Poles Apart

by Ivor Slipper

The painting, for it is a painting although I tend to think of it as picture, was my attempt to capture forever how he looked when I first saw him that morning. It hangs on a wall in my bedroom. It is positioned on the wall beyond the foot of my bed. Hanging there it can be the last thing I see before I try to go to sleep at night and the first thing I see when I open my eyes in the morning.

I think of it as my 'Blue Boy', not that I consider myself anything of a Gainsborough! But that day he was dressed in blue and thinking of him now makes me feel blue. I should try to forget him and move on. I suspect it is what he would have wanted, and maybe I will – some day. Not yet though.

My father had purchased the manor house on the outskirts of a small village in Sussex. It came with extensive grounds and a lake complete with its own landing stage. We'd moved there a few months ago, but I'd seen very little of the house or grounds. That was because the move had taken place over Easter and I'd no sooner settled in than I was off, back to my boarding school. Thus it was only when the summer holidays came that I had the chance to properly explore the place.

My school was a fairly elite establishment and one of the activities it offered was rowing. An activity not offered in most schools, even those of the public variety. I'd taken to it like the proverbial duck to water and apart from being a member of the school eight, I'd also become a keen sculler. The techniques required for each were very different, but I'd been able to succeed in both. Father had even bought me for my sixteenth birthday a single scull that resided in the boathouse at the lake. From the start of the holiday I'd spent a lot of time on the lake and part of the rest of each day exploring the grounds which covered several acres, including some woodland. I was good academically at school and apart from rowing played other sports with a varying degree of success. However, I wasn't really one for the great outdoors.

As it was holiday I tended not to get up early. I'd had enough of being roused from my bed at six thirty and taking a semi warm shower before breakfast. Mrs Collins, our housekeeper, would make a breakfast for me at whatever hour I appeared in the kitchen. My father would have left home much earlier in order to catch a train to the city where he worked as a stockbroker. My mother would be somewhere, very probably in her studio writing another of the Mills & Boon style romantic fiction stories that were amazingly popular and provided a healthy income stream. Thus I was left to my own devices, especially this summer as my older brother Oliver had departed on a hitch-hiking tour of Europe prior to starting at Cambridge in the Autumn.

We were having a spell of very warm weather and I hadn't been able to sleep well that night so I finally gave up trying and got up while it was still dark, even though it was a Saturday. I dressed only in a pair of white shorts and a white singlet, put on a pair of plimsolls and decided to take the boat out on the lake. I hoped the activity would tire me sufficiently that I could then find a cool spot in the grounds and get some sleep before it became hot again.

I'd been out on the water for the best part of an hour I suppose – certainly the sun had come up – and decided I'd done enough, so pulled toward the landing stage. The thing with sculling, or rowing for that matter, is that you aren't looking where you are going. Your back is towards the direction of travel. That means, especially in a scull, you need to concentrate to ensure both arms are pulling equally in order to keep a straight course. It's not so bad when rowing as you aren't the only one pulling and even less of a concern if the boat has a cox to keep it on course.

Thus I didn't see him until I'd almost pulled into the landing stage. I'd thought once or twice earlier that I'd caught a glimpse of someone in the bushes along the bank, but discounted that as being highly unlikely. So, I was utterly surprised to see this boy, this vision in blue, standing with one hand resting on the upright pole, looking out over the water toward me. I am a keen artist and I knew immediately it was a picture I simply had to capture.

He was lean as opposed to thin, and looked to be about five and a half feet tall, so a little shorter than me. I was also well muscled now thanks to all the rowing. He was definitely teenage and about fourteen I felt sure. Being at an all boys school gave one a lot of knowledge of boys ages! He was barefoot with his legs slightly crossed below the knee and the heel of the right foot resting against the board that ran along the higher level of the landing stage. What really hit me though was his legs which I guessed from his blond hair, were probably almost hairless and seemed to go on for ever. They finally disappeared into a pair of cheap navy blue cotton shorts that barely came below the level of his crotch. Above the shorts was a lighter blue sweatshirt, also evidently cheap cotton, with sleeves that came part way down his upper arms. His face was open with a sort of quizzical expression while his hair was a sort of mop that came down over his forehead. It had the appearance of having grown out of what had been a 'pudding basin' cut.

He had an immediate effect on me and there was a definite stirring in my loins as I edged the boat toward the stage. All boy boarding schools had definite benefits for those of a certain disposition and I'd known, at least since puberty started, which way I was bent.

