Schoolie
Life in The Village, through the eyes of Tom
Grant, the only teacher at the remote school.
This is an original work of pure fiction (just
an expression of a fantasy)
(re-written from my 2013 version)
The resemblance of the characters by action,
name, location or description to any real person is purely coincidental.
If it is illegal, or offensive, for you to
read stories involving interactions of a sexual nature between adults and
youths, then what are you doing here?
From Chapter 49:
I
really want to test out the door-opening ability on Mrs T too! And, I am
convinced that there is something much more inexplicable than bizarre door-handles
going on here!
I
wish that I could remember exactly what Davo first told me about the land out
here that day in the pub! I can recall only the basics. It was a sacred site to
the aboriginals who used to be provided with food, water and general sustenance
by their Great Rainbow Serpent who lived under the ground that the house was
built on. What else? Was there more?
I
snap myself out of it!
Andy
and I walk a few steps behind the ladies. I throw one arm over his shoulder and
he puts his arm around my waist. "Am I still your friend, Andy?" I ask him.
"Trucking
hell Yeah!" he whispers back. He looks up at me, grinning, and we both laugh.
Chapter
50 - Open House
Mum
has changed. She is brighter, and more energetic than I ever remember her,
since she used to play with me on the beach before Amelia was born. And, apart
from that, she says that she is currently feeling less pain in her body.
Mrs
Thompson has changed. She has already commented on her more positive mood and
outlook.
Andy
has changed. He's speaking in sentences instead of single words and clipped
phrases. His legs seem stronger and more stable and the distortion of his spine
is much less apparent.
Have
I changed? Hey! Did something need fixing? Only joking! But, if anything (especially
in my thinking positively about Mum and Andy) I'm feeling even more emotional
than ever! Is that a change for the better or worse? An improvement or a deterioration?
We
all check out the bedrooms. Greenish. Pinkish. Bluish. Andy and I linger in the
largest one, dominated by a four-poster bed and furnished predominantly in
black and white with red highlights (rug, cushions and features in the
paintings). It feels as though this must have been the master's room, right
next to the northern-side bathroom.
Andy
implores me to `share' a call of nature with him in the toilet. As our bladders
empty, he swells from `hanging out' to `poking out'. He giggles and looks from
his hard boyhood to my almost-flaccid one and then to my face for any reaction.
"Yep.
You're a big boy!" I tell him, again exercising all of the self-restraint that
I can muster to keep my hands to myself. I tuck mine away while it is still
pliable enough to do so.
Andy
takes a bit longer. "Help, Tom," he says, smiling. I think that this young imp
knows exactly what he's asking!
I
give him some help, but not what he expects - a sharp slap to his firm young
backside.
"Ouch!"
he calls, jumping, then he frowns at me while vigorously rubbing his painful
rear end. "What was that for?"
"That
should help it to go down!" I laugh, pointing.
He
is slow to appreciate my humour, but eventually smiles and says, "Thank you,
Tom. That worked pretty good!" He displays to me his near-limpness, puts it
away, does up his pants, one-handed, then hugs me. We understand each other! We
both laugh, and I ruffle his hair.
We
wash and dry our hands then move to join the ladies on the front balcony.
Andy
is reluctant to approach the edge but is not displaying any terror as I had
anticipated that he might. "Hold on to me," I tell him. "And, you can close
your eyes if you want to!"
I
edge closer until the railing is almost within reach. "Let's put out one hand
towards the railing," I say, taking hold of his unplastered arm. "Now stand in
front of me and lean back onto me then reach out, if you can, with your other
hand by yourself." There is some hesitation. "It's OK, Andy. I've got you. Do
you trust me? Am I your friend?"
That
last comment did it. "Yes, Tom," Andy replies and does exactly as I have
suggested.
I
press my body against him from behind and I lay both of my hands over his,
urging our bodies close to the edge to grasp the railing firmly. And, hey, I'd
be lying if I said that I didn't enjoy my body being so close to his, and his
clean but distinctively boyish smell! Aroma du garçon!
"That's
great, buddy," I congratulate him.
Looking
towards Mrs T, I motion with my eyes and head for her to come closer. She
stands beside Andy and me. Mum is on the other side of us. I lift one of my hands,
the one which is near to Mrs T, and she covers Andy's hand with her own.
I
invite Mrs T to replace me, fully. She moves to stand behind him and embraces
her son. "Oh, Andrew," she says emotionally. "You seem so much better! I am so
happy for you!"
"You
can open your eyes now, buddy," I tell him.
"They
are open!" He quips, "I'm a big boy. Remember?" Turning his head to look at me
standing alongside Mum, Andy articulates, "Thank you, Tom, for praying with me
to get better. I feel different already. But, I really didn't think that
praying could work so quickly."
He
turns to his mother and says emphatically, "Tom's my friend, you know!"
I
look at Mrs T first, and then I ask Andy, "How do you feel different, buddy?
What do you think has changed?"
He
pauses for quite a while. "Well... Well, I... I can say stuff! The words in my head
can come out now. Before they were locked up and couldn't get out. I couldn't
make my mouth say what was in my head and what I wanted to say. Only baby words
would come out."
However,
Andy doesn't comment, at all, on his considerably-repaired physical capability.
Obviously,
for him personally, his inhibited communication was the greatest frustration of
all. Mrs T rocks him gently from side to side as though he is her baby again.
I
embrace Mum in a similar manner to how Mrs T is holding Andy. I wrap my arms
around her from behind. She sinks back against my body and I rub my cheek
against hers. "How are you, really?" I ask. "I've been really worried about
you."
She
sighs deeply. "To be truthful, Thomas," she begins, "I've been scared that all
of the treatments have not been working as well as they should have. I didn't
know how to tell you. The specialist was most insistent that I start on
chemotherapy, but I've only felt sicker since that day. When Bill said that he
was coming out here for Danny's funeral and that you would be there as well, I
had the strangest compulsion to come too - not just because of my teenage
friendship with Danny. It was something else. A much stronger feeling."
I
know that sensation. It drew me to this place. Also, Mrs T said that Andy told
her that he `HAD TO come', not that he wanted to come. She had thought that he
just wished to see me.
I'm
beginning to believe that there are forces beyond my comprehension.
"How
do you feel now?" I ask Mum. She turns within my arms, leans back against the
railing and stares at me.
"Thomas,
I can't explain it. I feel well. Really well. The pains that I had before are
now only a slight ache. I'm so happy that I just had to almost run up the
stairs just now." Then she adds, smiling, "I was very tempted to take them two
at a time."
