Date: Mon, 28 Aug 2017 19:50:55 +0000 (UTC) From: Peter Brown Subject: Lion-King Chapter 15 Lion-King by badboi666 =============================================================================== If sex with boys isn't your thing, go away. If, as is much more likely, you've come to this site precisely to get your rocks off reading about sex with fresh young lads then make yourself comfortable - you're in the right place. Don't leave, however, without doing this: Donate to Nifty - these buggers may do it for love but they still have to eat. http://donate.nifty.org/donate.html =============================================================================== Chapter 15 Today - 31 August 1985 - I decided I must make a determined effort to find out something - anything - about the boys Jack had befriended. I wasn't interested in the one-off boys he'd met, not least because tracing them would have been impossible, but I did want to know something about the ones who seemed to have meant something to him: something more than just being fuck buddies. Boys like Robin in Norwich, Barry in Croydon and the brothers Bob and Steve. But most of all Jack - his Jack. I think I'm going to have to stop calling our Jack Jack for the moment, so I'll use his real name of Peter. That was I'll be less likely to confuse things. Robin and Barry are going to be very hard to trace now, 28 years after Peter got to know them. Bob and Steve would be easier, because I had a pretty good idea of where they lived in 1957, and I ought to be able to find some trace of them in later years. I'd start with them. They had lived in what Ja- ... no, Peter, had described as a big house in a wealthy road in Winchmore Hill. That narrowed it down to precisely one: Broad Walk. I woke up in Winchmore Hill and, after breakfast I sought the local library. Libraries had been good to me so far, and I hoped today would be the same. This time I said I was a researcher wanting to trace people who had lived in a well-to-do part of London since the War. This was sufficiently vague to allow me to ask all kinds of questions, and also (I hoped) sufficiently interesting that a member of the library staff would wish to help me. Bob and Steve had been 14 and 13 in August 1957. That meant that Bob would appear on the Electoral Roll in about 1964 when he was 21, and Steve a year later. I asked to see the Electoral Rolls for 1963 to 1966. After some humming and hawing it was agreed by Authority that such things could be shown to me, all of 20 years since they were live documents. Rather than point out that such an attitude was a bit daft I thought that there was more advantage to be had by my being awfully grateful. The bound volumes were laid before me with a degree of ceremony more befitting a private showing of the Dead Sea Scrolls. I started with 1966 and looked for Broad Walk. No sign of a Steven (or Stephen) or a Robert. Not a disaster as maybe they'd left home by then - they'd have been 23 and 22. I needed to find a household with two parents (whose names I didn't know) and a Steven and a Robert. 1965 gave me two families with three people - two males and a female - one of which had a Steven and the other one a Stephen. I was getting warm. If 1964 also had a Robert at one of these addresses I would be pretty sure I had found them, and so it was. Bingo! Mr and Mrs Lake had two fine sons, Robert and Steven. I now had a surname to trace, and luckily it wasn't Smith or Jones. No sign of the mysterious Greg though. Where to go now? It was blindingly obvious really. Not only did I have a surname, but I also had an address. The phone book showed Lake G at the same address now. I phoned Mr Lake and explained who I was. I told him that I was doing a PhD thesis involving the mobility of families in London in the 40 years since the end of the War. I had been told to study five different social classes, and my supervisor had suggested Broad Walk as being an ideal place to find a family in the upper income bracket. All this was designed to flatter Mr Lake, and Mr Lake was indeed flattered. He readily agreed to allow me to visit him that afternoon. "Shall we say two o'clock?" At the appointed hour I presented myself and told my story. I said that I was aware, from the Electoral Rolls, that he and his family had lived at that address for at least 30 years, and I waited for him to pick up the threads. I won't weary you with his tale as it wasn't of any interest to me. When he had brought me right up to date I pronounced myself very grateful for his time. "Now," I said, "you've spoken about two sons. Do they still live here?" "Good Lord, no," he said, "they left home nearly 20 years ago." I told him that part of my thesis was exploring the movement of children as well as their parents. He was clearly uncomfortable with this, and I wondered why. I pretended not to notice. Would he be willing to give me their contact details? He was happy to give me his elder son's address and phone number - "that's Robert" - but he confessed that he had lost touch with the younger boy. He didn't even name him. Clearly there was some family difficulty, but I had Bob's contact, and that was all I needed. I thanked him for his time, and assured him that there would be no names in my thesis - "it's all very dry, I'm afraid, with lots of statistics." He seemed happy with that, and I thanked him again and left. Robert, or Bob, lived in Enfield, about three miles away. I phoned and when it was answered - by Bob, luckily, who worked from home - I briefly told my story and asked if I might interview him. He was