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…..I suck and am sucked, fuck and am fucked. I rim them and wank them and every single man’s had the fucking time of his life.......
I keep remembering those words. Over and over again.
My Stuart.
My golden boy.
Queer.
My son.
Every single man.
Oh he's always been a bit of a scamp, always been one to push his luck, gets away with murder, gets by on charm and wit. I knew that. I'm not a fool.
But.
How many men?
That Stuart, my Stuart, should be – like that.
Well.
I suppose - I mean, some of those – those gays – you can see, they can't help it. It's just how they are, and you have to feel sorry for them. Can't help themselves, poor things. It's a tragedy for them, and, I'm glad to say I've always thought, for their poor families too.
But Stuart.
Not Stuart.
At least.
There was an instant, when Thomas said "oh yes, Vince is one of them", just an instant, when I thought – well, for a second, and you can see why that poor lad might be like that, growing up the way he did, no father to speak of, and his mother. Of course, she did her best, poor girl, but bless her, she had her troubles. So if Vince – well, who could blame him – but such a nice lad it's a shame and of course his mother never had any more so that'd be no grandkids for her. But I daresay there's worse, so when he said it like that – well, I don't suppose I would have been so calm but all the same.
Now I keep thinking – Vince is a nice lad, l always thought so, you couldn't help but like him as a boy and he and Stuart were always so close – maybe if that were all I could just about – and I daresay Clive even – well, you can't help but like Vince and he was always such a nice lad, helpful and ready to listen.
Only no.
Every single man.
Not just all the other things not to be, the normal things, the things you hope for, plan for, wedding, babies, a nice girl – none of that – but not even, well, a nice chap, known each other for years, always been close, such good friends.
Oh Stuart.
I think we could have coped with that, I really do. Given time.
But the way he said it.
Every single man.
Throwing it all at us.
As though he were proud of himself.
No decency, no apology, not for the lies, the letting down of hopes, not for everyone knowing but us.
Because they obviously have.
Marie.
The boys.
Robert – Robert's parents even, I suppose.
Who else?
How many other people have known, for how long?
How many of them have been laughing at us, so proud of our Stuart, so sure he was just waiting for the right girl, a nice girl?
Or pitying us.
Hazel, of course, Vince's mother. She knew. Said she'd always known. Since they were fourteen.
Fourteen.
How did he know at fourteen?
How – what happened to him – to my Stuart – that he could think a thing like that of himself and not tell us. How could he not tell us?
I…am fucked. I suck….
What happened to him?
She didn’t say.
Near enough sixteen years she knew and never said.
Sixteen years he let her know and not us.
I used to think we were close, Stuart and I. Used to be proud of my son, of the way we could chat about things, how easy he was.
But sixteen years.
Sitting there in her kitchen, I felt – I don't know how to say it. As though everything I thought I had achieved with my life, everything I was proud of, had been taken away.
And that other – whatshername, Janice – she knew, and she was gloating. Mind, I don't blame her, not really. Because fifteen.
Fifteen.
And Stuart nearly thirty.
There's a word for that these days.
Not that the lad – Nathan – looked fifteen, any more than the sort of girl you see get into the papers complaining about some poor teacher ever does.
But still.
Oh Stuart.
And the way they talked, the two of them. As though it were all one big joke, as though it were plain for anyone to see just by looking at him, at my Stuart, my boy I've always been so proud of, as though what he did – what he does – what he'll keep on doing by the sound of it - was all just a big laugh, a bit naughty, but just – another one of his escapades.
But it isn't.
Clive says – and what use it is saying it now, I don’t know – says he’d wondered, over the years, once or twice. But never been sure. Didn’t like to ask. Didn’t like to say anything to me. Thought I might be upset. As though I’m not upset now, as though a bit of warning wouldn’t have made this a bit better, a bit easier to cope with. Daft man. Says he thought it was Stuart’s business, Stuart’s decision, not up to him to say anything if Stuart didn’t.
Typical.