"Who the hell are you and how did you get here?" I asked.

"Me name's Paul and I walked."

"Where from?"

"The village."

"But this is private property."

He shrugged. "So?"

I was feeling at a disadvantage sitting in the boat, so I clambered onto the landing stage and took the sculls out of their fixings. "Well, as you're here you can make yourself useful and get the scull out of the water for me."

He looked slightly bemused.

"The scull's the boat." I said, in a rather patronising tone.

"I knows that. I ain't thick. Just don't know how."

"Ah. Well, you bend down, grab the insides of the bit where I was sitting and then lift it up. When you've got it out of the water you raise it over your head, turn it upside down and then you can carry it to the boat shed over there. It's not that heavy."

"Why can't you do it?"

"I normally have to. But it means two trips, one with the oars and then I have to come back for the scull."

"S'pose I can", he said as he bent over giving me my first look at a firm, well rounded, backside. He proceeded to lift the scull out of the water and of course as soon as he turned it upside down above his head a quantity of water dropped onto him.

"You fucker! You knew that'd happen. I'm all fuckin' wet now!"

I was laughing and when I managed to stop, said, "You'll know for the next time, won't you?"

To give him his due, he grinned and when he did so his whole face seemed to light up.

"So I can come again even though it's private property?"

"Now I know your name I'll give you my permission, I'm Martin, by the way. Come on, let's carry these to the boathouse and then you can come back to the house. I'm ready for some breakfast. I reckon you might be too and I'm sure Mrs Collins won't mind rustling up something for both of us."

He looked dubious. "You sure? I ain't had anything since last night, so me belly's ready but me father's told me to keep clear of the big house."

"Why? We're not cannibals."

He grinned. "Dunno. He just did, an' it pays to do what he says."

Nevertheless he came with me to the house. He was a step or two behind me when we entered the kitchen and Mrs Collins raised a quizzical eyebrow when she saw Paul. But when I asked if she could make breakfast for the two of us she readily set to work. Soon a fried egg, some rashers of bacon, a couple of sausages and a heap of baked beans appeared on two plates. We happily sat down at the kitchen table, tucked in and soon made short work of the food.

When we'd finished and thanked Mrs Collins for her efforts, we stood up and Paul made towards the back door through which we'd entered. I realised I didn't want him to go. Although we'd only just met and obviously came from very different backgrounds, I felt an attraction to him. It was undoubtedly physical, but there was also something about him that appealed to another side of me. Admittedly I was very much on my own at home this holiday, so some company would be welcome.

I put a hand on his shoulder and quietly asked him if he'd like to come up to my room. He turned his head to look at me, "You sure it'll be alright? Won't your parents mind?"

"My father's gone to work in town and my mother's busy in her study for the day, so there's nobody to object. You got anything else to do this morning?"

He gave me a shrug and a smile before following me upstairs. When I opened the door and let him into my bedroom I heard a sharp intake of breath and a 'wow' escape from his lips. To me it was just a bedroom, but as I was to find out, to him it was more like a palace. It was a large room, suitable for a double bed but with plenty of space for a large wardrobe, a couple of chests of drawers, two large bookcases on one wall, an armchair, plus a desk and chair. Also to one side near the windows, on a bare section of floor as opposed to rest of the room which was carpeted, stood my artist's easel.

"Shit! All this is yours?" It was said with a sense of wonder and disbelief, but I didn't sense jealousy. "I shares a room with me brother. It's got space for a double bed an' not much else. My three sisters have another room that's not a lot bigger."

He walked over to the bookcases.

"Do you like to read?" I asked and then almost kicked myself thinking that perhaps he couldn't.

"Yeah, but we ain't got no books so it's only what I can bring home from school."

"What sort do you like?"

"Adventures mainly, or war stories."

"Bit like me. There's several of those there. Pick one out and read it while I do some drawing. You can take it home with you." I wanted to start on trying to put on paper how I'd first seen him and having him there while I did so would be a help.

He gave a sad sounding laugh. "If I come home with a book me father'll wanna know where I stole it before telling me there ain't no point in reading it an' tearing out the pages to put in the shitter."

I shuddered at the thought, "In that case just come back until you've finished it. And then you can start another."

He looked at me with a smile, one that I was to get to know and come to love. "That'd be nice."