"I'm
glad you didn't!" I tell her. "There isn't a doctor around for well over 150km
if you had tripped and broken a leg or an arm, or worse!"
She
hugs me then turns again to take in the vista of the stark landscape, and I
enjoy the comfort of just holding her.
It's
not long before we see a vehicle heading our way. I recognise it - by sight,
not by sound, and I wonder whether Will has allowed Uncle Bill to drive `his'
car.
Obviously
not! That is confirmed as they get out of their respective sides and wave,
looking up.
Will
holds up his keys and I catch sight of a flash of red. My heart-shaped keyring
gift. He kisses it. I subtly blow him a kiss and give him a `thumbs up'. "Hi,
Andy," Will calls up to him.
Andy
waves back, calls to Will, then wriggles free from his mother's loving clench
and heads for the doorway. I kiss Mum on the cheek and I hurry after him,
anticipating that he will need help on the stairs.
"Hey,
slow down, buddy," I say as I catch up to him. "Take it easy. We don't want any
accidents!"
He
puts one hand on the bannister and allows me to take his plastered arm as he
descends, although I can feel that he is not leaning on me for support at all.
As we head down the last flight, and face the front door, I see that it is
closed.
Andy
and I make it part way across to the entry when we hear the knocker being
pounded. "Come in!" I call as we approach.
"Very
funny!" I hear returned from the outside.
It's
Uncle Bill's voice. He must have already tried the handle!
Andy
opens the door and we are greeted by two very different facial expressions.
Uncle Bill does not relish being the butt of anyone's practical joke. He much
prefers the role of joker. Will, however, standing behind him, is enjoying the
moment.
"Did
you lock us out, Andy?" Will jokes, wagging an admonishing finger.
Andy
responds, "It wasn't me! Honest. I don't know how to lock the door."
Probably
anticipating a simple `NO', Will looks at me with undisguised amazement at
Andy's improved speech. I shrug.
"Then
it must have been Tom, mustn't it!" Will puts to Andy, jokingly.
"Most
likely!" Uncle Bill grouches.
I
move aside to let him in, and he is greeted by Mum and Mrs T who have followed
us down at a more leisurely pace.
With
him in this mood, I think that we'll leave the three `oldies' alone for a
while.
"Come
on, Andy," I say. "Let's have a look around outside, downstairs."
Standing
between them, I put one arm over Will's shoulder and the other over Andy's, on
his `plastered' side. They each put their nearest arm around my waist and we
begin to walk around the lower verandah.
"I
missed you," Will quietly tells me, giving me a squeeze. "Don't worry about
dad's grumpiness," he says, referring to Uncle Bill. "He still doesn't believe
that you're the new owner, and he's not happy that I won't change my story and
`tell him the truth'."
Then
he says to Andy, "Did you enjoy sleeping with Tom in the big bed?"
"Oh,
yes," he replies instantly. He adds, unprompted, "I had a bath and Marty cooked
breakfast and he walks around with no clothes on and ..."
Then
he freezes and a look of horror sweeps across his face.
"I'm
sorry, Tom," he apologises. "I'm not supposed to tell anyone that, am I?"
He
looks as though he could cry because his inadvertent revelation has broken the
House Rule and his promise of silence.
I
am about to grab him and hug him but Will beats me to it. "It's OK, Andy. I
know about the House Rule. I live there too, remember?"
"Uh-huh,"
Andy mutters, reverting to his previous mode of speech.
"Can
I tell you a secret Andy? A house secret that only Marty and Tom and I know
about? Now that you're one of us, I think it's OK to tell you, isn't it, Tom?"
Will asks looking at me.
"Well..."
I respond, hoping that it's nothing too revealing.
Will
confesses, "When I'm at home, I often walk around with no clothes on too!"
Andy
processes the information and looks pleasantly stunned. A broad grin grows
across his face and his eyes widen. "Honest?" he asks. Then he looks at me. I'm
not sure whether it's for confirmation of what Will has told him or if it's my
cue to `fess up'.
I
let the cat half-way out of the bag. "It's all right, Andy. We're all guys.
There are no girls or mothers or other ladies around at Marty's. You saw me
this morning when I was having my shower, and went back into the bedroom,
didn't you?"
"Uh-huh,"
he says, nervously.
"What
was I wearing?" I ask him. I cast a glance at Will.
"Um,
nothing," he replies.
"Do
you think that it was OK to have no clothes on?"
"Uh-huh,"
he says with some reserve. Then he opens up. "You look good with no clothes on,
Tom, like at the beach. Will does too."
Will's
face shows that he can't believe what he's hearing, that is Andy's improved
speech, not (necessarily) the subject matter.
Andy
continues, but I hope that his recovery has advanced sufficiently to discern
when to close his mouth, "I like to have no clothes on too. But I can't do it
at home because mum might see my hairs and my... thing. Because it's always
getting hard."
"Doesn't
she see it when she helps you go to the toilet?" I ask him.
"No!"
he says vehemently. "Not when I need to pee. I can do that myself. If I need
her to help me after I've done a poo, then I lean forward to I make sure that
she can't see my thing."
I
immediately wonder whether it was really necessary for me to help him at the
toilet after the funeral. But, then, he was adamant at the time that it was
more urgent than he was able to cope with on his own, with only one good hand.
Besides, yesterday, he seemed far less coordinated than he is right now.
"It's
called a penis," Will tells him. "But you can call it a cock or a dick if you
like." He smiles at me. I nod my approval of his brief anatomy lesson.
Andy
covers his mouth and gasps, as if some other `bad words' had escaped from his
own mouth instead of coming from Will.
I
reflect on the fun with him at the beach. From memory, he is a `cock' rather
than a `thing' guy and had previously shown a bit of talent in the `wanking'
department in the showers as well, not to mention his `dogginess' in humping my
leg and his `purring' at having his butt and crack massaged.
Given
what I've seen of his behaviour since yesterday's first visit to the homestead,
I wonder whether his sexual appetite has also been restored, along with his
other characteristics, and whether he's just over-acting to `cover up' for some
ulterior pubescent motive. Either way, welcome back young Andy!
He
is so much like Kurt, with a couple of minor exceptions. Both are of similar
height, although I've confirmed that Andy is a year older. Kurt's hair is
blonde; Andy's is sun-and-surf bleached. Kurt's pubes are light brown; Andy's
are darker. Kurt's adolescent young cock is thicker but Andy's is longer.
Kurt's balls are larger and rounder; Andy's hang lower. However, the boys'
athletic, defined musculature and their overt, playful, frisky attitudes are
identically matched!
