Passing Stranger
By Mihangel
8. Breath of the boy
The breath of the boy goes with the breath of the man,
friend is inarm'd by friend.
Walt Whitman, The Sleepers
Next day was Sunday, the clocks had gone forward overnight, and I got up late. Over a mug of coffee I blearily booted up the computer for the mindless chore of deleting the overnight spam. But Jonathan was already there, lying in wait.
"M?"
I forced myself into gear. "Morning, J. Feeling chirpier?"
"Yes. Things do look brighter. As you said." The speed of his writing was much faster, with more typos.
"Great. Like the poem?"
"Marvellous. Bang on the nail. And YOU understand."
I began to type something, but he forestalled me.
"M, even more important . . . "
I stopped typing.
"You didn't send it by Hotmail. You sent it from an Ebor address. Does that mean you live in York?"
I could hardly deny it -- Ebor is an ISP which serves only the city of York and its neighbourhood. I felt a dawning premonition.
"Yes."
"So do I."
"Good God!" This put a new complexion on things.
"M, can we meet? Pleeeeeeeeease? Soon? Today?"
Having invested so much in his great venture, he was urgently investing everything he had left. I would have liked more time to prepare, but I could not say no, not as things stood.
"OK."
"Not here. At your place?"
"No." My residual caution was still feebly kicking. "Not yet. Not till we're absolutely sure of each other. It must be somewhere public, at least the first time."
"OK." I could almost hear the disappointment. "Where?"
I ran my mind over possible places. Somewhere in the city centre -- I did not know where in York he lived and was not going to ask. Somewhere outdoors and spacious -- less likelihood of either of us feeling trapped. Somewhere with people around, but not too many. There would be hardly a soul in the Museum Gardens -- it was still March, just, and chilly -- and too many in the shopping streets even on a Sunday . . . Sunday . . . Yes, that suggested the answer.
"Outside the south transept of the Minster, by the statue of Constantine?"
"OK."
"When?"
"How long does it take you to get there?" he asked.
"Say 10 min."
"See you in 10 min then." Before I could protest he had signed out.
He moved fast, this boy, and he must live close to town. And it was ten brisk minutes from my front door, not from my dressing gown. I gave my teeth a rapid brush, splashed my face, and scrambled into some clothes. Trotted down into Clifton and over the railway bridge, cantered up Bootham and into High Petergate, side-stepped the worshippers bound for the Minster, galloped the length of St Michael-le-Belfrey, stopped dead . . . Stood staring, panting, as pieces fell into place and a sixth sense stirred. Had I finally, after fifty years, found what I was looking for?
He was already there, gazing at the statue, his back to me. Though it was fifty yards away, I recognised that back. I had seen it often enough. It belonged to the boy I nodded to in the street.
He turned and spotted me, and even at that distance I swear I saw his jaw drop. As he stood still, watching, I forced myself forward. I plodded past the old Minster Library and skirted the steps leading up to the transept door, feeling all the way as if I was in a slow-motion film. I stopped in front of him and deliberately gave him my usual nod and quiet "Hi!" He responded with his usual shy smile. Then, quite spontaneously, I hugged him, hard and long. I had not intended to. Far too early for physical contact, I had thought. But the parameters had already changed, and it was not premature now. Equally spontaneously he hugged me back.
I let go and stepped back to look at him, blinking tears away. Hitherto, convention had forbidden us to stare, but now we could. He was out of school uniform today, of course, in standard trainers, jeans and padded jacket. His features as such may not have been head-turning, but his expression of naked relief and welcome was beautiful.
Both of us tried to speak, and failed. He succeeded first, in an unexpectedly deep voice.
"M . . . M . . . All those times I've seen you . . . and didn't know. But it had to be you, I s'pose. Ever since I first noticed you," he swallowed hard, "you . . . you seemed to understand."
"Same here." I found my own voice at last, uncertainly, and to reinforce it I put my hand back on his arm. All my good resolutions had gone to pot. "Exactly the same."