only too happy to help, so I said I'd be with him in half an hour. Things were looking up. Bob could not have been more friendly. I explained briefly what I was after and he told me about his life since he had left his parents' home when he left university in 1965. He'd moved out because the tension between his father and his brother had become unpleasant. I made a note to come back to the matter of his brother. Bob had trained as a solicitor and has passed the various exams by the time he was 26 in 1969. He had married then, and his wife and he had two daughters, now 11 and 8. His wife and daughters were still at their holiday cottage in Wales, and I was lucky to have found him at home, "but I have a very difficult case to prepare". I asked him about his brother. "Your father said that he had lost touch with him when he left home." "That's putting rather a gloss on it," he replied. I waited, but he didn't want to add anything. I decided to take the plunge. "Look," I said, "I've not been completely honest with you. I'm not doing a PhD at all, but I am looking for someone - I'm a private detective." He bristled, but before he could throw me out I carried on. "My client is your and your brother's age. When you were all 14 or so he spent some time with you at your parents' house together with a boy called Jack. You did the things that boys do at that age, and according to my client you all enjoyed yourselves. I'm not a journalist, so none of what we say will be broadcast. Like your profession, mine is involved with personal secrets and sometimes personal tragedies. My client, whom you knew as Peter, wants to find your brother - Steve, isn't it?" Bob shook his head. "It's clear you know a lot about me," he said ruefully, "and it's true that the four of us messed about that summer - I had forgotten about it. Now that you remind me," and here he smiled sadly, "I do remember that it was wildly exciting. Steve was a year younger than me, but he was the ringleader in all the mischief we got up to, and that included the sex adventures we had. I remember Peter was very sparky and into all kinds of things." He paused, and I could tell he didn't want to go on. "Please go on," I said gently. "My father discovered us - Steve and me - in bed with Greg, the man who my parents employed to look after us, not that long after the time you're talking about - maybe a year later. We weren't just in bed, we were ... oh, dammit, we were fucking. That's not language I've used since I was a boy, but that's what we were doing. Father was outraged and gave us both a dreadful time for ages. Greg was thrown out of the house despite having been very much in with our father in the War. Greg saved our father's life, but being caught molesting his sons rather trumped that, so out went Greg. Father told Greg that in return for the debt he owed him for having saved his life, he would not report Greg to the police, but that he never wanted to see him again, or for him to make contact with any of us. "Father couldn't understand how his sons could behave like that - that sort of thing. Anyway, things gradually cooled down. Steve and I never had any sexual contact after that - I was beginning to get interested in girls, and Steve found whatever pleasure he could elsewhere. About two years later I got a place at Cambridge and there was a family celebration. That was the day I first took Debbie - my wife - to meet my parents. This was evidence that at least one of my father's sons was normal, and might give him the grandsons he so desired. The fact that Debbie and I have two daughters is a source of disappointment to him, but great satisfaction to me. You will think it odd that I take pleasure in denying my father's wish for grandsons. I'll tell you why. "Steve didn't start to fancy girls. His queer stage, unlike mine, wasn't a stage at all - it was where he belonged, and by the time he was 16 he was exceedingly promiscuous. Naturally I knew all about his adventures, not least because he needed a cover story sometimes, but we were very close and I was happy to deceive my parents. Still, I was worried. His exploits seemed incredibly risky. To cut a long story short he continued to act like that until there was a major row on his 21st birthday. A party had been arranged - it all seems so long ago - and I was there with Debbie, together with a dozen or so of my parents' friends. No friends of mine or Steve's, you'll notice. In walks Steve with a bloke. Nothing odd about that until Steve announces that he's now 21, he's officially an adult, and that the bloke - William - is his boyfriend. "I don't know which gave my father the greater shock: that William was a dirty disgusting queer (the words which had been used to us when he had caught us in bed with Greg) or that William was black. You didn't consort with blacks in my father's cosy universe. At that point the party fell apart rather. Steve and William left - 'were thrown out' would be a better term - and as far as I know my parents never spoke to him, or about him, until he died." I was appalled. "What happened to him?" I asked. "Oh, AIDS. He and William didn't last long as an item - six months maybe. I kept in touch, obviously, but we were never as close as we'd been as boys. Steve remained pretty promiscuous for years, and finally settled down with another guy - another black guy, actually - a thoroughly nice man from New York. They went to live there in 1971 when Steve was 27. I visited them once when I was in New York at a conference, and they seemed very happy. I got the impression that they still