privacy. He dumped his
tools into the carryall he had brought with him and walked over to join me.

`I don't think they ever visit.'

`Who?' I knew the answer. Mike and I have much the same conversation every
year. But he likes to talk about his dead friend.

`His parents. They must still be alive. They would only be in their sixties
or early seventies now. That's not old these days. Most people that age are
still alive. And he had sisters.'

I made a sympathetic noise in my throat. Mike was so wrapped up in his own
thoughts that it didn't matter if I spoke or not.

`I think I'm the only one who still remembers him. His family just dumped
him here. They didn't want to know why he did what he did. They didn't want
to think about what he was becoming. They didn't even live in this
area. His mother was from around here, and this was a place where they
could lay claim to a spot in a cemetery and could bury him and forget about
him. You know, they wouldn't let any of us from school attend the
funeral. They said it was too far, and the ceremony would be too
traumatic. They wouldn't even tell us where he was buried. It was four
years before I found out where they had put him away and could visit him.'

`He must have been very special, Mike, for you to remember him this
way. It's lucky you work nearby.'

`He was the best. He could make me feel so good just by smiling at
me. That's all it took. A smile when he saw me approaching. He'd look up
and see me coming, and he would smile and jump to his feet. If there were
others around, he would grab my hand and shake it and tap me on the
shoulder, just to let me know he was happy to see me and that I meant
something special to him. If we were alone, he would hug me. He was the
first person I ever kissed. The first person I ever made . . .' Mike
started crying at that point, the tears sliding from his eyes. He wiped
them away as he weren't aware they were there. `People would think I'm that
daft to come up here year after year. Mike the jovial pub manager still
grieving for his first love after twenty-six years. But he was
special. I'll never forget. He's why I moved to Brighton. To be
closer. He's more real to me here. You must feel the same way about
Charles. Don't you visit his grave?'

Mike knew that I didn't. `Charles was cremated. His sister and I were his
only relations. She took the ashes with her back to Donegal and put them in
the family crypt. I've never visited. It wouldn't seem like he was there to
me. But I know what you mean. Some days it's as if he's just around a
corner. I feel that if I walk into the kitchen, he'll be there. Or I'll be
half asleep in the morning and think that I'll get up when I hear him turn
off the shower. And then I remember that he's dead.'

`He was a nice man.'

`Yes, he was that.'

`Thanks for coming with me, Peter. You're the only one who understands what
it means to lose someone. Sid thinks I should put it all behind me and
forget. Well, a lot of people think I should forget Jonathan. But I can't,
you know. Sometimes I think that everything that I've become in life is
because of Jonathan.'

`How so?' Again, I knew the answer, but Mike needed to rehearse it once
more, this morning, in this place.

`I couldn't take my A-levels I was so upset. I would have passed enough of
them to get into Cambridge, but I never went back to school after that
weekend. I just collapsed. For months I couldn't do anything. I could
barely get out of bed. And then when I did, nothing seemed worth it, you
know? And I couldn't feel anymore. I was just on the margin. Finally I
couldn't stay at home anymore and listen to the arguments and the
concern. I didn't want to be around anyone who knew me. Everyone was
nagging me to keep a stiff upper lip and to be brave and get up and get on
with my life. To make something of myself. To honour Jonathan's memory by
making a success of myself. The "life goes on" crew--that's what I called
them to myself. "Life goes on." That's a laugh. Those people who don't
understand that sometimes your life just stops and won't go on. I even
thought about killing myself. But in the end I couldn't do it. And one day
I couldn't take it any longer. So I went to London. The only job I could
find was working as a waiter in a pub. Then I started working behind the
bar. When I learned where Jonathan was buried, I moved to Brighton to be
closer. Well, the rest you know. I met Sid, and he helped me a lot. Not to
feel so cold.'

`You never talk about what happened, Mike. After all these years, I only
know that your friend died.'

`I went away that weekend. It was an aunt's birthday. I looked out the
window and saw my father driving up. I reached over and hugged Jonathan and
we kissed. Someone saw us and reported it. Jonathan got called to the
headmaster's office. I don't know what was said, but he left the dorm that
night and went out to the woods beyond the playing fields and killed
himself. That's all I know. By the time I returned on Sunday night, his
parents had already come and taken him away. I never got to see him
again. The last time I saw him was that furtive embrace before I picked up
my bag and ran down the stairs and out the door. When my father was driving
off, I looked back at our window, but the sun was shining on it and I
couldn't see in. I didn't know if he was standing there watching or not. So
I just waved on the off chance he was there and then rolled up the car
window. Maybe he saw me, maybe he didn't. I hope that was his last memory
of me. I got back to school late on Sunday night. I ran up the stairs to
our rooms. I can still feel my bag hitting my leg as I take the steps two
or three at a time. There are people in the hall, and they're laughing and
smiling at me in an odd way. I throw open the door and expect to find him
hunched over his table studying. Instead I find a bed that has been
stripped bare. There's an envelope on the table with my name on it and a
note from matron saying would I stop by her rooms when I get in. That's how
I found out. She sits there in an armchair drinking a cup of tea and tells
me that Jonathan killed himself and I should go back upstairs and be a good
lad and forget about him. That it was best to get on with life. That's how
I learned that he was dead. A plump satisfied woman slurping tea and
petting a dog on her lap tells me to be a good lad and get on with it. I
know it was hard on you when Charles was dying, but at least you got to say
good-bye.'

`Oh, I got to say that, I got to say that many times. Every night when I
left his bedside, I got to say good-bye. It seemed that for six months all
I did was say good-bye to Charles. And you know, the night he died, it
wasn't any different. The sister came in to chase me out because visiting
hours were over. It was the nice sister, not the one who treated us like
dirt because Charles and I were gay, and Charles was only getting what he
deserved. So she let me stay a few extra seconds, and she just smiled when
I kissed him. There was a tube taped to his mouth, and I had to kiss him on
the forehead. It was the only spot that was open. I had to brush his hair
aside so I could kiss him. I think he knew that I was there. So I said
good-bye and left. I didn't think it was any different from any other
night. I thought I would be back the next night, sitting by his bed and
reading to him or watching television with him and hoping that he was aware
of what was happening around him. And the next morning, I get a call from
someone in the hospital administration. Charles had died in his sleep
during the night. He died all alone. No one was there. They discovered it
in the morning when someone went in to check on him. The body had already
been moved to the mortuary, and I was down on the card as the person to
notify when he died, and could I come in and sign the papers and pick up
his belongings? That was it, a neutral bureaucratic voice going through her
daily task of clearing up the paperwork.

`And everyone is saying, "It's a blessing. Now he won't have to suffer
anymore." And I want to scream at them that we just wanted more time
together. That it's never enough time. And people kept coming up to say
they were sorry to hear that he had died, and if there was anything they
could do. But you know, there's nothing they can do. All the words in the
world won't bring the dead back, and that's what you want. Just another
day, another hour, one more useless evening of sitting by a hospital bed
and watching someone you love struggle to live through another minute.