He selected a book, sat down in the armchair and started to read. I went over to my desk, sat down and took out a drawing pad. Silence reigned for a while. I looked over at him and he seemed to be engrossed in the book. "What you reading, Paul?"

"War of the Worlds." he replied.

"Ah, yes. Jules Verne. It's a good story, if you like sci-fi."

He muttered something I didn't hear and went back to reading. I carried on drawing and lost track of the time until I heard him close his book, stand up and walk over to me. I tried to cover up what I was drawing but wasn't quick enough.

"Hey, that's me from this morning."

"It's not that good, but I was trying to capture my first sight of you."

"Ain't bad. I can see it's meant to be me, but the face ain't right."

"Maybe you'll have to pose for me?"

He stood behind me and placed both his hands on my shoulders. It was the first time he'd touched me and I shivered at the feeling.

"What's it pay, this posing lark?" he said with a little chuckle.

Before I could answer there was a knock on the door and Mrs Collins appeared to say that if we wanted some lunch there was some cold meat and salad down in the kitchen. We eagerly followed her down as being teens we were both eating machines. The food eaten, accompanied by orange squash, we returned to my room.

No more was said about posing and Paul started reading again while I went back to my line drawing. After a while the lack of sleep I'd had the previous night began to catch up on me. Paul appeared to still be engrossed in his book so I decided not to disturb him but just lie down on the bed. I must have dropped off to sleep. I've no idea for how long but when I came to I knew I was not alone. I was on my side with Paul nestled into me. Our bare legs were touching and I could feel my prick pressing into his bum while my left arm was across his chest holding us together. I didn't know how we'd got like this, nor what to do about it. I did know though that it felt nice – very nice – to have his warm body touching mine.

"You must be awake. You've stopped snoring."

"I don't snore!"

"You bleedin' do!" he said laughing, as I rolled away from him and onto my back. "I've gotta go home, but thanks for today."

"You coming back tomorrow?" I asked.

"You rowing in the morning?"

"It's not rowing, it's sculling. But, yes I am."

"See you there then." He rolled across the bed and planted a soft kiss on my cheek.

That was when I knew today was just the start.

The next morning I was up early again. I'd had a restless night once more, but it wasn't due to just the heat. Thoughts of Paul loomed large with the mental picture of him on the landing stage leading to a couple of wanks. The sculling wasn't very good though and I caught a couple of crabs. I kept looking for him, suspecting that he wouldn't come, but at last I spotted him and immediately made for the landing stage.

Today he took the oars from me with a grin telling me to get the boat out of the water myself. I returned his grin and proceeded to show him how it was done without getting a shower.

Mrs Collins appeared to be expecting two for breakfast and soon had something ready for us. Stomachs filled we went upstairs. Before we settled down I asked Paul what he'd be doing if he wasn't here with me. He said he usually spent the day wandering in the woods, watching the birds and animals. It seemed a lonely existence, but then I realised that if he hadn't appeared yesterday I'd also be on my own all day, but probably indoors rather than out. He also told me he liked to come down to the landing stage early in the morning to see the ducks and the pair of swans who had a nest on a small island in the middle from which they'd raised a couple of cygnets. I was well aware of the swans as they became very hissy whenever they felt I was invading their territory.

Paul settled down in the chair with his book and I went back to my drawing. He was wearing the same clothes as the previous day with the addition of a pair of raggedy old plimsolls which he'd discarded at the kitchen door. My drawing wasn't going well and I let out a loud exasperated sigh. I heard Paul close his book, get up and come over to me. "Time for some posing?" he whispered into my ear.

My prick immediately responded. "What's the price?" I asked.

He grinned and walked a few feet away. "Reckon you can inspect what's on offer before you decide to buy." He did his best to replicate how I'd first seen him the previous morning before he proceeded to take off his sweatshirt and toss it on the bed.

"And am I also allowed to feel the quality of the merchandise?" I asked, getting up and walking towards him.

"Yeah, I'd expect nuffin else," he responded with a smile.

I'd done things with other boys at school, but they were just of a sexual nature. A quick wank or a mutual one, sometimes a blow job given or received. But there was virtually never any foreplay, possibly because of the risk of being caught, so it was basically 'Wham, bam and thank you, Sam'. Somehow I knew this was going to be different.