behaved promiscuously, but that was hardly my business. It killed them both though." A tear rolled down Bob's cheek. "William died in 1981, one of the early cases before they really knew what was happening. Steve was heart-broken, as you'd expect. There had been no contact at all with our parents since the 21st birthday, so it was up to me to break the news of Steve's loss to them. I'm sorry to say I got short shrift from my father whose coldness was most unpleasant. When poor old Steve died three years later I decided not to tell my father. He still doesn't know that Steve is dead. I'd ask you not to enlighten him if you should see him again. I've maintained a friendly relationship with him, but beyond the normal politeness I find it hard to pretend to any warmth. My father didn't infect Steve with AIDS but he certainly infected him with hatred, and one thing leads to another." It was a really sad story, and I felt a bit guilty about having had to deceive Bob so much to hear it. I told him that nothing which he'd told me would reach anyone apart from Peter if he was agreeable ...? He nodded. I thanked him. "I'm really glad you came," he said, "telling someone - anyone - about Steve has helped me. I've not told a soul before, not even Debbie. I've thrown myself into defending gay men ever since William's death: sort of expiation, I suppose, for my bloody father. It's the least I could do for Steve, and now I do it in his memory." He added sadly, "it's a line of work which doesn't look like drying up." Luckily I thought to ask him what was almost a throw-away question before I left. "I don't imagine you have any contact with Jack after all these years?" "Good Lord," he said, "didn't I tell you? Jack was my best man when I married Debbie. She lived next door to Jack - that's how I met her. Jack and I were really quite close in our early teens - apart from Steve he was the one I fooled around with most. I started to be interested in girls, as I've told you, and Debbie was on the doorstep, as it were. We didn't go steady for a couple of years, but we hung out together as part of a group of bored teenagers." He laughed. "It's all so long ago. It was so intense at the time." Having read Peter's account of it I could only agree, but of course I couldn't share the intimate details with him, nor even let him know that I knew a great deal about what he and Steve got up to 28 years earlier. "Can you give me Jack's contact details." He was happy to do so. "Peter will want to know his story as well," he said with a grin. "Why? Is it special?" I asked. "You'll have to ask Jack that, but I think you'll find it interesting, given the events about which Peter has told you." He wrote down Jack's address and phone number. "Be sure to tell him I gave them to you," he said with a twinkle. Meeting Jack was going to be fun, but I couldn't do it today. I'd have to do it tomorrow, two years ago. Explaining how I'd got the contact details wouldn't be straightforward, so I'd have to think of another ploy. Still, I now knew where I could find him. I looked at the address. It was startling. ***** The next day - 31 August 1983- I decided to see if I could meet Jack. That's our Jack's Jack, of course, the boy Peter had met at Kings Cross right at the start of his adventures. Jack had had his 14th birthday in August 1957, so he'd be 40 now. I was now 54. The address Bob had given me was indeed startling. I'd not really bothered to imagine what Peter's boys might have grown up to be - after all, the attraction to him had been that they were boys, not men. So to discover that Jack's address was a major public school was unexpected, to say the least. It would still be the school holidays though: would Jack be there, or on holiday himself? The only way to find out was to phone. I got straight through to him, and I told him that I had got his number from a mutual acquaintance, and that I had something I wanted to discuss with him which I didn't want to do over the phone. His curiosity was piqued, and we agreed to meet for lunch in a pub near the school. "I'll be wearing a light grey jacket and black slacks," he said, "you can't miss me." When I got to the pub he was the only person there apart from a couple already having lunch. I introduced myself and accepted his offer of a pint. "What's all this about?" he asked, "you made it sound very mysterious." I quickly abandoned the idea of linking my finding him to Bob. If he and Bob were in contact, likely in view of his having been Bob's best man, then any suggestion that Bob had given me his details would seem decidedly odd two years before I met Bob. No, this had to be different. I decided to be closer (but not too close) to the truth. "Before I tell you, let me assure you that I am not a journalist or a lawyer. What we discuss today will not go beyond these four walls. You have my word on that. Let me ask you, are you a master here?" "Yes, I'm one of the housemasters. I've been here for 12 years now. Why?" "What I'm about to tell you may be embarrassing, and I think we shouldn't talk where there's any chance if being overheard." "This is getting more mysterious by the second," he said, "but I don't think we need to worry about being overheard." He led me to a table well away from the bar and the other couple. "OK," he said, "spill the beans." "I am the executor of a friend's estate," I began. "He died young - he was 39 - a few months ago. While I was going through his stuff - he wasn't married, and I had to do everything - I found a memoir he had written about his teenage years. I have no idea why