`And everyone expects you to be brave and put up a good front. And you
can't explain why you're shopping in Tesco's and you suddenly abandon your
basket in the middle of the aisle and run out just because you turn a
corner and see a bin of beetroots. And you don't even like beetroots, but
Charles did and the sight of them makes him too real again. Or why you take
a back route home so that you don't have to pass that Indian place he
always insisted on going to and why you can't eat Chicken Tikka now because
it was his favourite. And thousands of things more that conspire to remind
you that you're alone now, and the one person who kept you from feeling
alone isn't there any more.'

So we stand there, leaning on a stone wall surrounding an ancient cemetery
on a hillside in West Sussex. Two men, one old man in his sixties, one
middle-aged man in his forties. Employer and employee. Acquaintances rather
than friends. But participants in an annual ritual of remembrance. We stand
there and have a good cry. Perhaps Jonathan and Charles weren't as we
recall them. No one is ever as perfect as the remembered dead, the friends
and lovers who become even better in recollection than they were in
life. But it's not the dead we mourn. It's the living that might have been
that brings the tears, the necessity of our inadequate and traitorous
memories that we regret.

And then both of us wipe away the last tears and blow our noses for the
final time. Mike picks up his carryall and puts it in the boot of my
car. We take one final look around at that fine late spring morning and the
newly cleared space around Jonathan's grave and then drive away, down a
hill of green memories.


6. Reflections

`Ok, Jule, you lost the bet. Drink up, buy us another round, and then pay
the forfeit.'

`I'm sure you cheated, Cormac. I demand another throw.'

`The result would be the same. You're lousy at this game. You should never
bet. That's a pint of Old Peculier, two pints of brown ale, a glass of
whatever you're drinking, and a package of nuts.'

`Nuts? Aren't there enough nuts already at this table?'

`Yeah, but the ones at the table now are too hairy to eat. I want the
roasted and salted kind that grows on trees.'

`And they let you teach at the university. Aye, well, it was a sad day for
education in this country when you began moulding young minds.'

`Our students arrive with mouldy minds. All we do is attempt to spread a
little fungicide. Now get the drinks. And call Niall and tell him to hurry
up. Go, go.'

`All right. The hint is taken already.' . . .

`Julian does have a nice arse, doesn't he? Always a pleasure to see his
backside.'

`In more ways than one. I know he's your friend, Daniel. But he's so bloody
boring. I wish Niall would get here. He's a bit more fun, and he's got an
even nicer arse.'

`It would be hard to judge between them and decide which is best. Imagine
those as a pair of bookends. They would keep the books nice and upright and
straight. Well, not straight perhaps.'

`So you'd like to get between their arses and judge? For shame, Alan. And
we were having such a nice uplifting conversation until you lowered it to
arse level.'

`Which one of us was talking about hairy nuts?'

`You aren't old enough to have hair on your balls. I wasn't alluding to
yours.'

`As if you would know.'

`Ah, you two, stow it. We're supposed to be celebrating Julian and Niall's
engagement to maybe commit to living together someday soon. Try to keep it
pleasant.'

`Yes, Mummy. We'll leave the bitchy remarks to you then.'

`Be nice, Cormac, or it's no kibble for you tonight.'

`Arf arf.'

`He does sit up and beg nicely, doesn't he, Alan?'

`Hmm. I've noticed. Took him to obedience school, did you?'

`Yes, the instructor said he was the slowest learner he'd seen. Took ever
so many flicks of the crop before he got it right.'

`Have you had him fixed yet, Daniel? You know, it's your responsibility as
a pet owner to prevent further reproduction of this breed.'

`Well, let's just say that I am a responsible pet owner. I can guarantee
that he will never reproduce.'

`So, talk about me as if I weren't here. Go ahead. Pay me no nevermind.'

`If only it were that easy. Come here, let me scratch you behind the ears.'

`I'd much rather you'd scratch me tail. You know--that spot that makes me
leg twitch.'

`Later. After you've been fed. Ah, here's the drinks lad.'

`Niall says that he's almost finished. He'll be along in half an hour at
most.'

`So we can expect an hour's wait, then.'

`Something like that, with a bit of luck.'

`Ok, your forfeit.'

`I was hoping you had forgotten. Here's your nuts.'

`Oh good, those Spanish almonds. God, they do seal these packages
tightly. I never can get these open.'

`Oh, give it here.'

`Ooooo, what a luverly man. Did you see the way his biceps bulged when he
ripped that package open? And did you notice how his nostrils flared? Same
thing happens when he opens the Durex foil. Gets me all steamed up, it
does. Nut, Alan?'

`No thanks. One nut is more than enough for any evening. Speaking of
condoms, did you see the poster that big cartoonist drew, at the back of
the bar there?'

`He's lucky that "Bert" doesn't come here anymore.'

`What's happened to him? It has to be at least four or five months since I
last saw him.'

`Don't try to change the subject, Jule. Enough of this chitchat. It's time
for your forfeit. Don't groan. It's quite simple really. Nothing that
involves public humiliation or embarrassment. You simply have to tell us
you favourite kind of pornography. It's so we'll know what sort of pictures
to get you to hang on the walls of your love nest.'

`Don't you think Julian and Niall have enough hanging already?'

`Alan, Alan, Alan. You really should leave the double-entendres to me. I'm
much better at them. Now, Julie, your favourite type of
pornography. Please. Feel free to embroider and add lewd details. You will
have our undivided attention.'

`I'd rather you ignored me.'

`My dear Julian, no one will ever ignore you. Just tell him what he wants
to know. He won't rest until he hears.'

`Yes, I won't rest. So tell. All. Now.'

`Ok, my favourite pornography. You know, I so seldom look at pornography,
I'm not sure I have a favourite type.'

`Julian, your computer is full of pictures. You showed me several.'

`Oh, you traitor. You didn't need to tell Cormac that, Alan.'

`I can tell you what Jule likes. Most of the picture are of guys wearing
shiny sunglasses. Our Jule has a mirrored shades fetish.'

`Ooo, a fetish. Do tell us, Jule. This is a new dimension to your shapely
but otherwise bland personality.'

`Cormac, no kibble tonight.'

`Cormac whinges and stares at his lover with adorable look on his face and
wags his tail. What sort of beast could resist so much cuteness in one
package?'

`I love it when you wag your tail.'

`So I get some kibble tonight?'

`We'll see.'

`Tail wagging, Jule. It's a technique that never fails. I recommend it. Try
it on Niall. He appears to like dogs.'

`Niall prefers sheep, I think. I have to baa and bleat at him and go all
woolly to get his attention.'

`Oh, does he? That can be the subject of your next forfeit. So, we were
talking about this most titillating penchant of yours for mirrored
glasses.'

`Well, if I must.'

`Needs must, laddie. Confessss. And maybe we'll allow you to do
pendance--pedance--pen--ance, there I knew I'd get it right
eventually. Penance on your knees before Father Cormac.'