It
suddenly dawns on me that, when Jan brings the boys out today, Kurt and Andy are
going to meet. It will be very interesting to see them alongside each other
and, my intuition tells me that they just might `click'!
Next
to arrive are Julie Smith and her husband, plus a helper that I've seen around
the pub but whom I have never engaged in conversation. Maybe he's one of
Jacko's mates. I reckon that they'd be about the same age.
I
leave Andy and Will together to `explore', and I walk down the front steps.
Julie makes sure that the men and I have met each other and we exchange
pleasantries.
When
questioned about the best place to `set up' the drinks, the equipment and the
food, I recommend the shaded side of the broad downstairs verandah rather than
inside or down here, at ground level.
"Perfect,"
Julie's husband replies, looking up at the place, and the two menfolk start unloading
stuff immediately.
"Come
and have another look at the dining room," I suggest to Julie. "I thought that
it might be a perfect location to sit and sign the documents." I know that she
saw the place yesterday.
Julie
comments to me about the grandeur of the entrance hall with its wood panelling
and local animal skins. Then she mentions the zebra. "I don't understand why
that's here! It looks totally out of place."
I
share with her that everybody has said much the same thing. And I wonder,
again, why it is hanging with the native animal hides.
She
agrees about the suitability of the dining room, after almost swooning over its
décor and furnishings.
We
visit the kitchen then meet Mum, Mrs T and Uncle Bill in the lounge. I
introduce the ladies to each other.
Uncle
Bill wastes no time in posing his mind-gnawing question. "Julie, what's all
this nonsense I hear about Thomas owning the homestead?" he puts to her.
She
graciously recounts the tale of the curse and the bounty for the first person
to `discover' it after it finally failed to disappear.
It's
exactly what I had told him and Mum previously!
"He's
a lucky man," she adds. "This looks like a magnificent building, plus there are
200,000 acres to go with it. Nobody hereabouts has ever explored the full
extent of the property, and very few, if any, of those who will be here today,
have actually ever seen the homestead at all. For decades, people in town have
been far too scared to venture anywhere in this direction."
"And
now, you are telling me, it all belongs to Thomas?" Uncle Bill asks, still with
a tone of disbelief, or is it cynicism?
"Just
as soon as all of the papers are signed," Julie Smith replies. "That's the
primary reason why we are all here today." She adds, "There will be representatives
of the local Council and the Police Force as witnesses." Then, displaying the
ribboned portfolio that she has been carrying, she adds the icing to the cake,
"I have the ownership papers with me, right here in this folder."
"May
I see them, please?" Uncle Bill asks, now appearing more curious than
sceptical.
Respecting
his background and his plan to refurbish the pub at no cost to her, Julie Smith
extends the portfolio towards him with both hands, urging caution because of
its age.
As
he takes it, turns it over and rubs a single hand over it, I can tell that
Uncle Bill is appraising the leather and ribbon for authenticity. "Yes, very
old," he offers.
"The
papers have been kept in our safe at the pub for decades," she explains, "ever
since it was the resolve of every single one of The Village's residents at the
time, as to whom the property should finally belong. They had a council officer
and a lawyer draw up the documents so that they only require the addition of a
name and some signatures and the date for it all to be legal."
The
irony that the property could ultimately belong to a descendent of the very
people whom the original owner murdered does not elude me. Indeed, if my theory
is correct, the fact is that the whole of the land could now be returned to one
of the Jintabudjaree people from whom the landowner usurped it those dozen (and
more) decades ago...
Having
perused the papers and handed them back to Julie Smith, Uncle Bill's only
comment is towards me, "So what are you going to do with your new manor and
estate, my young property magnate?"
Is
that his (final) acceptance of the truth?
"I
have no idea!" I tell him. "What would you do?" I know that he loves to be
consulted for his opinion on everything, especially if it becomes the last
word.
Uncle
Bill checks with Julie Smith, "So Thomas will own the house and everything in
it? Including the library?"
"Of
course," she replies. "All of those old books are his, too." She adds, "And the
furniture and the paintings and everything else, including that zebra!" She
smiles, perhaps in anticipation that the alien pelt might be removed.
I
can see the wheels turning in Uncle Bill's head. But I'm not sure whether he's
thinking of an answer, or summing the potential value of everything. That's
something that Dad (my other dad, my Mum's husband) would do! It's an
accountant thing.
"Thomas,"
Uncle Bill says, quietly catching my arm. "May I have a word, in private?"
Now,
it's very unlike him to be so formally polite. Actually, this is totally out of
character for the cynical joker that I know!
We
excuse ourselves and leave Julie Smith to chat with Mum and Mrs T.
Uncle
Bill ushers me next door into the library and closes the door.
I
wonder whether I've done something wrong, or, does he want to share something
about Will? Good or Bad?
Perhaps
he intends to apologise for doubting what I had told him. Nah! It's definitely
not going to be an apology!
"What's
up, Uncle Bill?" I ask, to initiate the dialogue, not wanting to be kept in
suspense.
"Thomas,"
he starts. "May I suggest something?"
"Of
course!" I reply, still guarded about the potential subject matter.
"Thomas,
I don't know these people as well as you do," he states bluntly.
Without
commenting, I simply stare at him and await the rest of whatever is coming. I
feel my facial muscles tighten.
He
adds, "They MAY all be very nice and honest people, but..."
"But
what?" I put to him brusquely, sounding a little miffed, because I am.
I
cannot imagine why he would be critical of these unfamiliar country folk, or
why he would have any reason to cast aspersions on any of their characters. Was
something said last night, or did something happen? Need I remind him that it
was he who corrupted one of the local girls 18 years ago (even though the
result thereof was my amazingly skilled and physically adorable young brother)?
"Thomas,"
he continues. "The books and documents in this room are all extremely valuable,
and many may be of great historical significance. It would be unfortunate and
very sad if any accidental damage was done to them. Is there any way that this
room could be `off limits' for the day?"
"What?"
is all that I can manage as a reply.
"Don't
get me wrong," he adds, sensing my undisguisable displeasure at his (probably-unintended)
insult of the people. "They need to be preserved. And... the fewer the number of
people who handle them, the better."
I
can tell that he means well and, for once in my life, I see him as genuinely
serious. But I certainly won't be coaxed into hanging a `skull and crossbones'
on the door above a `Keep Out' sign!
"I
see your point," I tell him. "Now, may I suggest something?"
His
facial expression indicates some doubt in my ability to make any worthwhile contribution
to his supposed cut-and-dried argument, but he says, with measured reserve, not
quite condescendingly, "Certainly. Tell me what you are thinking, Thomas."