he wrote it, or why he stopped writing it when he did, at the age of 18. Some of it is very explicit, going into detail about his sexual exploits. I've done some research, looking at addresses 25 years ago, that kind of thing, and I'm pretty sure you figure in the story. I assure you I've no intention of showing it to anyone, and it's far too explicit to be publishable. I've identified four others who feature - three boys and a man. You knew him as Peter. He met you while train-spotting at Kings Cross on 1 August 1957." "Good Lord!" he said, "I remember perfectly, and if his memoir is accurate it will indeed be explicit. I take it you've read it?" I nodded. "Well then, you have a good idea of what I got up to when I was 14. I remember Peter with great affection, and I remember being devastated when he left again at the end of the holidays. And he's dead now? That's really sad." He was silent for a while. "It's funny. I hadn't thought about Peter for 25 years or more, but suddenly he's very real, or at least the 14-year-old Peter is very real, and I'm moved by the news of his death. For a few weeks we were incredibly close. He was the first person I ever loved, you know. I'm well aware of teenage crushes in my job, and I've had to handle the emotional turmoil of boys whose world collapses because the boy they love isn't loving them back. No boy of 14 has the experience to judge whether this big new wonderful all-encompassing emotion is really love or not. Nine times out of ten it isn't, but that doesn't mean it's not intense, and wonderful, and devastating when it's over. Very rarely the emotional attraction that boys of 14 or 15 find themselves experiencing becomes the basis of a life-long commitment. I've had two pairs of boys like that here, and I'm so glad that we take a sensible view of these things nowadays. In 1957 if Peter and I had been pupils here we'd both have been expelled in disgrace. Nowadays they get counselling, which is thoroughly embarrassing for them, but at least doesn't ruin their lives." He chuckled at the memory of some of the embarrassing counselling. There wasn't much to say in response to that, so I murmured something about how good it was that we'd moved on since Wolfenden. "That's going back a bit," he said. I agreed. "The report came out a few days after Peter left. That was the first step in a long painful road." Jack looked at me. "I think I'm beginning to understand. You must be, what, 50 odd?" I nodded, happy to knock off four years. "And Peter was 39, and you're his executor. Forgive me, but were you his lover as well?" I nodded. It was true enough, if not in the way Jack meant it. He put his hand on mine. "I'm so sorry," he said, "he was a very special boy. Can you tell me what happened?" "A traffic accident," I said, "he was killed instantly." We sat quietly for a long time after that, each of us replaying the memory tapes of Peter: Jack's in reality and mine with the necessary changes of detail. After a while I asked him if he was married. "No," he said, "they don't insist on housemasters being married here. In view of the conversation we've been having I'm willing to tell you that I am gay, and accepted as such by my colleagues and one or two of the older boys. Not, I hasten to add, that I have any sexual liaisons with any of the boys here. I'm not attracted to boys or I wouldn't work in a school. But having a gay housemaster among the married ones means that I can give guidance and reassurance to boys whose sexuality is troubling them. The really good thing in the last 25 years is that far more boys are much more sensible about such things. I loved Peter, and I wasn't ashamed to tell him so." "I know," I said, "he said as much in the memoir. And he loved you too." Luckily we had just called for a second pint, so neither of us could see the tears in the other one's eyes as we sunk our noses in our beer. I could hardly tell him that I had met Peter a few days before Jack had seen him for the last time, and that he - Peter - was the main reason, or one of them, for my journey back through the years. I wanted to tell him so much about what happened to the people, boys and men, that he'd met that August. "Did you keep in touch with the others - with Bob and Steve?" He laughed. "I was Bob's best man. He married the girl next door - next door to me, that is. He and I went on messing about for a year or two after Peter, but Bob's hormones switched onto girls; mine didn't. But that didn't spoil our friendship. He and Debbie are among my closest friends." "Please don't tell him any of this then. If he's married it would be tactless." "My lips are sealed," he said. I knew that Steve hadn't died yet: he wouldn't die of fucking AIDS until next year. I didn't really want to press Jack further in that area, and luckily he didn't pursue my enquiry. "Well," I said, "that's it. I've done my job for Peter. Whether he knows about you now is something for the philosophers to worry about." Jack laughed. "I'm sure they have bigger things to worry about than whether two ex-14-year-olds are communicating from the grave." If only you knew, I thought. We finished our beers. I got up to go. "Thank you, Jack. I'm glad to have met you." It was 1983 and men hugs hadn't become de rigeur yet, but 'sod it', I thought, we're both queer. I gave him a big hug. "Thanks, Rex," he said, "tell Peter I still love him." "I think he knows already," I murmured. =============================================================================== badboi666@btinternet.com is where you should send comments and suggestions