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The Smell of Fresh Apples.
By John Teller.
Dedication: A briefcase; an old boy; a young boy; a new life; Solamente Tú.
Part 1 of 3.
Peter Powell aged 80 is in a nursing home after suffering a severe stroke four years earlier in 2001.
24th October 2005.
"You haven't eaten your biscuits Mr Powell. Naughty man! You don't eat enough to keep a cat alive! The doctor says you need to eat more! I'll bring you your medicines when staff has cleared away."
I look at Matron. She's a frumpy woman with a large, round, pleasant face. She actually cares for the residents of the private nursing home she manages, and her bark is worse than her bite. I smile at her, pinch the wasted muscles of my left arm, and then say, softly, "I don't eat much these days Matron. There's not a lot of me to feed now."
She gives me a lovely warm smile, strokes the brow of my head and brushes back my still-good-head of silver hair. Then she looks into my eyes, and says, "You must have been a handsome young man back in your day. I could fall in love myself with your lovely blue eyes. It's amazing that a good woman didn't find you."
"I was always too busy with my work, Matron. No time to get married."
She sits on the footstool by the side of me and takes hold of my wrinkled, bony hand. "It's a damned shame. I reckon you would have made some beautiful children." Then that lovely smile again. "At least you've got Seamus."
I squeeze her hand and reward her lovely words with a smile. "Yes I have, and I didn't have to lumber myself with a squawking woman to get him."
Matron giggles and then gets up. "Naughty man! We don't all squawk. Brenda will be here with your medicines soon, and after you've had a rest we'll give you a bath. It will save you from being worn out tomorrow when your boy comes to see you. He is coming... isn't he? It is Saturday tomorrow you know."
I nod. "I know it is. I'm not completely senile yet. He said he was coming. It is October 25th tomorrow, isn't it?"
"Yes, October 25th all day long. Is Seamus bringing his grandson?"
"I hope not. Jack wears me out even more than you do. Take me to the window, please. I want to look at the autumn leaves."
And with that, she removes the paraphernalia of old age from around me, lifts me out of the easy chair and puts me into my wheelchair, and then pushes me slowly to the large bay window that overlooks the gardens of this old Victorian house that serves as an old folks' home so I can look out of the window.
The light of day is fading: its last gift a lovely red sunset that enhances the colours of the autumn leaves. I love this time of year. It brings back precious memories... the most beautiful memories of my long life: especially the memories of when I first met Seamus at Beech House.
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
It was a long time ago; probably before many of you were born, and most certainly before being a pederast was the crime it is these days of sensational, negative-saturation that places people like me in a worse category than a murderer that I first met eleven year old Seamus Quinn. My lovely Seamus... only the second person on this entire earth that I have ever truly loved... and still do. It was 1961 actually... two months after my thirty-sixth birthday, on a beautiful autumn day like this that he made his first show. A Saturday actually. October 25th. And tomorrow is the 44th anniversary of when we first met.
I can see him now... his unruly mop of golden hair and freckles each side of his cute nose, and the most wonderful green eyes that pierced my soul the first time I looked into them. He was small for his age, not five feet tall, and the rest of his body matched that stature (until he was a little older and grew into a five specimen of a young manboy), and despite his raggedy clothes, he was a gemstone of the highest quality. But before I tell you about me and Seamus, it's important that you know a bit about me before I met him.
************* ************
I'm Peter Powell, a native of the north. I was born in the town of Ramsbottom in 1925; a not-too-big or posh place that sits at the foot of the solitudinous Pennines, a low rising mountain range separating the North West of England from Yorkshire and the North East and are often termed as the backbone of England. The mountain range stretches for about 250 miles from Derbyshire through the Yorkshire Dales and parts of Greater Manchester to the West Pennine moors of Lancashire and Cumbrian Fells to the Cheviot Hills on the Scottish border. I grew up here and I love the place so much that I never left, and after my lot in life, I want to die here.