I reached out and let the tips of my fingers touch his shoulders which elicited a shiver from him. Then I ran them down his arms, his chest, his back. Little sounds escaped from his mouth, increasing in intensity and I worked my way down to the waistband of his shorts. My fingers crept inside, immediately confirming what I'd thought from when I first saw him, no underpants. My fingers began caressing, then kneading his bum. I pulled my hands back, placed my thumbs in the waistband and looked into his eyes. They gave me the signal I wanted, so I pushed them down and his dick sprang free. It sat in a mound of blond hair, was already hard and about four inches long with the head almost totally clear of its sheath.

I placed my fingertips gently on the upper side of it and it quivered, no doubt with the same excitement I felt. I moved my hand to take hold of his balls and to roll them gently. A soft hiss escaped from his lips. I could wait no longer and knelt down before him, wanting to admire his sex more closely. Another touch; another quiver; a drop of pre-cum emerged. I lent forward and licked it off. Now he moaned urgently and leaning further forward I opened my mouth and slowly slid my lips over the head and down the shaft. I wanted to give him pleasure for as long as possible, to tease and delight him, but after what seemed mere seconds he was pulsing his seed into my mouth. I was almost taken by surprise but managed to swallow all he offered.

It took us both a couple of minutes to recover before I was able to stand up. I wrapped my arms round him and hugged him to me.

"Fuckin' hell, Martin. Always wondered what it felt like to be sucked off. Now I knows."

He started to kneel down, but I held him up. "Not now, maybe later."

He looked at me quizzically. "Why not? I know how to - me bruvver's had me doing him for the last year or more. He won't ever do me tho'. All I gets from him is a toss on occasions."

I had a deep feeling of sympathy for him, being abused in that way by his brother, something mine had never attempted.

"Perhaps after lunch we can come back up here. I'll lock the door and, only if you want, we can go to bed together."

His eyes lit up. "When's lunch? he said with a big grin. I couldn't resist and moved my hand to give his bum a slap. We were still holding each other and I felt his prick twitch in response.

Suffice to say we did come back after lunch and got into bed. He did give me a blowjob, but the more important thing was simply being together naked and exploring each others bodies by touch and feel.

Paul continued to appear on the landing stage each morning and one day after returning to the house and eating, I suggested that we should go for a bike ride. He protested that his bike was ancient, uncomfortable to ride and no good for going any distance. That problem was soon solved by telling him he could ride mine and I would ride Oliver's. With that settled we started to taking rides into the countryside and up onto the Downs. Mrs Collins would often provide sandwiches and the finer days saw us riding off in search of a quiet place where we could lie together. Wetter days saw us suffering the hardship of being confined to the bedroom, Paul with a book, me with a pencil or paintbrush. But, very often in the afternoon, with the door locked.

The locked door not only allowed us to carry on our activities, but it also gave him the chance to pose. He was a natural, totally happy to strip and stand before me in all his youthful glory. He also had the ability to hold a pose for what seemed ages. I asked him how he could be so still for so long and he explained that it was because he needed to sit or lie still when watching the woodland birds and animals. There was one particular pose he couldn't hold indefinitely though, but I discovered a quick tickle with a soft paintbrush solved that problem!

After a couple of afternoons though he decided it was unfair I should have 'all the fun' as he put it, telling me that I should also be naked. He added that if I was naked it would save me having to stop work and come over with the paintbrush as he'd simply need to look at me to get hard. We tried it – and he was right! As I said to him, the solution to the problem wasn't hard to find. It took him a couple of minutes to work that out and then the pose collapsed in a fit of giggling laughter.

Not only did he pose for me in that position, he was also happy to sit, lie or get into any position I suggested. My drawing of the body improved remarkably in a short space of time and I wondered what my art teacher would make of it next term. I also became rather good at drawing certain parts of the body.

One afternoon I asked him why he was so unconcerned about being naked in front of me as opposed to just being naked in bed. He told me it was because at home in the summer it was normal for him and his brother and sisters to go around naked. "Even your sisters?" I queried.

"They're young. Marys the oldest and she's only eleven, so there's nothing to see. 'Sides ma says it saves on the washing and dad doesn't have to spend money on clothes."

I'd always known I was fortunate in having the lifestyle I enjoyed, but that comment brought home to me just how poles apart we were.

One morning during the second week that difference was brought home to me even more. He'd been down at the landing stage as usual, but hadn't seemed as cheerful as normal. We'd agreed the previous day that today we'd take the bikes and ride up to Ditchling Beacon, but when we got up after eating Mrs Collins' breakfast and I said I was going up to change into a more suitable pair of shorts for cycling than the ones I'd worn for rowing, he followed me upstairs instead of waiting in the kitchen as he usually did.