"I
don't know whether you ran into and were introduced to Davo, the local sage and
historian, last night?" I put to him. He shakes his head. "It was he," I
comment, "who first alerted me to the potential value of some of these books."
Uncle
Bill doesn't say anything, but, in my deference to his assessment of the value
of the library, the altered expression on his face reminds me of his smugness
whenever he has proven a point or caught me out in one of his practical jokes.
I
put to him, "Why don't you and Davo `set up camp' in here for the afternoon?
That way you can `guard' the books, and you may even enjoy each other's company
and the sharing of worldly experiences."
His
smile tells me that I'm back in his good books, and not totally incapable of
conceiving a good idea.
"Brilliant!"
he comments, patting me on the back.
Julie
Smith's husband and his helper knock and look in. "Hi, Tom," he says. "We're
all set up. Meat's cooking. Is it OK if we have a look around before it gets
too busy? Great place, by the way, from what I can see!"
"Of
course," I tell him. I ask, "Would you like a guided tour or are you happy just
to browse by yourself?"
"We'll
be fine," he replies. "Just a quick sticky-beak will do us. We'll leave all the
fancy talk and carrying-on to the women."
One
of the things that I like about him and many others out here, is that they don't
beat around the bush. They say what's on their mind, however politically
incorrect, and then they get on with things.
I
smile, and give him a few pointers, literally. "The lounge is right next door.
Julie is in there now with my mother and her friend. Across the other side of
the building is the dining room and kitchen, and upstairs are four bedrooms and
a couple of bathrooms." Then I add, "If you see anything in the kitchen that
might be handy today, go right ahead and use it."
He
nods his thanks. The young guy bows, awkwardly, as though it's the first time
in his entire life that he's performed such a manoeuvre, and comments, "Thank
you, Mr Mayor!"
Yep.
He's one of Jacko's mates! They leave.
Uncle
Bill looks at me questioningly.
"Local
joke!" I tell him. "I'll fill you in later. In the meantime, I should go and
see if Andy and Will are OK."
"Mind
if I stay and browse?" he asks.
"Nope.
It's all yours," I tell him. "I'll introduce you to Davo when he turns up."
As
I head out, the interplay of voices from the lounge tell me that the men have
joined the women.
I
quickly check the verandah. No sign of Will and Andy. I can't hear them either.
I walk around past the food. What a spread! And the aroma from the cooking meat
and onions is already tantalising.
I
stop on the back of the verandah as it wraps around the house, looking west.
This aspect isn't visible from upstairs as that verandah doesn't progress past
each of the bathrooms on the north and south sides.
The
countryside is mostly more of the same - flat, red and barren. However, far
away on the horizon there are some irregular (not flat) features. I can't make
them out, but I will definitely drive out there to investigate at some time in
the near future.
I
hear familiar voices. Not far away. "Will?" I call.
He
emerges from beneath the verandah, directly under where I am standing. "Hi
Tom," he says, looking up. "Come down here and look. You should see what we've
found!"
Andy
then pokes out his head and parrots Will's words, "Hi Tom. You should come and
see what we've found."
"Be
right down!" I say, thinking that a fireman's pole here would be handy instead
of having to walk all of the way to the front of the house, down the steps and
then back around to virtually the same spot again.
As
I reach the top of the front steps, I see rising dust plumes way off to the
east. More visitors on the way! This will have to be quick if I am going to be
free to welcome them. I reckon that I still have a few minutes to spare.
Using
the railing for stability, I descend the steps two at a time, then scoot around
to the back of the house. The underfloor area is semi-enclosed by vertical
strips of thinly-spaced timber, but open fully towards the west. From here, because
we are almost directly behind the front steps, it is difficult yet still possible
to see through to the front where the cars are parked.
Will
and Andy are very excited. "Come and look," they tell me.
Sitting,
half-uncovered by an old, heavy piece of canvas that the boys have partially
removed, is a large buggy.
What
is most striking at first glimpse is its ebony colour with contrasting pale
wood inlaid into what looks like a crest on the small gate-like door, which (I
ponder) may even be a clue to the identity of the original owner.
Now,
I know absolutely nothing about these things but, apart from the obvious 4
wheels, separate and raised driver's seat, and two facing passengers' seats
that can probably accommodate four people with ease, I can't help but notice
the quality of the thing. Highly-polished wood. Black leather seats and
internal linings. Brass or copper ornamentation, including two lamps at the
front and another pair at the back. Also, extending forwards, is a centred pole
that obviously means that the vehicle is intended to be drawn by two horses,
hitched one on either side. Or is the pole long enough for four horses? I don't
know. Will might.
"Can
we sit in it, Tom, please?" Will pleads. He looks at my raised eyebrow then
corrects himself, "MAY we please sit in it?" Andy simply turns on his puppy-dog
face, and I'm unable to refuse them.
"That's
OK, but ..." I start.
I
don't get to finish my warning to take good care of it, and of themselves. In a
flurry of activity, Will has the door already open, helping Andy into the back
and he then surprises me by not joining Andy but by taking up a position in the
driver's seat, elevated above the rest of the vehicle at the front. They both
sit in silence for a moment, apparently spellbound.
Then,
"Home, if you please, driver," Andy says, putting on toffy airs. Will and I
look at each other, in another flash of astonishment.
"As
you please, Master Andrew," Will replies, continuing Andy's creative role play.
"Gee up, there, you lot," he tells the make-believe horses and manipulating
imaginary reins. He adds an equine warning. "And don't trample Master Tom, or
my arse is in big trouble!" Instead of covering his mouth, Andy laughs. Could
he possibly know what Will is inferring?
From
his response, I don't think that he does: "Tom can smack pretty hard, Will, so
you'd better control those horses."
Thankfully,
Will doesn't ask about the smacking but calls, "Whoa!" jumps down, and helps
Andy to the ground. He throws in, "Tom, there is also enough room under here
for your Beast and my car too!" Then, his mind races off in a new direction.
"Hey, we could live out here, away from everyone, and get some horses, and
drive this carriage around, and we could..."
"Whoa,
yourself!" I tell him. "What about the house that Ash has designed for us near
the school? And your art studio, and the gymnasium and the pool and the guest
rooms? And, remember, it's right next to Karl and Kurt's place."
That
stops him in dead his tracks.
But
not for long. "We could live in there on school days, and out here the rest of
the time," he offers. "We could still have visitors in there, or out here. Or
both!"
He
might be onto something. Actually, I begin to wonder about the need for the
other house at all now. Ash could design a complementary addition to this
place, probably a separate building altogether. I'm sure that he'd enjoy doing
that. We could have an indoor pool and gym, and off to the side could be Will's
art studio. But, where would the water come from for the pool? It's way too far
to get it from the river! Where did the original owner get his water?