Anything for an easy life, keep your head down, don’t speak out. I sometimes wonder how Stuart got to be the way he is, because goodness knows, he’s never been one for that.
Except now it seems he has, all these years.
Queer.
Every single man.
Marie keeps saying that it's just how he is, no use wondering why, or if it's my fault, or whatever did we do wrong or any of that. He is what he is, she says, his money hasn't changed, he hasn't changed, it's just you know a bit more about him now. Not quite so perfect, she hasn't said, but it's there, in her eyes, and I didn't know she still felt like that. I knew they had their differences as teenagers – well, they do, don't they – but I thought these days – we've always been pleased how close they are. And how good Stuart is with the boys, because with Robert run off, well, it doesn't do a boy any good not to have a father about. And Clive does his best, but he's getting on a bit now, so especially with Stuart not having any of his own yet, we thought that was lovely.
Except of course he does.
Alfie.
Wonderful, darling little Alfie.
Only I keep thinking, if Stuart could – well, if Stuart could father a son, if that Romey could – if they could – then why don't they just pull themselves together, stop all this silliness and posturing and get married properly. Bring Alfie up together. Make a proper family home for the little lad, and maybe some more little ones one day.
I mean, maybe it wouldn’t be a match made in heaven, as they say, maybe they aren’t in love, maybe there wouldn’t be roses and chocolates – maybe all of that. But they’re friends, pretty good friends I’d think, to do that. And isn’t that about as much as anyone can ask for out of marriage, friendship? Really, when you start getting on a bit, all that sort of thing – well, romance is overrated. Look at Clive and I. We never went in for all that, not really, not once the first courting days were over. And we’ve done alright. Two good kids – because he is a good kid, really, my Stuart, he is, underneath it all – a nice home, barely a harsh word between us. Maybe Clive isn’t – well, never mind who – maybe he isn’t some matinee idol, maybe he isn’t a prince in any form, maybe – maybe now there’s times I wonder – but life isn’t like that. I can remember what I said to my dad when he sat me down and said Clive had asked his permission. My dad wasn’t too sure about him; he’s not much of a dancer, Margaret-lass, he said, he won’t take you out on a Saturday night. No, I said, but he’s got a good job, he’s careful with his money, he won’t drink it away, he won’t ever leave me relying on handouts. He’s not perfect, I said, but he’s good enough for me.
So why can’t Stuart just – make an effort? Grow up, like everyone else does. He’s nearly thirty, you’d think he’d be ready to be settling down, making a proper home.
Because he clearly could. One thing about Stuart, he can do anything he wants to. Not like some of these poor lads, he didn't grow up missing anything, needing a man to look up to.
But then I remember the way he spoke, what he said.
Every single man.
How many men?
How many?
How does he dare? How does he find them? How can he risk – well, not just disease but I don't know, I suppose he could be robbed, attacked, hurt. I know he doesn't have to think about getting into trouble, the way girls I knew did, but – well, men are men aren't they, whatever else – if they get the milk for free why would they buy the cow, my mother used to say.
I just can’t imagine – if he doesn’t have a – a boyfriend – if he’s out with one after another – all the time – if he’s – what’s that awful word – promiscuous – then – well, how can he? How can he bear to – to be like that with someone he doesn’t know? How can he just – not care what they think when – well, when he – I don’t like to think about it, not my own son, but – well, he is nearly thirty. He’s not in the first flush of youth, and I remember the difference in Clive – not that I’d ever let on, but – well. You notice things – things aren’t quite as – taut – as they used to be. Or as – reliable.
Does he not think about that? About years to come?
No-one stays young forever.
Isn’t it worth sacrificing a bit of excitement now for some security, some comfort later on?
Only maybe he thinks he doesn't have to care. Men don't age the way women do. I like to think I've kept myself trim, but – it's not the same and I know that.
And of course Stuart can look after himself, he's always been a clever one. I've never known him fight, but – no, he can take care of himself.
He's a man.
But still.
Every single man’s had the fucking time of his life.
So many men, so many – shags. Isn't that the word they use?
And I – god forgive me, but I just feel so jealous.