My lot in life? Well... what was that state of experience and philosophical outlook? To put it bluntly, I grew up as a pederast who doted on boys rather than the female gender. I fell in love with them from ever since I can remember. Crush after crush after crush after crush. Never sexual in the early days. I simply fell in love with a creature that is called A Boy. Lots of heartaches. Oh, the heartaches! Those cruel days and weeks and months of unrequited love. Thinking back now, out of the countless, there were probably two or three who actually had feelings for me, but, of course, those feelings remained hidden. Just the occasional touch of fingers was dream-fodder: nirvana. But then I grew older, and so did my body. The hormones kicked in and I began to have strange feelings. No longer was love for my boys platonic... I actually began to see them as sexual objects.
The first I remember distinctly. I was fourteen and he was ten! Disgusting! Hang your head in shame Peter Powell for your evil deeds!!! But I didn't. Instead, I actually got him in an isolated hay barn and he let me feel him up. And lordy be! Not only did he actually like it... he wanted more!!! Then he decided to reward me for my gentle ministrations, and felt me up too. Mutual masturbation. That's all it was. Until, that is, after a few times of mutual masturbation and boy exploration, I began to feel at his bottom. All went fine until I ventured to put a finger up his bottom. Paul was a clever boy. He soon worked out that if I had my perverted way, the thing between my legs would soon follow my finger, so he gave me the big heave-ho with a hey-diddle-diddle-and-sling-your-hook, you old pervert! And I learned my first real lesson in life about boys: never try and get up their bottoms unless they specifically request you to do so. But I also learned a lot about myself with little Paul. His gorgeous little bottom was the one that hooked me to that particular part of boy. After that... after I'd looked into their eyes and after I'd assessed their lovely looks, my next port of call was to weigh up their delicious orbs. And I became an expert on boys' bottoms. Not in a practical way, but in an observant way, which entailed me taking sly glances at them when they were in compromising situations like leaning over, or better still, squatting. Squatting is the best way of seeing them. That pose defines every nuance of their grace; the gentle curves; the valley-of-desire. Did I tell you that I love boys' bottoms?
I also started work when I was fourteen. My father - who was a journalist - got me a job with the magazine he was writing for, and I became the office lackey. It was 1939... the beginning of World War 2. To a boy my age, they were exciting times; especially so when I joined the Army Cadet Force and spent my weekends training to be a soldier. Being `clever', I was seconded to Signals Corps, and being ignorant as a boy, I thought that would be a passport to secret warfare. Instead, I found myself on the `battlefield', lumping a damned heavy radio around on my back. And then it was 1943 and the real thing at the age of eighteen. Still in Signals Corps, I crossed the English Channel to Normandy on D-Day+1 – 7th June 1944. It was rather hectic, but I was still alive and in one piece when the war ended a year and three months later. I know it was difficulty for everyone, but for a pederast it was especially so. I cried often at the sight of so many beautiful, German boys who lay mutilated on the battlefields... some no more than fourteen years old, and I know for certain they had only a sprinkling of pubic hair above their lifeless penises. One could not help but notice after a bomb exploding nearby stripped them of every vestige of clothing. They were the most difficult to come to terms with. Unlike some of their mutilated comrades, they died of the blast, which often removes all their clothes and leaves a body undamaged. Sad. So very sad, and it left a lasting impression that has stayed with me all my life. I fought bravely during my time as a soldier, but once the war was over, I promised myself I would be a pacifist whatever the cost to my personal status. Fortunately, after my discharge from the army in August 1946, I was never called up again to test my resolve.
After the war, instead of going to work at the same place my father did, I got a job with the local newspaper and worked my way up the ladder to copy editor. Which is where I was working when I first met Seamus Quinn on October 25th 1961. And believe it or not, after Paul-in-the-hay-barn and up to the time I met Seamus, I never got to know the familiarity of the thing I treasured most: a boy I could call my own. In fact I didn't even have a boy I could not call my own. So I'll call them The Barren Years. But all bad things come to an end, and on that windswept day of October 25th 1961, The Barren Years ended.