`Ok, here goes. Once upon a time, I was locked indoors on a dreary rainy
night and had nothing to do. So, out of boredom, I switched on my computer
to check my email. There, lurking among the many offers to make me rich and
big and longer lasting, was a letter promising that ineffable pleasures
from Oliver Cumwell were but a simple click of the mouse away.'

`Oliver Cromwell? The Lord Protector is communicating with you now?'

`No, Cumwell. Oliver Cumwell. Even now, my voice fails me as I recall his
perfection. Pardon me, if I stumble in my recital. Some memories are too
sacred. One feels too full. The words fight to emerge, too feeble to convey
to you the beauty of this man. The raging of my heart as it attempts to
tear itself from my breast, the churning of my bile, the roaring in my
bowels--who could blame me if they cause me to yowl in pain frequently? O,
Oliver, Oliver, Oliver--how can our meagre tongues describe you? An angelic
devil with a swelling, sweltering symphony of large, well-defined muscles,
no body hair except a tantalising growth of curls above his cock, an even
tan, teeth whiter than the driven snow, thick black lustrous hair, wearing
only a pair of sunglasses with a mirror finish. Surely he was no mortal. He
could only be a god from California, nursed on unfiltered, unpasteurised
goat's milk and raised on organic seaweed. A friend of the dolphin and the
giant condor and the green-eyed three-toed sloth. A runner with wolves. A
consumer of tofu.

`As my eyes lingered for a briefest faction of a second on Oliver, I
noticed that reflected on the lenses of the eyeglasses was another
image. Driven by curiosity, I saved Oliver's picture to my computer and
reopened it in Ye Olde Photoshoppe. I enlarged it, and there in the middle
of the glasses I discovered an image of the photographer, his camera
obscuring his face, his clothing and his body visible in great
detail. Imagine it, Cormac, a perfect hunk reflecting your image. You are
making love, and there in his glasses you see your image imprinted on his
face. Could there be anything more arousing?

`I became obsessed. I had to have more. I searched every male nude site I
could find, looking for more images within images. I became addicted. I
tried every twelve-step program I could find to cure this rage, this
insanity. But, alas, to no avail. Ah, you are laughing. The cruel laughter
of the sane, the normal. How can I expect you to understand the search for
perfection that drove me? Endless nights of surfing the web until my head
crashed into my keyboard and I could snatch a few hours of sleep from that
fickle fiend Morpheus. For months the image of the keyboard was impressed
into my forehead. I forsook friends, family, food, in the frenzy of my fury
to find photos of fractionated facsimiles of reflected figures.

`And I found them, by the hundreds. Reflections in glasses, in rubber, in
latex, in lycra, in metal, reflections everywhere. But regrettably, none
that came close to duplicating the delights of Oliver. The demon drove
me. On and on, I searched. Sometimes my searches met with partial
success. I could almost recover the images of those reflected on these
idols. Once in a tear, an idol's tear, I found the distorted upside-down
image of the photographer. I know not whence he cammed. But more often than
not, my attempts to enlarge the reflected image resolved it into indistinct
pixels. Squares of light without meaning. I almost despaired. But I was
driven onward by the realisation that Oliver could not be an isolated
phenomenon. The gods would not be so unkind.

`And then, barely two weeks ago, I found him. He was not even wearing
glasses or reflective clothing. Instead his body was luminous with a
coating of oil. His skin absolutely glistened. And there in the centre of a
large, flat pec was a perfect, sharp-edged rectangle of light. Within the
rectangle was a human-shaped figure. I barely breathed as I downloaded the
image onto my computer. My hand trembled as I clicked on the image and
opened it. I dared not look. I clicked once to enlarge the
area. Twice. Thrice. Expecting to meet with disappointment once again, I
slowly opened my eyes. And there it was. A man standing in front of a
window was reflected in utter perfection on the body of the model. My quest
was at a end. The dragon had been slain. I knew peace. I could rest.'

`Oh, bravo, Julian, bravo.'

`Thank you, thank you. I do pride myself on my ability to weave words.'

`That was terrific. Drink up, Julian. You must be thirsty after that
speech. So now do you know what to get Niall and Julian for their new flat,
Cormac?'

`To someone with my powers to anal, to analyse literature, is sobvious. I
read this whole fairy tale as an estended hint for a mirror so he can look
at himself and keep an eye on Niall at the shame, the same, the same time.'

`I don't have to look in a mirror to see Niall.'

`Yet curiously, it is indeed very curious, if you sould, if you, if you,
Julesie, should look at Niall, what would you see? I'll tell you what you
would shee. You would see, you would see a mirror image of yourself.'

`Cormac, I've had too much to drink to figure out that conundrum.'

`Well, they always say that the longer a whatchamacallit, a couple, the
longer a couple is married, the more they re . . . semble each other. But
you and Niall already 'semble each other. In a few months you'll look so
much alike that you'll need to sign wears so that we can tell you aparts.'

`What?'

`I meant to say, "wear signs". Wear signs. You two will have to wear
shigns.'

`Could it be that our Cormac has had too much to drink?'

`Never get enough to drink. Shame on you, same on you, Daniel, for shay,
for saying that.'

`All right, Cormac. Let's get you home and to bed.'

`Always wanting me to put in bed. That's all the man thinks about. Me in
bed. We came here to drink to Niall and Jule. I have nothing to drink, and
Niall is not here. But the evening has not been wasted. Daniel wants me in
bed. Another glorious evening in bed. By myself. Shleeping it off.'

`Ok, Cormac. Let's get you stood up. Now, say good-bye to Julian and Alan.'

`Good-bye lads. I am being sshanghaid. I bid you adieu, you big me dood
night. Sleep well. Chinsh up. Cheerios and Wheetabishkies.'

`Do you need help, Daniel?'

`No, I'm getting lots of practice with this, but thanks for offering,
Alan. Julian, my best to Niall. I know you two will be happy together.'

`Yeah, look at Daniel and me, we're so happy, aren't we, Danny? Sooo
sappy. That's us, Danny and Cormie, so happy. A happy happy happy couple.'

`Ok, we've entertained everyone enough tonight. Thanks, Sid. My car's just
down the street. If you could just hold Cormac up while I get the doors
unlocked and help me get him strapped in, I'd appreciate it. Night,
everyone.'

. . . . . . .

 `Poor Daniel. He is willy-nilly becoming a saint.'

`It just gets worse and worse. That's why Niall isn't here. He refused to
come because of Cormac. Daniel's my oldest friend. I didn't feel I could
refuse him, but I had to force myself to show up. I've been dreading this
evening. And, I must say, it was worse than I thought it would be.'

`Things aren't going well for Cormac. The drinking is beginning to
interfere with his work, and he gets lectures from the department head. So
he drinks to forget them, and then his work deteriorates even
further. Plus, I don't think he and Daniel are sleeping together now.'

`Yeah, I wondered about that remark about sleeping alone again.'