He followed me into the bedroom and locked the door. I thought he must have other ideas, even though we almost always didn't have fun until the afternoon, but as I looked at him I could see a sadness I'd never before seen.

"I can't go Martin. Not today."

"Why not? It's a nice day, not too hot. Have you got to get back home early?"

He made a noise that I found hard to describe. It wasn't a proper laugh.

"'Cos I can't sit on a bike saddle. That's why."

He turned his back to me and pushed down his shorts. His arse and upper legs were covered in welts and bruises. I was amazed I hadn't seen the ones on his legs before but realised he'd managed to keep his rear from view until now. "Fucking hell, Paul. What happened?"

This time there was a wry laugh as he answered. "Me Dad and his belt's what happened."

"But why? What did you do?" I couldn't imagine any father doing that to his son. My father had never hit me. I'd been slippered several times and even caned on a couple of occasions at school, but this was something different.

"I was doing the washing up. Dropped a couple of plates what broke. He'd just come back from the pub, so I knew I was in for a leathering, but he went nuts. Me bruvver had to stop him."

He turned round with tears in his eyes. I walked over and pulled him into a hug. The dam broke and he sobbed into my chest for some time, When he stopped I told him to go and lie on the bed and went in search of something I could apply to his bruises. I found a selection of various creams in the bathroom which I brought back and gently applied.

It took the almost a week before Paul felt able to comfortably ride a bike again, so until then we spent most of our time in the bedroom and in bed. While there were some positions he couldn't get into we still managed to enjoy ourselves and his mood improved each day.

All too soon the summer holiday came to an end. We both returned to our respective schools. Perhaps strangely I was no longer interested in mutual wanking sessions with my fellow boarders. I was happy going solo accompanied by mental images of Paul – as well as a couple of line drawings which, had they been discovered, would very probably have resulted in me being caned.

I saw him at half term and again over the Christmas holiday. During that he was introduced to my parents, who rather to my surprise seemed to accept him and not object to us spending time together in my bedroom. It was at that point I started to wonder if they knew that I was a homosexual, or 'queer' as the common terminology was back in the mid 1960s. While my mother did write romance stories they were about normal heterosexual relationships, but perhaps she was aware of the signs? I wasn't thinking of Paul as being my lover – yet, but we were definitely more than two friends with benefits, at least as far as I was concerned. But what was I to him?

It was during the Easter holiday from school that the big problem first reared its ugly head. We were in bed one afternoon when I murmured to Paul that I was looking forward to the long summer holiday and for us being able to really spend time with each other like last summer. There was no response for a time.

"Ain't gonna happen, Martin."

That came as a shock, so I levered myself up on one elbow so I could look into his face. "Why not?"

There was another pause before he answered. "'Cos I'll be working, or summat. I'll be fifteen before end of school year. I can leave school then and me dad'll want me earning. Probably want me outa school on me birthday! I ain't like you. You be staying at school 'til you're eighteen and then going to uni like your bruvver."

What he was saying made sense. I'd just been too dumb to see it. "But, we'll still have weekends."

"Dunno. I heard him saying to ma t'other day that he got me fixed with a job where he works – slaughterhouse."

There was almost disgust in his voice as he spat out the last word.

"I couldn't stand that Martin. Killing animals every day – nah! Could hardly bear going round collecting rabbits from the snares he set. Had to tho' or my arse would've felt his belt. Reckon I'll have to go somewhere, see if I can find a job, mebbe in Brighton."

I was stunned. The thought of losing him simply hadn't crossed my mind. "Let me talk to my father. Perhaps he'll have some ideas. Maybe even find you a job."

He smiled up at me. "Thanks, Martin. You can ask, but what jobs are there round here for me?"

I did ask, but my father had no constructive ideas to offer, so I went through the summer term getting more and more despondent. We met up a couple of times during the half term break when I pleaded with him to give the job a try and not do anything before I got back from school at the end of term. I got his grudging agreement, but was still slightly surprised to see him on the first Saturday morning after my return. He was there on the landing stage, but he was different. There was an air of unhappiness about him and the light no longer shone in his eyes.

After getting the boat out of the water he came back to the house with me for breakfast. My parents had come to accept our friendship and I knew there wouldn't be any objections to me taking him up to my bedroom. Once there we sat down, me on my unmade bed and he in his usual armchair.