I tried to gather my wits. "Look, J, it may be hard to talk properly today. It's so sudden. There's so much to say . . . it'll be difficult to start. If I'm tongue-tied, will you understand? If we're just . . . "
He nodded rapidly in agreement. He too visibly pulled himself together, and without warning he changed tack.
"M . . . I was looking at him . . . and wondering . . . "
He swivelled round and I stood beside him, shoulder to shoulder, both of us facing the statue. It is a very good one, in bronze, erected only a few years back, of the Roman emperor Constantine the Great who, by giving freedom to the church, had changed the course of history. Nobody, whatever their religious views, could deny he was one of the pivotal figures of the ancient world. His statue is here because it was on this precise spot that, in 306, he was proclaimed emperor. He sits enthroned in military garb, his sword broken, the tip lying at his feet.
"M . . . why's his sword broken?"
Again I could hardly speak. I was hearing myself. Many times I had asked myself the same question. Our minds pointed in the same direction. I had suspected it before. Now I was sure.
"I don't know, J." I shook my head slowly. "Sorry. Must be symbolic of something. Maybe of Christianity bringing an end to war. In which case it's wildly over-optimistic. But that's only guessing."
He nodded again as if satisfied, and turned his eyes upwards as if remembering. "Anyway, this sword didn't outwear the sheath."
I blinked. At his age I had peppered my talk with quotations -- friends used to call me Rentaquote -- and I still do, in the right company. I already knew that he did too, at least in his writing. Most people, if pressed for a quote about broken swords, would turn to the Lord of the Rings - "Seek for the sword that was broken; in Imladris it dwells." But he had avoided the trite and plumped for Byron, and adapted the words into the bargain. I dug the verse out from the recesses of my brain.
For the sword outwears the sheath,
And the soul wears out the breast,
And the heart must pause to breathe,
And love itself have rest.
Good God. There were depths here. Was this a test?
"No. It's early days, J. Too early for love to rest."
Hmmm. Not a well-considered remark. It might be misinterpreted. But he looked relieved, as if I had passed the test, and appreciative.
"M, do we have to . . . ? Even now? I do trust you."
All my dutiful caution had evaporated. I had already surrendered, totally.
"And I trust you too, J. I do now. I'm sorry it's taken so long. No, we don't have to, not any more. Let's go home. To my home. There's nobody else there. Hilary -- that's my wife -- she's away."
We walked back without speaking, absorbing the immensity of our discovery, swapping glances, at first to make sure we were not dreaming, then to confirm our togetherness. Blind to everything else we threaded the narrow pavement of High Petergate, passed under the medieval starkness of the Bar and through the Georgian gentility of Bootham beyond. By the time we turned up into my Edwardian cul-de-sac we were on a silent high.
Once indoors he shed his jacket, revealing a sober dark-green sweat-shirt, and I guided him to my study. This kindred spirit would be more at home in the chaos of my working space than the neater formality of the front room. He stared round-eyed at the books lining the walls, and I installed him in the revolving chair at my desk. In my rush to be off, I had not shut the computer down and the screen saver was up, a 3D word swirling around the screen. He looked at it curiously.
"That's Greek, isn't it?"
"That's right. Borborygmoi. Tummy-rumbles."
He smiled tentatively. "Oh. Why?"
"Dunno. Just my weird sense of humour."
His smile changed to a broad grin which transfigured his face. I took the mouse and the screen saver gave way to our messenger chat, still up behind it. We smiled at it as I saved the chat and closed the window. Then I stood attentively beside him like a waiter.
"Now, sir, what may I get you? Hot drink? Orange juice? I apologise that carbonated beverages are off the menu today." I dropped the pose. "Meaning sorry, we don't have coke or anything fizzy. Anyway, you don't look like a belch-water type to me."
He almost shuddered. "No, I'm not. Hot drink, please."
"Coffee, tea, chocolate?"
"Coffee, please. But very weak. I'm a weak character." He grinned again.
"Like me. Won't be a mo."
I put the kettle on and came back to find him looking at my CDs of baroque music.
"I like this sort of stuff."