Ever the busy person I was and never having married because I had no interest in women, my weekends were my own to do as I will. Being single and aged thirty-six is one of those paradoxes of life. One has not found happiness with another human being, and yet all the trappings that can make one happy are in place. My parents both died before I was thirty, and being an only child, the wealth they amassed as two professional people passed directly to me. I had my own home, Beech House, a nice detached place where neighbours are kept at arms length by mature gardens and hedges, bought with the money I'd saved and the inherited wealth of my parents, including the proceeds of sale of their own nice detached place. Being copy-editor on our local newspaper, which, back in those days of non-internet, was widely read by communities from miles around, it paid well, and each month, because I had no mortgage to pay and very little overheads, I had quite a surplus when bills were settled. My pile grew, but the irony was that I had very little in life that I wanted to spend it on. So my house became my life. An anorak? Possibly that's how people looked on me, but I was born with a disposition that was never harmed by snide and jealous comments. You see, rather than feeling envious of my associates with their families and all that goes with being socially acceptable as a married person, I was more than content with my lot in life. Until, that is, Seamus Quinn happened to pass by.
****************
October 25th 1961.
I'd spent the morning around the house clearing leaves and tidying the garden. After all... why not? Although it was October and cold, it was a lovely autumn day, and I loved nothing better than being in the fresh air on such days. My house - aptly named Beech House because it had an enormous copper beech tree right in the centre of my front garden - was my pride and joy, and even sweeping leaves up was not a chore. It was lunchtime and I was in the kitchen at the back of the house. I'd cleaned up and was preparing dinner for later - steak and kidney pudding - and was also making a ploughman's lunch to eat right then. In the background was classical music coming from the radio, and I was as happy as a lark. I remember distinctly that I was peeling and slicing an onion when, through my peripheral vision I saw a mop of tousled blonde hair pass by the window of the drive of my house that led to the back of the place, and I wondered who it could be. Not the paper boy, which was a shame; because he was a nice looking boy and I fancied him. There came a determined rap on the back door. I put the onion down, rinsed my hands under the tap, and was still drying them when I went to the back door and opened it... and a familiar smell from long ago drifted up my nostrils.
"Any jobs I can do for you mister?"
It really is true that one can fall in love with a single glance, and when I looked at the small boy standing in my doorway, and when those beautiful green eyes made direct contact with mine, all the half-loves and crushes I'd experienced in my lifetime were as nothing compared to the spiritual effect of being bowled over by that one look from Seamus Quinn. I could hardly speak when I stammered, "Err... err... I don't think so. Err... err... I've just done everything."
The boy looked disappointed, and then he brightened up when he cast a glance at the leaves blowing along my drive, and said, "I can sweep your leaves up mister. And I can clean your gutters and your drains." Then he gave me that irresistible grin that I grew to love and need. "Nothing too much for Seamus Quinn, mister. I'm a jack-of-all-trades, me. And I'm honest and won't pinch anything."
I think I smiled at him then. (Well, I know I did, because he told me later that he knew he'd won when he saw me smile.) After breaking my gaze into his eyes, I took him all in. He was one of those boys whose age is difficult to define precisely. Although he was quite small, his demeanour put him above the age of about ten, which I would have guessed him as being if he wasn't fully presented to me. Not only his eyes were beautiful; his entire countenance was too. Everything fitted perfectly. His hair was a mess, but what proper boy's hair would not be on a windy day such as this? Even so, the tousled locks could not disguise the fact that even if it was combed to perfection, it could never be trained. Too many golden curls in it for that. And neither could one wash away the wonderful freckles that adorned his upper, fresh-faced cheeks, each side of a nose that one could only describe as `cheeky'. I would have traded a left leg to kiss his lips. Even Marlene Dietrich would have been jealous of them. But below that beautiful head... was poverty. Even though it was cold, he wore short trousers of poor quality, which led to proper boy legs: knee-scarred and a windswept brown down to grey socks nestling on his ankles above well-worn pumps. On his upper body was an open-necked pin striped granddad-shirt with no collar, and over that a grey woollen v-necked pullover that one could describe as threadbare at best. He looked like a poor kid from the 1930's, and that's why, instead of answering his question as to whether he could do any jobs for me, I asked, "Where's your coat?"