"Said I'd wait to see you, but I'm going tomorrow. Can't stand seeing an' hearing all them animals waiting to be killed. They knows what's gonna happen to em, Martin!"

There wasn't really much I could say. I liked my meat, but had never thought about what it took before part of the animal I'd seen in the field ended up on my dinner plate. "I do understand how you feel. I know I couldn't do it," was the best I could manage in reply.

"Yeah, but you don't have to. An' there's another reason.'

I looked at him quizzically, waiting for him to explain.

"Me bruvver's getting me ready for fucking!"

My eyes nearly jumped out of my head. "What!"

"Yeah. He said it's alright to do me now I'm fifteen. He's been 'getting me ready' as he calls it for the last week, sticking his fingers up me arse. Reckons I'll be right for plucking next weekend. That's why I gotta go now."

My breakfast nearly came back up as I took in what he said. The idea that one day we might make love had crossed my mind on a few occasions, but what he had just depicted was simply rape. No wonder he needed to go.

We sat and talked for quite some time. In the end I persuaded him to come to the house in the morning. I could see he got a good breakfast inside him and in the meantime I'd pack some of my old clothes into a rucksack. Although I was slightly taller than him and was a little bigger built, my clothes would be alright for him. I also plucked up the nerve to tell my mother what was happening. She handed me forty pounds that she took from her handbag, telling me tell him to make sure he kept the notes somewhere safe, such as in his socks. She added that if he was going to Brighton she'd drive us to Hassocks station in the morning so he'd avoid the roughly five mile walk there.

I spent virtually all day in my room, mainly lying on my bed and feeling very sad. Next morning Paul appeared at the kitchen door. He was wearing a pair of boots which no doubt he wore to work, a pair of old corduroy trousers and a denim jacket. Over his shoulder was a duffel bag in which I guessed were his spare clothes.

When we went up to my room I gave him the rucksack and the money. He happily took the clothes, but protested long and hard before he agreed to take the money, saying that he'd be sure to pay it back sometime. Hearing that word gave me a little flicker of hope that this wasn't the last I'd ever see of him.

He took off his jacket and we kissed – properly and meaningfully. Although I'm sure we both wanted to do more, this wasn't the time. We separated and he sat down on the bed to take off his boots and put the notes inside his socks. Finally he put his jacket on again, slung the rucksack over his shoulders and carrying the duffel in his hand, we walked downstairs. My mother was waiting and drove us to the station. Paul wouldn't agree to me coming into the station with him, so we said our goodbye outside. Being Sunday there was nobody around, so we did manage one last long kiss.

I asked mum to wait in the car park for a while and after about ten minutes a southbound train arrived. It could have been going to Brighton or Worthing and Littlehampton, but after it had departed I went into the station and saw he was no longer on the platform. I was glad about that as I'd feared he might have decided to head for London where I thought he might not survive.

Just before the school holiday ended I received a postcard from him. It didn't say much, but at least he was still alive.

However, that was the only communication I received from him in the four years that have passed. All I have is my paintings and drawings of him. Apart from the one on my bedroom wall at home there is another on the wall of the bedroom in the flat in London where I now spend most of my time. I didn't follow my brother to Cambridge but instead managed to secure a place at the Chelsea College of Art where I am now in my second year.

The end of term saw me heading home for a week before setting off for a trip to Italy and a chance to visit all, or at least some, of the art museums. Although the rowing has stopped I still have the scull and old habits die hard, so I go out on the lake nearly every morning. I'd been on the water for some time, lost in my thoughts, mainly about the holiday, but starting to feel hungry I pulled toward the landing stage. As I turned to come alongside I saw someone standing there. The pose was identical, the clothes very different – a leather jacket, blue denim jeans and cowboy boots. He'd grown a little, but there was no doubt it was him. My Paul had come back!

I nearly overturned the boat in my rush to reach the landing stage and nearly fell in as I scrambled from it onto the stage. I walked toward him, wrapped my arms round him and we kissed and kissed, and kissed until we had to break apart in order to breathe.

"I thought I'd never see you again."

"Always intended to come back, but the longer it went the more I thought you'd've found someone else, so kept putting it off."

"No fucking chance! Help me get the boat out of the water and we can go and have some breakfast. Mrs Collins will be pleased to see you, as will my mother."

He laughed. "I may have fallen for that trick once, but not again and get me good gear all wet."

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Poles Apart

by Ivor Slipper

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