My
thoughts are interrupted by the arrival of a few cars. "Back later, guys," I
tell them. "You can either stay and play with the `horses' or come with me to
meet everyone else."
I
notice that there is a doorway-sized gap in the vertical timbers on the
northern side, which I had hurried straight past in my haste. It exits almost
directly to the front of the building. I emerge at the same time as the
visitors clamber out of their vehicles; Marty, Acacia and Anna emerge from
Marty's SUV, Sean and Chad from the police car. Chad is in uniform. Davo and a
few men that I recognise from the pub join the others and wait for me to walk
the dozen or so steps across to them.
Acacia
appears not in the best of moods. She's breathing heavily through her flared
nostrils, her face is flushed, her lips pursed and her eyes slightly squinting.
She reminds me of a Disney-animated bull who is about to charge the matador's
red cape. Marty has quickly moved away from her to stand next to his brothers
by the police car. Unseen by her, Marty's expression to me of gritted teeth and
pulled-back mouth-corners confirm my assessment of his mother's temperament at
the moment. I hazard a guess that he's in deep shit!
"Mrs
O'Brien, Mum," I say, greeting her first of all, as jovially as I can manage.
"It's so good to see you again. Thank you for coming." I offer my hand. She
takes it, and I move closer and kiss her on the cheek.
"Hello,
Tom," Anna says demurely. Now, if I wasn't gay, I might certainly find Anna
sexually attractive, in her tight riding pants and snugly-fitting top; all of
her curves (top and bottom) begging to be caressed. Maybe she'll find a young
man amongst all of those who come out here today. In all the time that I've
been in The Village, I've never known her to go anywhere that she could
socialise other than into Big Town once or twice with Acacia and Marty,
probably shopping for household necessities.
I
give her the single-cheek greeting as well. "Hello Anna. Where have you been
hiding? I haven't seen you for ages."
"Mum
and I have been decorating the cottage," she replies. "You should come over and
have a look at it."
"Wow,"
I tell her. "You are certainly a talented pair, aren't you? I'd certainly like
to see what you've done to the place."
My
friendliness towards her daughter seems to reduce Acacia's heat by a few degrees.
In her eyes, I'm not only male and single, but now I'm `well-to-do' also. Does
she know that yet? Has Marty told her? Am I a perfect match? Not quite! For her
nephew, William, yes. For her daughter, Anna, no.
"Let
me escort you both around the building," I tell them. "Just give me a moment."
I
take the handful of steps to where Marty, Chad and Sean are talking in hushed
tones.
"What
did you do to her this time?" I quietly ask Marty, indicating his mother so
that she can't see my pointing finger.
"Nothing!"
he replies quietly. "Well, except maybe, telling her something that she didn't
already know. Everything was OK until I let slip that everyone else in the
district already knew about what was happening today. I'm glad that you weren't
there to see the volcano explode!"
"And
how many dog bones did you have to dodge this time?" I whisper, much to Sean
and Chad's amusement, most likely from first-hand experience.
"None,"
Marty replies. "But I did learn that she's not as accurate with pots and pans!"
Sean, Chad and I all titter at the thought.
"Leave
her to me," I tell him. "I'm about to do you a big favour! Again! You will owe
me! Again!"
I
greet Davo who introduces to me the other men so that they are no longer just
nameless pub patrons. "Is that Marty's little sister?" one of them asks me.
"Wow, hasn't she grown up!" he exclaims to the others.
"And
filled out!" another adds. The noticeably emerging protuberance in the front of
his jeans betrays some fantasy or other that is playing out in his mind.
"I've
told my Uncle Bill about you," I say to Davo. "I left him in the library. He'll
be delighted to chat with you about some local history."
I
gather them all together, introduce the guys to Anna, and offer Acacia my arm,
as an escort. We ascend the stairs and, opening the closed front door (that
thing either has a mind of its own or it was hung by a superb craftsman to shut
automatically and ensure that dust would always be blocked out!), I head
straight for the lounge area. Introductions are completed all `round and I
beckon Davo to follow me to the library.
"Uncle
Bill ... Davo," I introduce them to each other. "I'll leave you two to chat and
I'll catch up with you later."
I
return to the lounge and offer to conduct a guided tour to all who want to
follow. Mum and Mrs T decline. Julie Smith rises from her chair to join us. I
again offer Acacia my arm and lead off, trailed by Anna and the three guys plus
Julie Smith, Marty, Sean and Chad.
Julie
Smith's husband and helper are already out there or upstairs somewhere, `going
it alone'. Will and Andy must still be `horsing around' downstairs.
We
start with a brief glimpse of the library. After Davo has introduced everyone
to Uncle Bill, we continue. There are very few questions from anyone, except
Acacia who seems intent on learning as much as possible. I know why. She can't
wait to show off her knowledge to some other people who arrive `late' (or
haven't been able to make it today). Actually, make that everybody! She and
Julie Smith exchange occasional comments with each other.
The
three young amigos and Anna seem mutually engrossed. Marty, Sean and Chad
appear content to absorb anything that I say which may be of personal interest to
them but, otherwise, talk among themselves. Maybe they are discussing their
little sister and her admirers, and keeping a `big-brotherly' eye on
everything!
Everyone
takes in the kitchen with a single sweep of the eyes. Nothing much in here
interests them. Not even Acacia.
The
zebra, on the other hand, up close, elicits much discussion, even diverting the
attention of Anna's admirers away from her. Knowing horses, as they obviously
do, they seem able to judge that it was a huge beast in both height and body
length. "I heard that they were rather weedy buggers," one comments. "This
brute would have given grandad's Clydesdales a run for their money."
So,
there was something special about the striped enigma after all! I wonder if
there is anything recorded about it in the library papers, perhaps in a diary.
We
do the tour of the bedrooms and bathrooms and find ourselves out on the upper
front verandah.
More
vehicles on the horizon. "Why don't you all wander down and help yourselves to
the drinks on the lower verandah," Julie Smith says, indicating the southern
side of the house. "Some of the food should be ready by now as well."
Indicating
the approaching vehicles, I declare, "I'd better go down and play `host'."
I
leave the group extending their arms and pointing in various directions and I
overhear where they think certain properties lie, considering that there are no
visible landmarks apart from the thin line of river gums in the distance and
the tyre marks travelling east / west.
The
brothers (Sean, Chad and Marty) have sidled up to their mother and Julie Smith.
The three pub-patron amigos have bunched around Anna, each one jockeying for
position with her, seemingly wanting to outmanoeuvre or out-do the other two.