`Well, you know what bad housekeepers they are. I was over there last week
and went upstairs to use the facilities. Both beds were unmade, and both
bedrooms were being used. Daniel's stuff in one. Cormac's in the
other. Before the second bedroom was more like a guest room. You know that
unused look of the spare bedroom--the coverlet without a wrinkle. No stuff
lying on chairs or on the floor. Now, Daniel's obviously moved into it. You
know it will do Cormac in if Daniel leaves him.'

`Well, if there's no improvement, he may have to do just that.'

`Yes, it's sad. . . . But, on a brighter note, now that Cormac has
departed, do you think Niall would pop by? There is a new flat that's going
to be put on the market on Thursday. I've got the information and pictures
here. I can show them to you. It meets all of your general requirements,
and it's absolutely "redolent with charm" to indulge in agentspeak. The
right location. Sunny, well ventilated, a fireplace, almost a view of the
Channel if you're a contortionist and lean out the window far enough. Oh,
and there's a large mirror above the fireplace. So you won't have to fear
Cormac bearing gifts.'


7. Bert, Just Plain Bert

`But what will I say, Mr Adamson? They told me I have to say something if I
win the contest.'

`Well, Henry, what would The Rock say? Or Bert?'

`Well, The Rock would say thanks and that he hoped everyone would practice
safe sex. And then he would get all embarrassed and blush and look around,
not daring to meet anyone's eyes, because he had mentioned the word "sex"
in public. Bert would push him aside and say, "That's my Brighton Rock for
you. He's never out without protection. Nor am I, and I hope all of you
lads will follow our lead when you are out and about. You don't want
AIDS. You don't want to get it. You don't want to give it. So take a friend
with you. Maybe you don't need the extra large size, specially reinforced
condoms that The Rock and I use. After all, not everyone can be a super
. . . hero like us. But condoms came in all shapes, sizes, and colours. The
important thing is always to have one with you in case something comes
up. You never know when you might run into a bit of luck. Remember--don't
leave home without one." '

`That's it, Henry. Just say exactly that. People will remember that.'

`But Mr Adamson, I can't. I can't get up in front of a crowd and say things
like that.'

`But The Rock and Bert can. Just think to yourself as you step up to the
microphone, I am The Rock. I am Bert. And just let the words come out as
they did now. It'll work. Trust me on that, Henry. Everyone will think it's
just the right thing to say. Just be The Rock and Bert.'

Henry nodded in polite agreement, but he looked doubtful. His poster to
promote safe sex hung behind the bar. In the foreground, the Brighton Rock
and his sidekick, Bert, Just Plain Bert, sat at a table in a pub that was
recognizably the Cinque Ports. Caricatures of Mike and Eddie stood behind
the bar dispensing drinks. I was seated at one end of the U-shaped
bar. Other patrons visible in the background bore strong resemblances to
several of our regulars.

The Brighton Rock was holding up a condom wrapped in a large, square
plastic envelope decorated to match the candy stripes on his and Bert's
costumes. Other, similar envelopes spilled from an open box on the
table. On the side of the box was visible EXTRA LARGE and the slogan
`Recommended by the Ministry of Superheroes.' A balloon above The Rock's
head indicated he was speaking: `But these aren't large enough,
Bert. You're going to need a bigger size than this. These would tear if you
put them on. A condom has to fit securely, but we don't want it to be so
tight that it bursts when we're practicing our special villain-quelling
moves.' A thought balloon above Bert's head contained a picture of the two
of them wrestling a suggestively shaped villain wearing a shirt with a
pattern of aces of spades to the ground and encasing him in a condom. A
banner at the top of the picture read `Always Practice Safe Sex. Use a
Condom.'

Henry had learned earlier that afternoon that the artist who drew the
winning poster was expected to make a speech at the awards ceremony during
Gay Pride Week. After it became known that Henry had supplied a poster
based on the Brighton Rock series, one of the other pubs had withdrawn its
entry, and several people had told Henry that his was the best and should
win. Given the number of people who attend Gay Pride Week in Brighton, the
awards ceremony could be expected to attract at least a thousand
people. Anyone else would have been elated at the prospect of winning the
contest, but Henry was overcome with trepidation at the thought that in a
few weeks he might have to stand up in public to receive a reward and make
a few remarks. It was that concern that had brought him to the Cinque Ports
that afternoon. He wanted to talk to me. He had been ready to withdraw his
entry when he came in. I had talked him out of that, but that didn't solve
his problem with the dreaded speech. There was one other problem, however,
that I don't think he foresaw.

`Henry, those are marvellous drawings of all of us. At least I think I can
identify all the people you used as models. The Rock is obviously based on
you. But does the model for Bert recognise himself?'

`Oh, yeah, he's known for years.' Henry shifted his weight from foot to
foot and looked away from me as he spoke. The question had made him visibly
uneasy.

`I didn't know you two knew each other.'

`Since we were small. Both of us grew up here in Brighton. Our mothers are
friends. Our families live about a block apart. We went to the same primary
school and were always in the same classes until we transferred to the
comprehensive. We spent a lot of time together.'

`I've never seen the two of you together.'

`Well, we're not close any more, but we were together a lot when we were
young. I started drawing cartoons years ago, when we were kids. I was just
drawing for fun. He helped me make up the stories. We were always the
heroes. Silly stuff, you know. Whatever was in the paper or on the news on
television. I'd draw the two of us as the heroes, and he would make up the
words. We were always saving the world. Then when we got older, well, I got
big and clumsy. He became--well, you know how handsome he is. Even as a
teenager, he stood out. The best-looking guy in the school. He was the guy
that everyone admired. He was so popular. And I didn't fit in with his new
group of friends. I wasn't cool or popular. So he stopped being interested
in me, embarrassed to be seen with me, he was. I drew some cartoons like
before and showed them to him, and he said that cartoons were for children
and that he was too old for that now. So we didn't see so much of each
other after that. If we met when none of his friends was around, he'd say
hello and chat a bit, but if there were other people around, he would just
nod at me and not say anything.

`One day I heard one of his friends ask him how he knew "that big oaf." He
didn't bother to defend me or say that I wasn't a big oaf. He just said
that our families knew each other. And, well, his friend was right. I was a
big oaf. Always tripping over my own feet and dropping stuff and running
into walls and doors. And I didn't fit in. Everyone wanted me to play
games, to be on the sports teams, and I was just interested in drawing and
helping my dad in the garden. It doesn't make you popular when all the
other lads want to talk about sports and cars and girls and going to
concerts and girls and sneaking cigs and beer and girls, and the only thing
you can do is draw well and the only thing you know much about is how to
grow flowers and vegetables.'

`So you haven't talked with him in years?'

Henry hunched forward and bent his body over his glass, as if he were
protecting it. He stared at the wooden top of the bar. `No. Except for a
few weeks three years ago. I started going to the Mastiff. I didn't do
anything except sit there and drink. I was too nervous even to look around
or talk with anyone. Most nights I'd order a pint and drink it in fifteen
minutes and leave. I wouldn't talk with anyone. If anyone spoke to me, I'd
say something about meeting someone and leave.'