"Let's play some, then. Have you met this?" I showed him the box of Praetorius' Lutheran mass for Christmas morning, which was already in the player.
"No. But I've heard his Terpsichore. Which is great."
I put it on at fairly low volume, went back to the kitchen, and returned with the coffees and a packet of biscuits.
"The only ones we've got, I'm afraid. Jammie Dodgers are one of my vices."
"Same here!" He took one. "What are your other vices?" he mumbled through it.
"Let's see, now. There are so many." It was good -- good for me and I thought for him -- to set the ball rolling with chit-chat, light-hearted but somehow revealing, and for once flowing free. "Well, for starters let's stick to weaknesses of the mouth. Camembert, the smellier the better. Steak and kidney pudding. Jam roly-poly. Booze. But not enough to lose a leg."
He was puzzled. "You mean not enough to get legless?"
"Well, that fits. But I meant like in Under Milk Wood. Do you know it?"
"I have read it, but yonks ago. Remind me."
"The Reverend Eli Jenkins, remember?" I summoned up my best Welsh accent.
"Oh angels, be careful there with your knives and forks," he prays.
There is no known likeness of his father Esau, who, undogcollared because of his little weakness, was scythed to the bone one harvest by mistake when sleeping with his weakness in the corn. He lost all ambition and died, with one leg.
"Poor Dad," grieves the Reverend Eli, "to die of drink and agriculture."
Jonathan giggled. "Oh yes. Brilliant, isn't it? It could only be Dylan Thomas. He knew a thing or two about booze, didn't he? And it's so Welsh. Have you heard of that notice in a pub in Swansea? 'Please don't drop cigarettes on the floor as they burn the hands and knees of customers as they leave'."
This time we cackled together. It was almost beyond belief, two hermits interacting like this so soon after meeting.
"So is booze the worst of your vices?" he went on.
"No. Left the most important to the last." I fished out my pipe and stuck it in my mouth. "Do you mind?"
"No, I like it. And it suits you. But I don't like the smell of cigars. And I hate fags." He was suddenly disconcerted. "I don't mean . . . er . . . "
"You mean you hate fags in the English sense, but you've no objection to fags in the American sense."
"That's right. Because I am one. In the American sense. And not ashamed of it." He smiled ruefully. "We're getting on to my weaknesses now, aren't we? What I am ashamed of . . . "
He cocked his eyes heavenward, retrieving a quotation from the hard drive of his mind. I recognised the symptoms. Already.
"Parturient montes," I suggested helpfully.
He was startled. "How did you know?"
"Perhaps I can read you like a book," I said slyly. "Already."
He grinned back delightedly. "Well, it wasn't going to be a ridiculus mus. Anyway, why should I cast my pearls before swine? I shan't tell you now."
We were happily teasing each other. Already.
"No need to tell me. I know. We were talking about lusts, and you were about to confess an attachment à la Plato for a bashful young potato or a not too French French bean."
"M!" He was still grinning from ear to ear. "You're a total arsehole!"
He instantly blushed scarlet and leapt to his feet, aghast at what he had said. "Oh God! I'm sorry! I never call anyone . . . that sort of thing, and now I've called you one. You of all people!"
I gripped him by the shoulders and looked him in the horrified eyes.
"J. Don't be sorry. I've never been called an arsehole before. Not to my face, anyway. But I'm over the moon that you did. Because it means we're talking without any barriers up. And that's so right."
He was shaking and on the brink of tears, and I hugged him properly, my head bent to his.
"J, listen," I said into his hair as his ragged breath stirred my beard. "I may be older in years, but that's the only difference. I'm not superior. I doubt I'm wiser. I'm not to be looked up to. Respect me if you like, just as I respect you. But no special treatment, please. Because we're equals. We're both in the same boat. We both need to talk, no holds barred. We can trust each other to do the right thing. When you called me an arsehole, I deserved it. And I'll call you an arsehole when you deserve it. Right?"
He had calmed down during this sermon. "Right!" he said uncertainly, pulling back and giving me a dubious smile. Then more firmly, "Right!"