Anna is enjoying the attention and (if her eye for guys' bodies is as keen as
mine is) maybe, also, the in-jean displays of unrepressed country-bred
manhoods.
I
wonder about the exchange of male and female pheromones. I can see the obvious
effect on two of the three guys. But, why only two? Hmm.
On
the way to the front door, I look in on Mum and Mrs T in the lounge plus Uncle
Bill and Davo in the library. All of them seem contentedly occupied in their
own discussions.
Outside,
I check with the cooks. "How's it going, guys?" I ask, as if the aroma of
cooking meat and the array of prepared food does not already pre-empt their
answer.
"All
good, Tom," I hear. "Would you like a drink or something to eat? There's plenty
that's ready to go."
"Thanks
guys," I reply. "I'll come back shortly, but first I'd better greet the new
arrivals," nodding in the direction of the vehicles.
About
five SUVs and a noisy old Land Rover pull up and begin to expel their
occupants. Among them I recognise Reg, Di and family, Jan Andersen with Karl
and Kurt, Councillor Helen O'Sullivan, and also some of my cherubs with their
parents in tow. I think that
our numbers just about doubled! "Hi everyone!" I call as I descend the front
steps, waving and then hoping that it is not too regal or too mayoral a
gesture.
"Good
afternoon, Mr Grant," all of the kids chorus, as if it was our usual day-end
exchange at school, the sing-song effect of which has Will and Andy emerging
almost immediately from beneath the house.
Will introduces Andy to Jake, Jane,
the little kids and then they get to Karl and Kurt.
Karl shakes
Andy's hand cordially. Kurt, on the other hand, simply stares until his brother
nudges him. At least he didn't kick him in the ankle!
Kurt extends
his hand and Andy shakes it - slowly. It is almost as if they are long-lost
acquaintances, trying to recall from where they know one another. As well as
their conjoined hands, their eyes are also fixed upon each other.
I think to
myself, if one was dynamite and the other was fire, that there could be a
massive explosion.
The little
ones cluster around Jane.
Jake makes a
bee-line for Will and Karl.
Jan greets
Helen O'Sullivan very cordially and immediately they engage in some close
chatter, as if sharing a secret or some confidential information, perhaps about
Whispering Gums (given their common interest in it).
I do the
rounds, greeting everyone and introducing myself to those parents whom I had
not previously met on the day of the helicopter rides (predominantly the dads).
Andy and
Kurt still seem mesmerised by one another, but they have at least started
talking.
"Thank you
all for coming," I announce, raising my voice. "I'm sure that you're all keen
to look through the place. If you're happy just to browse, I'll just wander,
and be around to answer any questions that you might have. And, your timing is
perfect to grab some food and drink - it's all prepared and waiting up there,"
I indicate, pointing. "There is something for everyone, including the
children." I was tempted to say `kids', but then these are farming folk and
none of the parents might understand or appreciate any inference that they look
like goats. Then, again, they just might! I can't envisage any of them be upset
at anything so unintentionally benign.
A convoy of more cars, SUVs and a truck.
As they clamber out and stretch, the only people that I
recognise are Jacko and some of his drinking buddies. I'm greeted by a variety
of `Tom', `Mr Grant', `Mr Mayor' and, inevitably, `Harry Potter'.
"G'day, Jacko," I reply to him. I add, "How's that magic
wand of yours? Keeping a firm grip on it, are you?"
His mates guffaw at my throwing his own joke back at him,
slap me on the back, and mete out some sociable thumps to Jacko as well. I'll
give him this - he takes it all in very good humour! I'll bet that he's endured
much worse! I like these guys.
Leaving his helper alone to turn another picket fence of
darkening sausages, Julie's husband joins me at the bottom of the stairs. Being
the local publican and knowing everyone in the region, he introduces me to all
of them.
Mentally doing a quick head count, I think we have upwards
of seventy people overall, including the children.
I invite everyone to partake of the refreshments that Julie
Smith and her husband have provided, to wander through the house and that I'll
catch up with them later.
Now,
just as you might suspect at a social gathering, most people separate into
women, on the top verandah and men, closer to the beer on the lower one. The
exceptions seem to be the candle (Anna) and the moths that she has attracted
(the bunch of young, horny guys).
For
the sake of propriety, especially in front of my cherubs, I stick to soft
drink.
The
children, ever supercharged, continually shift from top level to bottom, going
in and out, eating, running, drinking, hiding, playing tag and generally
providing their own entertainment.
Will,
Karl and Jake pass me a few times in my meanderings. While ever Jake is with
Will and Karl, he will prevent them from getting up to any `mischief'. However,
I muse, if Will was alone with either of them, it might be a completely
different story.
On
the other hand, I have not seen Andy and Kurt. I can't help but wonder whether
the rejuvenated Andrew Thompson has inveigled the irrepressible Kurt Andersen
to `help him out' with something personal. My emergent curiosity gets the
better of me and I head in search of them, aiming to start with the big
buggy-thing under the house.
I
bump into Davo in the hall.
"Come
for a walk with me," I put to him. "There's something underneath the house
which I think may interest you."
We
head down the front stairs and enter the under-house space by the narrow
doorway just around the corner of the building.
I
have a sudden flush of anxiety, at Davo and I potentially finding Andy and Kurt
in a compromising situation, so I raise my voice to alert them. "The boys found
this big... buggy, under a canvas down here. It's really impressive. I'm interested
to hear what you think about it."
We
approach the vehicle which has been left mostly uncovered. I breathe a sigh of
relief. The boys are not here.
Davo
stops and looks at it. He walks around it, taking in its features.
"I
know what it is," he comments. "It's a Landau - a ceremonial open carriage. And
an exquisite specimen, too! But what on earth is it doing here? And whose was
it?" He pauses as if awaiting somebody to answer his questions then he adds,
"Actually, I recall seeing a drawing of one just like it somewhere upstairs.
Now where was it...?" He appears to go into suspended animation while his memory
attempts to recall the location of the likeness. "In one of the books,
obviously!" he finally concludes. "But which one?"
He
inspects the crest on the door more closely. "If I'm not mistaken, although I
could be, I think that this carriage could have belonged to one of the early
governors. It appears to be a state coach. The crest is that of Queen Victoria.
Can you see the ornate initials, `VR' for `Victoria Regina' in the woodwork?
Our first governor took office in... 1859. How on earth...?" he repeats. "I must go
and find the picture. I'm sure it was in one of the very first books that I
looked at. Hopefully, there may be some accompanying explanation."