`Like the first few times you came in here.'

`No, even worse. You wouldn't let me sit by myself. You made me talk and
included me in your groups. I know I don't fit in here, but it's better
than any other place I could go to.'

`There's nothing to fit into here, Henry. That's the secret of our success,
such as it is. Charles wanted a place where everyone felt comfortable being
himself. So all sorts of people come into the Cinque Ports. No types, just
lots of different people, and you're one of them. You fit in as well as any
of us does. Now, would you tell me what happened three years ago? If I'm
prying--well, I am prying, but I would like to know.'

`People are always telling me it helps to talk about things. Maybe it will
help to talk about it. I don't know. . . . Yeah, well, I'm sitting in the
Mastiff, with my head down, trying to be invisible and hoping that someone
will finally notice me. And someone stops beside me and says, "Henry, what
are you doing in here? Don't you know this is a gay pub?" And I look up,
and there's Ross. And we suddenly realise that both of us are gay. So we
talked for a while, catching up like, and he asks what I'm doing now. I
tell him about the cartoon strip I've started. He wants to see it, so I
take him to my place. Bert didn't look like him then. He was joking about
the old days, when I always drew the two of us as the heroes. And I said,
well, I could do that. And I picked up a pencil and changed Bert so that he
looks like Ross. And he said, that's better, much better. Make Bert look
like that, like him. So I did.'

`Ross?'

`That's his middle name. He and his father had the same first name, so his
family called him "Ross" to tell them apart, and that's the name I knew for
him. When we went to school, the teachers called him "Vincent". So he
started using that name.'

`And that was the last time you spoke with him?'

`Oh, no. We dated, I guess you could call it that. We dated for about a
month. It was like it was when we were kids at first, we were friends
again, but it was different because we . . . I mean we were adults now,
and, well, we went to bed. It was my first time. I thought it meant the
same thing to him that it did to me. But he said, no, it was just fun, just
recreation. Nothing serious. Just part of the game, he said. It's just gay
life. You have as much fun as you can, and when it's not fun anymore, you
move on and find someone else. And then he couldn't see me one night
because he was going out with someone else. And so we drifted apart again.'

`I'm sorry, Henry. I shouldn't have asked.'

`No, it's all right, Mr Adamson. But I don't think it helps to talk about
things. Still hurts just as much.' Henry glanced at me, and a sad smile
quickly came and went from his lips. `I know that people say I'm living a
fantasy with the Brighton Rock. Maybe I am. I don't know. It's just my way
of dealing with things. But I do know the difference between the cartoons
and life.'

`I know you do, Henry. But don't be so hard on yourself. Henry has a lot
more to offer the world than The Rock. And he has the benefit of being
real.'

`I don't know, Mr Adamson. Real's not always as good as the cartoons. Not
for me, anyway. Not for the likes of me. I don't really fit in
anywhere. Except in a world where I can dress up in a costume and pretend
to be something I'm not. You write books. You know what it's like to live
through your characters. I'd better go now. Thanks for listening to
me. I'll think about what you said about the speech. But I don't think I
can do that.' He stood up and began walking away. After a few steps, he
turned around to look at the poster. `Maybe I should change Bert so that he
doesn't look so much like Ross. Work it into the story line that he has to
have plastic surgery or something to repair the damage done to him by the
bad guys. And when the bandages are removed, he'll look different. That
would be a good story. Maybe it's time for that.'


8. There is in Truth no Beauty

`Oh, hello, Sid, you're in early today.'

`Hello, Peter. Mike's under the weather today, and Eddie's got a dentist's
appointment and won't be in until after 2:00. So it's up to me to get
things ready to open. I called Phil, and he'll come in at 5:00 and fill in
for Mike tonight. You doing the accounts?' Sid walked behind the bar and
into the back room. When he came out, he had taken his coat off and was
tying one of our green towels around his waist.

`Yes. I figured I'd better tackle them before I get even further behind. I
made that pot of coffee about half an hour ago. It should still be
drinkable, if you want a cup. What's wrong with Mike?'

Sid reached under the counter and pulled out a mug. He filled it about
halfway with coffee and then topped it off with an equal amount of
milk. The sugar was on the table where I was working, and he walked over
and added three packets of it to his cup. He pulled out a chair and sat
down opposite me. That in itself was unusual. Usually Sid doesn't talk
much, at least to me. My face must have betrayed some of my surprise and
astonishment.

`Don't worry. It's two hours until we open. I'll get what needs doing done
before then.'

`I don't worry about you doing your work, Sid. I was just wondering what's
up.'

He nodded. He sat there and stirred his coffee for about half a minute
before speaking.

`Mike went on his annual binge last night over the visit to the cemetery.'

`Oh, I thought we had avoided that this year. It's been over a week since
the visit.'

`Yeah, well, it just took him a bit longer to get around to it this
year. He's been getting sadder and sadder all week. Last night after
closing, we went home, and he sat down and poured himself a whiskey. He
said he'd be up to bed in a while, but this morning he was asleep on the
couch. He must have drunk about a third of the bottle. He'll be all right
by tonight. He never does more than the one binge. At least not so far.'

`It seems to be part of the tradition.'

Sid took a long sip of his coffee and made a face. `I don't know why I
drink this stuff. Never could stand coffee.' He shoved the cup aside. The
milk must have been getting old. It was already beginning to curdle. `It's
one part of the tradition I could do without. In fact, I'm getting tired of
the whole tradition. It's been what now, twenty-five, thirty years since
this Jonathan offed himself. Mike needs to put it behind him and get on
with life.'

`That's seems to be the one thing he can't do. I don't understand why.'

`He talks to you about it, doesn't he?'

`I've heard some of the story. I don't know if it's all of it.'

`Story--that's a good word for it.' Sid looked at me expectantly. Obviously
this was a remark supposed to elicit further interest. Sometimes my
reputation for being a good listener invites confidences. I'd be the first
to admit that I don't discourage them.

`What do you mean?'

`Mike and I have been together almost twelve years now. The first time he
told me about it, he didn't mention a name. Just this kid in his school who
committed suicide, and how much it had upset him and how it changed his
life. Then one day Mike goes out for a drive in the country on his day
off. He used to do that a lot. Just drive around. When he gets back, he
announces he's found "Jonathan's grave" and guess what, it's not so far
from here. I've been wondering for several years if he just went out in the
countryside and found a grave with the right dates. Most of those old
churches that have been closed have graveyards around them, and they're not
kept up. There's not even a village near that church. I hunted it up on one
of my days off just to see what Sid was looking at. Nobody ever comes
around that place. And all the houses in that area are new. The people who
live in them aren't related to the people in the graveyard. So Sid doesn't
have to worry about a family member driving past and stopping to ask what
he's doing mucking about their boy's grave.'

`Sid, I do think something happened in Mike's past.'

`Oh, something happened. I'm just not sure that it's what he says it
is. Over the years, the story has gotten more and more detailed. We only
have Mike's word that he even went to that school.'