He sat down again. Needing time to regain his composure, he looked at the CD player where, behind the chorus of Von Himmel hoch, the sackbuts and cornetts were blowing fanfares of bass farts. I took the opportunity to adjust myself surreptitiously, for my body had responded to our hug in a way that it should not have done. That was emphatically not what this was all about. Down, boy!
After a minute he drew a deep breath and looked back at me. "Sorry about that. Ithought I'd gone too far. But I know what you mean. If we really trust each other there isn't a too far. It's just so new, talking like this."
"I know, J. It's so new it's bound to be slippery underfoot. And we're both on a steep learning curve. If we fall arse over apex, either of us, let's just laugh it off. And help each other up. But don't let's make it steeper or slipperier than we have to. Let's take it slowly. There's plenty of time. Not only today. We can meet whenever we like, now. Whenever you're free. Assuming you're allowed to. And you want to."
"Course I want to."
"What about today? When do you need to be home? Does your aunt mind you being out without knowing where?"
"Well, yes, if she's at home. She expects to know where I'm going and when I'll be back. She doesn't know where I am, now. She was out at church when I left."
"Mmmm. I think she ought to know. We ought to clear it with her."
He pulled a face.
"Look, J. If all goes well, we're going to be seeing each other quite often. We couldn't hide it from her for long. Won't she think I'm a dirty old man if I don't account for myself?"
"But what do we tell her?"
"Not the whole truth, obviously. But as near as we can get. You've told me a bit about her. Tell me some more. What does she do? Her job?"
"University. Clerical assistant, in the central office."
"Is she now! Well, I was at the university . . . "
"Oh of course! I mean, I didn't know that, but it fits. You were? But aren't?"
"Retired, oh, nearly two years ago. But what's her name? I might know her."
"Rosa Beresford."
"Then I do! Not well, but she takes the minutes for various committees, and I've chatted to her in coffee breaks and things. Right. How did you meet me, then?"
"Ummm. Well, she dragged me to the staff party at Christmas. It was grisly. There were hundreds of people there. She won't know you weren't. Or maybe you were, but I didn't see you."
"No, I wasn't. But I was at some previous ones. That'll do well. Right, you ring her up, say you met me there, and bumped into me again in town today, and I invited you round. Then hand over to me. All right?"
"All right. If she's back from church yet." He started punching the buttons, then suddenly put the phone down. "Oops! That was almost a clanger! What's your name? Your surname?"
"Whew! Glad you caught that one! Davies. Dr Michael Davies. Late of the history department."
This time he got through. "It's me, Auntie. Look. You know Dr Michael Davies, from the history department? I met him at that Christmas party. Well, I've just met him again, and he's asked me round to his place for the day. He lives in St Peter's Grove. Is that OK?"
He listened, said "Sure," and handed me the phone, grinning.
"Hullo, Miss Beresford. Michael Davies here. How're you keeping? . . . Never better, thanks . . . Oh yes, she's fine too. I'd forgotten you'd met her . . . That's right, we saw each other outside the Minster and started talking sculpture . . . No, he's no nuisance at all. Honestly. I only wish some of my students had been as bright . . . Yes, I'll feed him and see him safe back. When's the deadline? . . . Right. Thanks. Bye!"
"Easy as wink," I reported. "And she's actually met Hilary at some do or other. So we're thoroughly respectable. And I've got you till ten."
"Ten! I can't possibly stay that long!"
"Up to you. Stay as long as you want, or can."
"Well, I mean, I'd like to. But I'd be in the way."
"J, you'll never be in the way. You're welcome any time. Whenever you want to talk, or just don't want to be alone. Even if I do have work which can't be put off, you're still welcome to come and read, or whatever. If you want to."
He looked at me almost unbelievingly. "You mean that, don't you?" I nodded. He smiled politely. "Thank you. I'd like that . . . Oh, dammit, why can't I be honest ? It's what I've been longing for. Because I love being with you. When I'm with you I'm not the gibbering wreck I am with everyone else."
"That makes two of us."
"And M. You've hugged me. Twice. Nobody's ever hugged me before."
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