With
a purposeful quest, he leaves me. And I again ponder the whereabouts of those
two attractive imps whose naked bodies I have variously felt and held against
my own. My heart flutters at the remembrances of them, and those occasional
times. My heart isn't the only part of my anatomy that is in motion, and my
pants begin tighten.
I
inspect the Landau (a new word for my vocabulary) with more respect, savouring
its craftsmanship, the smell of the leather and the smooth touch of its finish.
I ponder the question raised by Davo regarding its origin plus the means of its
delivery to this absolute frontier of colonial Queensland.
With
such a distraction, my lower body returns to a state that is again fit for
socialising in mixed company.
I
continue a circumambulation of the house, passing and chatting with cherubs and
Village folk on the way, arriving back at the rose bushes. No sign of Kurt and
Andy, nor has anybody seen them.
I
decide to check upstairs. I do a complete tour of the downstairs verandah,
again declining the offer of food ("not just yet, thanks guys") from the men.
They're not here. Maybe inside. Not in the library. Nor the lounge room. Nor
the dining room. Surely not the kitchen! No, not here either. Hopefully, I will
find them on the top level.
I
emerge from the kitchen and stand, just outside the door, in the `great hall'
(as I choose to call it), thinking. I glance up at the zebra on the wall.
From
this angle, something in my mind suddenly whispers, `Wrong!' Then I stare at
it. I don't think that it's the skin itself. What about the wall on which it is
mounted? I scan the wood panelling from top to bottom and left to right. The
vertical strips of ornate scrollwork between the flat wood panels are
exquisite. I check again for imperfections or lack of symmetry. I can detect
nothing wrong.
But,
something is not right!
I
step back into the kitchen and cast a glance from the doorway to the western
end of the elongated room. I make a mental note, then step out to again look at
the zebra.
Kitchen.
Zebra. Kitchen. Zebra.
I
position myself so that I can see both walls at the same time. It suddenly
becomes obvious. The kitchen extends about three metres farther than the wall
on which the zebra is mounted; a detail unnoticed during my earlier brief
perusals.
The
reason is evident - there must be a 3-metre space behind the zebra panelling! I
feel a tingling surge of excitement at my `discovery'.
Today
I will be Sherlock Holmes instead of Harry Potter, thank you!
I
push the kitchen door so that it swings to its full extent then walk to the end
of the shelving-clad wall, looking for a door to the hidden chamber of secrets.
I walk back and forth fruitlessly, even pressing knotholes on shelves and
lifting every single item on them. Nothing secretive opens.
I
grasp the door handle and am about to close it, in total defeat, when I notice
the marks on the floor. They remind me of something having been dragged, or
continually rolled over the same spot. I look more closely at the shelving and
realise that it is not one solid construction as I had first assumed, but
section after section of neatly-fitting units.
With
the door to the kitchen fully open, there is no room for the first unit to
move, but when I close it, I am able to slide (roll, actually) the first
section towards the doorway, revealing... a blank, whitewashed wall, apart from
three lines of grooves set into it.
I
test the second unit. It rolls firmly up to the first. More blank wall.
I
continue to move the units one at a time. Nothing is revealed behind them,
until...
As
the second-last unit slides to the right, what appears is not the continuation
of whiteness, as behind the others, but a gap; the doorway to the space behind
the zebra wall.
I
look into the `treasure room'. It is dark. I am greeted by a musty smell - not
of dampness, but of disuse. I step through the gap. The only light in here is
that which follows me from the kitchen.
I
stand still. My eyes slowly accustom themselves to the dimness, and, stepping
so as not to block the light from the outside room, I am able to make out
certain aspects of the space and its treasure. Although only three metres wide,
it stretches completely across the house, to finish at what must be a common
wall with the far corner of the lounge room.
I
can discern multiple pots, pans and large boilers. Also, there are jars, urns
and tubs. Of course! The things missing from a normal kitchen! It hadn't dawned
on me until just now that there must have been stuff like this, somewhere. Hey!
I'm not a kitchen hand - not even a cook! Definitely not a chef! I don't know
what should be here, in this giant pantry.
I
wonder how anything could be found in this dimness. Then again, I suppose if
you knew where everything was, even in dim light, you could go straight to it,
like I can do at night in my attic room at Mum and Dad's, without switching on
a single light. I suppose, a century ago, people would have had candles to help
them. I must come back here with a torch or an LED lantern and check out the
contents. I hope that I don't find any shrunken heads!
After pushing the sections of shelving back to their
original positions I leave the kitchen door fully open and I begin to mount the
staircase.
Left or right? Eeny, meeny, miny, left.
Are they in this bathroom? No.
The green bedroom? Nope.
The pink one? Nyet.
I step out onto the verandah and survey the array of
vehicles below - parked far more orderly than if they were outside the pub. I
see two neat rows. 23 in all. Many I recognise; most I don't.
While chatting with parents, cherubs and others, I stand
directly opposite the doorway, looking straight across the internal void to the
staircase in case I see Kurt and Andy using it.
After a quick glance down each side of this verandah, I
continue my search inside. Only three possibilities remain.
Not in the blue room. Strike 1.
I begin to dread that something unfortunate has happened to
them. Please let them be in here... ensconced in a wardrobe, or something! My
fear is heightened when the master's room does not disclose them either. I even
check under the bed. Strike 2.
I feel my heart pumping well beyond its normal rate as I
push open the door to the very last room, the other bathroom. I check it
carefully, multiple times (as if the first time wasn't sufficient).
Empty. Strike 3. Panic! Where are they? What has happened to
them? What will their parents say?
I stand at the top of the staircase and lean on the
balustrade to steady my trembling body. I run through my mind all of the places
that I have checked. I have overlooked nothing.
Where could I have missed them? Could they have made it from
the dining room to the library while I was checking the lounge? Unlikely! I was
only in there for a matter of seconds. I would have seen them scoot across the
hall. Perhaps they could have made it down the front steps while I was around
the back of the lower verandah. Remote, but possible.
What about while I was in the kitchen?
Just as I determine to go and check the under-building area and
the Landau again, my concentration is shattered by two cavorting adolescents
bursting forth from the bathroom that I have just examined.
"Hi, Mr Grant," Kurt beams.
"Hi, Tom," Andy adds, greeting me with a high-five. Then he
adds, "Kurt is my friend!"
They are about to dash past me, on either side, but I step
to block their access to the stairway. I reach out and capture one in each of
my arms, then pull them close to me and tightly grip their wiggling, giggling
bodies. They don't try to escape, but allow me to hold them and, if anything,
snuggle against me.
"Where on earth have you two been? Where did you come from?"
I ask, tickling them both. "I was just in there and I didn't see you!"