`He has the right accent, and you can tell he had the sort of education St
Luke provides.'

`You'd know more about that than me. But he never gets any mail from
them. Don't schools like that write to their former students? Asking for
money and such like. Bragging about the successes of their old boys.'

`Mine does. I wish I could get off their appeals list.'

`That's what I mean. Plus he has no family. At least he's never in contact
with anyone that I know of. He's met my family. I've even met some of yours
and Charles's brothers and sisters. It's not natural to have no family. But
Mike's family is all in his past. To hear him tell it, they threw him out
twenty years ago and haven't bothered to look him up. So there's no one I
can ask. If a person called this St Luke's, would they tell you if Mike
went there and if someone in his class committed suicide?'

`I doubt they would. They might confirm that Mike had been a student there,
but a suicide is not something they would admit to readily. But there might
have been a report in the local newspapers.'

`I could go up there and ask on one of my days off. It's not that far. Or I
bet Julian can help me find out. He knows a lot about computers. There's
all sorts of information available now on the internet. He could help me
look.'

`Why this sudden interest?'

`Because I'm getting tired of it. That dead boy means more to Mike than I
do. Aren't I enough? Why do I have to take second place to someone who died
years ago? The only way I'll ever get that much attention from Mike is to
kill myself.'

`Well, don't do anything that extreme. But why would Mike make up such a
story?'

`I don't know. Maybe he just likes the lie. It's a big romantic story. He's
the glad-handed bartender with a sad past. Bravely hiding his sorrows under
a smile. Plus he's got a reason for being a failure. You know he thinks of
himself as a failure. Didn't accomplish what someone with his background
and education should. So now he has this reason not to succeed. The big
love of his life kills himself, and Mike goes to pieces and his life is
wrecked. He hits bottom and then pulls himself together and makes something
of himself. But it's so sad, isn't it, that he has to settle for being the
manager of a pub in Brighton, when he could have done so much? And then
there's me. He gets all the advantages of having a lover but he doesn't
have to commit himself fully to me. There's this awful event in his past,
see, and it prevents him from being able to love me back as much as I love
him.'

`Do you love him?'

`Yes, how can you ask that? We've been working for Charles and then you for
the past ten years. You've seen us together. What did you think we were,
just good friends? Would I be this upset if I didn't love him?'

`Then forget about this. Accept the story and live with it. You've been
living with it for years now. If it's not the truth, Mike isn't going to
give it up. It would be too important to him now to give it up. Sometimes
the stories we tell ourselves become so much a part of us that we can't
face life without them. And if it is the truth, then Mike won't forgive you
for checking up on him.'

`I just want to know what happened. Haven't I got a right to the truth? If
the story's true, then I can live with it. It's something I can help Mike
to get over. If I find it's a lie, then I'll decide what to do. Aren't
relationship supposed to be built on the truth? How can Mike and I go
forward if he's lying about this?'

`A great many divorces are built on truth. A successful relationship
depends on lies, lots of little lies. Even when you know it's a lie, you
accept it as the truth.'

`That's very clever, I'm sure. But this isn't a little lie. It's a big
one. If Mike doesn't trust me enough to tell me the truth, then
everything's a lie.'

`Oh, not everything, Sid. I'm sorry, Sid, if I sound like I'm belittling
your feelings and taking Mike's side. I'm not. Please just listen to me for
a few minutes. I know you're angry about this, but Mike wouldn't have
stayed with you for twelve years if he didn't have strong feelings for
you. You can see that he loves you. This story, if it is a story, is not
about you and him, but about Mike and something that did or did not happen
in his life. It's not whether the story is true or not that important, but
what it means to Mike and how it helps him cope with his life.'

`But aren't I enough to help him cope with his life? Why does he need
someone else? Particularly someone who's dead. I can't fight someone who's
dead. If this Jonathan were alive and sniffing around Mike, I could punch
him out and send him packing. But I'm supposed to be sympathetic and
understanding, poor Mike and his poor dead lover and his ruined life. It's
a beautiful story, but what if it isn't true? Why do I have to play second
place to a dead man?'

`Perhaps that's your answer. The story's so beautiful that Mike wants it to
be true.'

`You know what your trouble is, Peter. You sit here and people talk to
you. They tell you all sorts of stories. They talk to you and you
listen. But just because people talk to you doesn't mean they're telling
you the truth. Or you sit here and eavesdrop on their conversations. I've
watched you. You sit there pretending to read your newspaper, but you're
really listening to what they're saying. But they're all trying to impress
themselves. Everybody who comes in here is pretending to be something he's
not. Not one of them is a real person. This is a gay pub, and they all
claim to be trying to find Mr Right. And they don't see Mr Right when he's
standing before them and cleaning up their messes and holding their hand
and hugging them tight when they're trembling. Mr Right's never what they
really want. They're all chasing some dream that doesn't exist.'

`I know that, Sid. And not all of them are lying, not all the time. And
even when we're lying, we're telling the truth about ourselves in another
way. What our worries are, what we're afraid of. What we would like to
be. Our lies are an argument we're conducting with ourselves. We're the
main audience for our own lies.'

Sid looked around in disgust. If he had been a violent man, I'm sure he
would have already taken a swing at me. `You can put it in fancy dress, but
it's still a lie. The truth would be better.'

`Perhaps. A poet once wrote: "Tell all the Truth, but tell it
slant. Success in circuit lies. Too bright for our infirm delight, the
Truth's superb surprise. As Lightning to the Children eased with
explanation kind, The Truth must dazzle gradually, Or every man be blind."
Don't you see, Sid--most of us can't really handle the truth. Or, rather,
our lies are our means of handling what we really know deep down to be the
truth. We're not brave enough to face the unvarnished truth.'

`More poetry. I don't even know what that means. It's just more
lies. Mike's always quoting poetry. It's all nonsense. Why do people with
educations always quote poetry? As if some dead poet had all the answers.'

`Some of them did. Or at least they got close to it and came back and
distilled it into words for us.'

`That's what you'd like to believe. The truth is sitting before you, and
you push at it till it fits some shape, some words that somebody wrote
years ago. It's your way of avoiding the truth.'

`Yes. It can be a way of doing that.'

Sid sneered at me. `See. All that education and what good does it do you? I
left school as soon as I could and I see things you don't. You and Mike are
so proud of being educated that you don't realise other people aren't
stupid because they didn't have your advantages.'

`Oh, Sid, I've never thought you were stupid. Don't charge me with
that. There's a difference between being intelligent and being
educated. Intelligence is why you man the door instead of pulling drinks
behind the bar like Eddie. And don't comfort yourself with the thought that
Mike and I are stupid because we're educated. We're not stupid either.'

Sid smiled. `Yeah, I know. I like to pretend sometimes. The help putting
one over on the bosses.' There was a pause. `It's a story that helps me get
on with things.'

I nodded. `So what do you think you'll do?'

`About Mike? I'm going to think about it. I want to know the truth about
what happened. Maybe I can deal with Mike better if I know the truth. Oh,
don't worry, Peter. If it's a lie, I'm not going to force him to face up to
it directly. But I'll be able to help him if I know what's the truth and
what's not. I know I will. Maybe I'll make up my own story. Show Mike that
he's not the only one with a tragic past. I'm a fighter, Peter. I am not
going to lose this battle to Jonathan.'


9. Do we have enough gay friends?

`Good evening, Peter.'

`Max! And Kevin. How are you? Isn't this rather late for you? We usually
see you in here much earlier. And why are you dressed like that?'

`We stopped in for a dose of sanity. Kevin's boss invited us to his place
in Kent for an day of tennis and an early supper. We fled as soon as
decency allowed because "of the long drive back." Two whiskeys, Eddie,
thank you.'

`Was it that bad?'

`It was gruesome. We were the gay couple. Anne--that my boss's wife--said
to me, "Well, I've been wanting to meet the two of you for ever so
long. Richard and I were watching this program on Channel 4, and they were
interviewing a gay couple. And I said to Richard, Do we have enough gay
friends? And he told me about the two of you, and I just knew I had to have
you over to meet you and introduce you to our friends." The friends being
two straight couples from their neighbourhood who clearly thought they were
being daring.'

`Anne's one of those women whose "a's" shade over into "e's"--Oh, thank
you, Eddie--At one point she said to me, "Oh Meks, Meks, Meks, you're such
eh medkyep." She also likes to touch the people she's speaking to. I would
have taken it personally and wondered what she was trying on except that
she did the same to everyone.'

`Medkyep?'

`I think she meant "madcap".'

`What had you been doing to be called that?'

`Nothing. As soon as I saw what we were in for, I became as straight and
boring as I could. I did my best imitation of a dignified broker on the
silver exchange. I explained what I do in the most tedious way I could
devise. But she wanted me to be frivolous. I suppose she was hoping that if
she called me that, I would take it as a signal that I could lighten up and
start behaving in what she undoubtedly thinks is a typical "gay" way.'

`Max was the perfect gentleman. Much to everyone's disappointment. I think
they were waiting for the two of us to disappear into the shrubberies, make
interesting noises while the bushes wiggled suggestively for a half hour,
and then reappear dishevelled and brushing crushed vegetation off our
now-soiled clothes.'

`Half an hour? You have a greater . . . tolerance for nature than most of
us. It sounds as if Kevin owes you for this, Max.'

`Indeed, he does. I am even now plotting how to take revenge.'

`No, this makes us even for all those visits from your sister. She always
comes alone, Peter. The husband and the two boys are just distant
rumours. I've never met them, and Max is only allowed a brief visit with
them while he's staying at his parents. Max and I evidently are not to be
trusted near the males in her life. She spends about a half-hour each time
she comes. She sits on the edge of her chair, like this. Won't relax and
lean back. Never rests her arms on the arms of the chair. I think she is
trying to minimize contact with anything of ours. She will never accept a
drink or any food for fear that she'll catch something from us. I'm sure
she disinfects her shoes and throws the clothes she's wearing into the
washer as soon as she gets home.'

`Hmm, I wonder if that explains Anne's choice of dinnerware and
cutlery. She, as she put it, "just threw together a petite collation al
fresco"--the food was as mixed as that expression, Peter. I'm sure she
spends her afternoons watching cooking shows and learning how to make
expensive ingredients inedible. Anyway, since it was "just a group of
friends" and she was sure we wouldn't mind an "informal repast", she had
plastic plates and forks for us to use.'

`Don't forget the paper tablecloth. Come to think of it, she did have a bin
with a liner for us to place the refuse in. She didn't even have to touch
the plates we had used.'

`Perhaps even some of those disinfectant wipes to sanitise the chairs you
used after you left?'

`Do you know her, Peter?'

`I've met the type.'

`Well, I think we disappointed them immensely, Max. We drew lots to
determine the doubles teams, and I got one of the neighbour husbands. He
assured me several times that he was only there because his wife was a
friend of Anne's, but he seemed disappointed I didn't make a pass at him. I
think he was looking forward to being affronted and pissed.'

`Kevin was the lucky one. Since I don't play tennis, I got to chat with
Anne and another woman. They kept asking me for shopping and clothing
hints. I had to confess that I run into the closest Marks and Spencer, grab
something in my size, pay for it, and then rush out again. Is there a class
we can take so we can learn to be gay? We both seem rather hapless at
it. Ah well. It's over. Maybe someday we'll be able to look back at this
afternoon and laugh about it.'

`I suppose they locked all the children away.'

`There are just two of those. Their daughter works in Manchester. The son
is preparing to start at London University later this year. He was there
but not particularly present. About half an hour after we arrived, Anne
went into the house and pulled him out. He sat in a chair at the edge of
the group and slowly edged it away until he wasn't quite sitting with the
rest of us. He only spoke if someone said something to him. Typical sullen
teenager bent on showing the adults how much he disdains them and
everything they stand for.'

`Anne kept trying to draw him into the conversation, especially with us,
but he wasn't having any part of it. She obviously wanted me to talk with
him, and I tried but all I got out of him was grunts and mumbles.'

`I caught him watching the two of us, though. Every time I looked in his
direction, his eyes would slide away. And he spent a good deal of time
studying you. I think he was much more interested in us that he let on.'

`Wouldn't that be a laugh? The boss's son is gay.'

`Well, that would certainly put a different slant on the day. We're invited
over there so that we could show their gay son that it's possible to be gay
and a responsible couple.'

`Two staid, middle-aged professionals. Upright, polite, well-mannered.'

`Oh my god, Max. I bet that's it. We were there on display to show their
son a stable gay couple. Oh no, Meks, we've become role models.'


10. Lost Without Me

`The man at the door said I should speak to you about putting a notice on
your board.'

The person who had just tapped me on the shoulder to get my attention was
an occasional patron of the Cinque Ports. Perhaps two or three times a
month he would arrive alone. He always came in early and took a table by
himself. I had never spoken with him. He usually wore a wrinkled grey suit
or a tweed jacket. If asked, I would have guessed that he worked in an
office, a senior clerk or junior-level manager, someone at that level, who
was stopping by after work for a drink before going home. He would stay for
a half-hour, sometimes a bit longer, while he drank a half pint. Never more
than that. As far as I knew, he never spoke with anyone. Most of the time
he just stared into his glass, although occasionally he would look around
the room. He tried to be casual about it, but it was apparent that he was
curious about our other customers. Sometimes his gaze would linger on a
young man. But as far as I know, he never approached anyone. I suppose
every pub has someone like that, someone in his late thirties or early
forties who has resigned himself to visiting a pub occasionally for a bit
of companionship, no matter how indirect. It is rare to see someone so
totally without friends or acquaintances in the Cinque Ports, however. We
tend to have few solitary drinkers.

`We don't allow advertising, just announcements of community events, that
sort of thing. I'm Peter Adamson, by the way.' He had to shift the stack of
leaflets to his left hand to shake hands with me.