They stop squirming sufficiently to look at each other's
face. They burst out laughing.
"A secret passage!" Kurt chirps.
What's this, I think to myself? Another architectural
surprise? Or a joke? "Show me!" I insist, jovially but disbelievingly.
"Can't!" Andy cackles. "'Cause then it wouldn't be a
secret!"
They both laugh again, probably at both Andy's boldness and
the resultant expression on my face. Or, perhaps at me falling for a fabricated
tall story! But, then, where could they have been hiding while I was in there?
I release Kurt, grab Andy from behind with both hands, hug
him close to me and then, with my arms crossed over his chest, I begin to
tickle his ribs, mercilessly.
He squirms and squeals and squeaks and squawks, lifting his
feet off the ground and flailing his legs wildly in front of him.
"Aargh!" he cries. "Stop. Stop! Stop!! I'll tell! I'll
tell!!!"
I desist, and his gasping for oxygen reduces to laboured
panting.
I set him down and he scoots to stand alongside Kurt who has
backed up against the wall near the bathroom. They throw an arm over each other's
shoulder - buddy style. Comrades in arms (literally). Co-conspirators!
While I know that Karl and Kurt are identical twins
physically, these two seem to be each other's equal in every other way: their
smiles, their humour, their optimism, their friendliness, their
mischievousness. I'll bet that if I could see an aura for each of them, they
would be positive and identical also.
I look at them closely. Alongside Kurt, I note that Andy
appears slightly more `mature'. After all, he is a year older! But his features
are finer than Kurt's still-boyish face. His cheek bones are more discernible
and his nose is thinner. His chin, although similar to Kurt's is more strongly
defined. And, with the emergence of an Adam's apple, he has, indeed, begun the
transition from a handsome adolescent into a very handsome young man.
My heart melts just looking at them. It is a privilege to
even know them both.
"OK, sport!" I say directly into Andy's alluring eyes.
"What's all this about a secret passage?"
"It's true, Tom. We found it, by accident," he replies.
"Actually, I found it," Kurt corrects Andy's apparent major
oversight in not giving his new friend sufficient credit.
I say nothing but wait for the detail.
"But he wouldn't have found it without me," Andy interjects,
obviously intent on claiming back a small percentage of the recognition.
Kurt fills me in. "Mr Grant, you see, we were playing hide
and seek. I came in here," indicating the bathroom, "and was looking to see if
I'd fit inside the cupboard where the towels and things are stacked. When I
couldn't, I closed the door, and accidentally leaned on the bit of wall next to
it, and it swivelled around. I stepped in and closed it and Andy couldn't find
me. It was really funny listening to him. He called out, `I saw you come in
here, Kurt. Where the f*** are you?' He would never have found me if I hadn't
burst out laughing."
Andy blushes deeply as if embarrassed by being `outed' for
using the 4-letter word! Kurt shows no such emotion in relaying the expletive.
I could imagine that the twins might dob each other in to their father all of
the time for a myriad of trivial offences! Fraternal rivalry and one-upmanship!
"I should have said `truck', shouldn't I have, Tom?" Andy
asks, hoping to redeem himself.
"It's OK, Andy," I tell him. "Just try not to say it too
often, because it might slip out one day in front of your mother and then I
think you would be in big trouble, mister!"
"You're not wrong," he says with a pained face, rubbing his
backside as an indication of what would be in store for him.
"And did you explore your secret passage? Could I fit in
there?" I ask, and then feel myself redden slightly at the realisation of the
unintended innuendo. Hopefully, it went straight over both boys' heads. It
would never have escaped Will, though!
Kurt volunteers, "We couldn't explore where it went because
it was too dark. We were just about to leave when we saw that you were coming
this way from the front balcony. So, we just went back in there to hide. From
you." He smirks. "It was a good hiding place, wasn't it?"
"Too right!" I say. "OK, you'd better show me."
Andy turns to Kurt, "Did he say please?"
"No, I didn't hear it," Kurt replies, smirking even more
broadly.
"Well, then..." Andy commences. "I don't think that we
should..."
That's as far as he gets before he finds himself in my
clutches again, facing another imminent torture by tickling."
"NO! OK. OK," he squeals. "We'll overlook your bad manners...
this time."
Cheeky devil! They both laugh.
They bustle through the doorway and stand in front of a
plain, innocuous but broad piece of panelling between the double-doored set of
cupboards and the rear wall of the house.
"After you," Andy tells Kurt.
"No, after you," Kurt replies.
"But I insist," Andy continues.
"No, no, no..." Kurt says, obviously seeking to prolong the
revelation and joke around with me. He glances at me to gauge my reaction.
"Let me try my hand," I say, and then swat their solid
adolescent rumps, both at the same time.
After a millisecond of initial shock, they both burst out
laughing. Heavenly beings do have a sense of humour!
Without another word, Kurt leans forward onto the panel and
pushes confidently on one edge. It yields, swinging inwards.
I look in. Despite the dimness I can make out a large space
which, logically, is above the yet-to-be-explored `treasure cave' off the
kitchen. I wonder if they are connected by a staircase somewhere inside. I lead
the way in, taking no more than three steps to see if anything else is
discernible. They follow me. "We should come back with a torch and explore," I
tell the boys, which is met with hoots of excitement.
"Do you want to tell anyone else about this, or should we
just keep it our little secret?" I ask, while fully anticipating their answer.
"Secret!" they say in unison. I concur. They high-five each
other.
Suddenly we are standing in complete darkness. Somebody just
pushed the panel closed. "Wooooo! I am the ghost of the big house!" one of them
moans in a low, fabricated voice. I think it was Andy, but I couldn't be a
hundred percent certain.
I wonder whether they have discussed their individual
intimate moments with me, or whether this was just a rogue gesture by one of them.
But, which one?
I can't imagine Kurt saying anything to anybody about our
encounters, especially to an almost complete stranger. And I don't think that
Andy would risk endangering our `friendship' by blabbing either.
No, this was a solo effort! Hmm. Who?
On the one hand, Kurt can have me almost any afternoon, if
he chooses.
On the other hand, Andy has been making a play for me to get
personal and `help him' almost since the moment he arrived. I remember that
when we were in the showers at the beach, he loved holding me and was wanting
to demonstrate how good he could be at jacking me off. It's obvious! My
deduction is Andy! What do you reckon Dr Watson?
I pause to think, Then again...
I step out, close the panel and, ensuring that there is a
sufficient time lag between the boys' departure and mine, I exit the bathroom.
There is a
parallel version to this story, told through the eyes of Kurt.
Find it at https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/adult-youth/kurt-series/
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