`DJ Watson. It's nothing like that. It's just a lost pet notice.' He pulled
the top sheet off the stack and handed it to me. A blurred, grainy picture
of a small dog occupied the top of the page. Beneath it ran the legend:
`Lost dog. Named Kip. Small, terrier mix. Gray and white. Last seen March
12 on Faversham Terrace Road, Hove.' This was followed by a phone number
and the promise of a reward.

`He looks like a very friendly dog.' I handed the sheet back to him. `Of
course, Mr Watson, please feel free to post it. I don't think many of our
customers live out that way, but you never know if someone might see
Kip. Dogs can wander a good distance once they get loose.'

`Kip's curious. He'd be so excited about being out that he wouldn't notice
where he's going. I had a delivery and I didn't see that the man had left
the gate open. When I let Kip out into the yard, he must have wandered
off. I've asked all around the neighbourhood, but no one has seen him. He's
so friendly that he would go with anyone. I don't know how many times I've
had to pull him out of other people's cars. He loves to take rides. He'd
jump right in someone's car if they held the door open for him.'

`I suppose you've checked with the animal shelters.'

`First thing, but no luck there. I've left my number and Kip's picture at
all of them. They've promised to call if he's brought in. Are you a dog
owner?'

`I'm a cat person. A large feline named Magnificat allows me to share his
house and open tins for him.'

`Oh, then, you don't know. I mean cats are fine for them that like them,
but they're not the companions that dogs are. Unless you've lost someone
like Kip, then you won't understand. It's only been two days, but I'm so
worried. Kip won't be able to survive without me. He depends on me for
everything. He's not even used to sleeping alone. He always gets up on the
bed with me at night. I even have a footstool next to the bed so that he
climb up and down easily.'

`I'm sure you'll find him. Did you put tags on his collar?'

`Oh, Kip's that proud of his medals. That's what we call them--"his
medals". He's always polishing them. We take his collar off when he's
having his bath, and he is always glad to get it back on. First thing he
does is clean his medals with his tongue. Always licking them so they're
nice and shiny.'

`Terriers are smart dogs. He'll be back.'

`Kip's even smarter than most. He's the best judge of character. Won't let
me near anyone he doesn't trust or approve of. The last time I brought
someone home with me, Kip barked at him and nipped at this legs. Turned out
that Kip saw something I didn't. The man wasn't to be trusted. He didn't
like dogs. I was getting him a drink, and I saw his reflection in the
window over the drinks cabinet. He shoved Kip away with his foot. Well, Kip
and I didn't stand for that. We showed him the door right now.'

`Must make it hard to have a private life.'

As soon as I said that, I realised that sarcasm and amusement were not the
proper responses to Kip's supervision of DJ Watson's personal
life. Whatever points I had gained by sympathising with his problem had
disappeared. I should have long since learned not to argue with pet
owners. I decided it was best to help him put the notice up. `Let me get
some pins. I'm afraid we can only let the notice stay up a month at
most. As you can see, we don't have much room.' I removed a couple of
announcements of events that had already happened. He moved a poster that
was in the centre of the board to one of the spaces I had cleared and
tacked his notice up in the middle, carefully pinning each corner down and
smoothing the paper.

`I'd best get on, then. I have to put the rest of these up. I hope someone
finds him soon. I don't know what he'll do without me. He'll be lost
without me.'

That conversation took place almost a year ago. Every time DJ Watson came
in, he would check to make sure that the poster was still in place. If we
removed it, another one would appear in its place. Occasionally someone
would draw a moustache on Kip's nose. Once there was a rude suggestion
about the line of work Kip had taken up after he had run away. Luckily Sid
spotted it and was able to remove the `Rent Pup' ad before DJ Watson saw
it. Other than to nod to DJ Watson and greet him, I had no further chance
to speak with him until tonight, when a decidedly aggrieved man confronted
me.

`I thought at least you would understand what it means to lose someone, Mr
Adams.'

`Adamson, it's Adamson. It's Mr Watson, isn't it.'

`I want to know why my notice about Kip is removed as soon as I put it up.'

`Mr Watson, it has been over a year since Kip ran off. As I explained to
you, we have only limited space, and we remove the old notices. The board
is a service to our patrons. I'm sorry, but it's not a perpetual right.'

`He didn't run off. He had no reason to run away from me. I know that
someone stole him and is keeping him a prisoner. That's why I want to keep
the posters up. The kidnappers have to take him out for a walk sometime,
and someone will see Kip and then arrest these people.'

`Mr Watson, dogs do wander off. The best thing is to hope that Kip found a
good home.'

`No one could give Kip as good a home as I can. Kip wants for nothing.'

`I'm sure that's true, Mr Watson, but . . .'

`Kip didn't run off. Dogs are loyal. They're not like human beings, always
leaving you, always running away. Dogs don't do that. Kip wouldn't do that
to me. He loves me. When he walks in the door, his tail will be wagging and
he'll be all excited to see me again. It's not like a person who can't even
be bothered to look up from the telly or the newspaper. Dogs aren't like
that. They're not cruel like people. They don't ignore you or say nasty
things to you.'

`Mr Watson, perhaps it's time to consider getting another dog.'

`Never! Never! How can you suggest such a thing? You lost your lover, this
Charles everyone's always going on about. I overheard some people talking
about it, and how you've never been with anyone since. You haven't replaced
him. How can you think I would replace Kip? Kip isn't just any dog. He's my
friend.'

`Peter, is everything all right here?'

`Oh, yes, Sid, thanks, it's fine. I can handle it. Mr Watson, let's sit
down over there. Sid, could you bring two pints for us? Thanks.'

DJ Watson allowed himself--grudgingly--to be guided to a table and
seated. He was so lost in his own misery that I don't think he noticed how
much attention he had attracted. With some rolling of eyes, the customers
at the nearest tables ostentatiously ignored us. Occasionally one would
glance our way and catch my eye and shrug in sympathy. When Sid sat the
drink in front of DJ Watson, he stared at it for a few seconds and then
pushed it away. He wasn't about to be placated with a free drink or to find
solace in it.

`Mr Watson, look, I realise that Kip meant a lot to you. We all grow
attached to our pets.'

`Kip is more than a pet. He's my friend.'

`Mr Watson, all of us lose our friends. They move away, they leave, they
grow distant, they die. That's part of life. We have to learn, somehow, to
survive without them and go on and make new friends.'

`But I'm all that Kip has. He hasn't got anyone else. No one could mean as
much as I do to him. He won't be able to live without me. I'm all he's
got.'

`I'm sure that's true, but . . .' I didn't know how to finish that
sentence. I still don't. How do you tell someone who has no one to forget
the only being who made a difference in his life? Who was always happy to
see him, even if it only was a cupboard love for the person who fed him? DJ
Watson didn't want to hear whatever platitudes might have finished that
sentence. In the event, it didn't matter, because he stood up abruptly and
left. I suspect it will be his final visit to the Cinque Ports.