He gave me a lopsided grin. "Me mam's keeping it safe for winter. I'm not cold... honest!" Then his grin became wider when he pointed at the drifting leaves. "Sweeping them up will warm me up. I won't charge a lot mister. I only charge half a crown for a whole day's work."
I'd got over the shock of meeting the young sprite, and was beginning to gather my wits again. Of course I was going to let him do some work for me! I would have paid half a crown just to look at him for a day. In fact I would have gladly paid a guinea for that delight. But something else was at work in my mind: sympathy. Although I loved boys for that, I also loved them simply because they were boys, and right then I had a specimen who needed care. And that's why I said, "Have you had any lunch?"
He looked surprised for a moment, and then grinned again. "You mean dinner?"
I grinned back at him. "No, I meant lunch. Dinner is taken later, at around seven. Lunch is what I have around midday, and I'm about to have some now. So before I let you do some work, would you like something to eat?" I gave him a special grin. "I won't charge you for it."
He shifted from one foot to the other, and for just a brief moment I detected shyness in him. He looked down and then up into my face. "I am hungry mister. Thank you."
Thank you. Despite his appearance, here was a boy who knew when to use his manners. I liked that, and smiled at him. "Come on in. Take a seat at the table and I'll sort something out." I stood back, he came into the kitchen, the familiar smell from long ago drifted up my nostrils, and when I pointed at a chair by the large, pine dining table, he went to it and sat down. When I'd closed the door and pushed the snake-like draught excluder firmly in place at the bottom of the door and he was settled, I said to him, "I was just making a ploughman's lunch for myself. There's plenty, so we'll share it. Do you like a ploughman's?"
He shrugged his shoulders. "I dunno know what it is mister."
"Hot tomato soup for starters, then cheese, chutney, onion, tomato, and nice warm crusty bread. Home-made actually. I've not long taken the bread out of the oven. Would you eat that?"
"Mmmm. Sounds delicious."
The way he said it made me chuckle, but I also noticed that his hands were dirty, so I asked him, "Would you like to wash your hands? Eating a ploughman's means you use your fingers a lot."
He got up immediately and went to the sink. Then he picked the bar of soap up and asked, "Shall I use this posh soap?"
I nodded. "Of course. Turn on the tap to your left. That's the hot water. But it's very hot, so fill the bowl. Use both taps. Then give your hands a good scrubbing. They look as if they could use a good wash. What work have you been doing this morning?"
He'd got his back to me when he answered. "I did a job for a bloke in Stanier Street. I spent two hours sawing logs for him."
"Did he pay you well?"
"Not bad. He gave me a shilling."
"And that's it?" I glanced at his bottom. The undersized short trousers clung tightly to him, emphasizing the beautiful contours of his boyishness, and my mind's eye didn't have to work hard to imagine how splendid he would look without them. (Did I tell you that I like boys' bottoms?)
"That's it. What's your proper name mister?"
I took another look at his bottom. "Mr Powell. And you're Seamus Quinn, so you told me. That sounds like an Irish name."
The bowl was filled by then and he was washing his hands when he replied, "It is Irish. Me mam and dad's Irish. He works off."
"Works off?"
"He's a bulldozer driver. He works off most of the year. He comes home at Christmas most times."
"Doesn't that bother your mother?"
"Nah! She says she's not bothered if she never sees him again. He puts her up the stick every time he comes home."
The way Seamus said that really tickled me, and when he heard me giggling, he turned to me with a big grin on his face. "He does! Me mam's had eleven kids!"
"And where do you fit in with the scheme of things?"
"Scheme of things?"
"Yes. Are your siblings older or younger?"
"Me brothers and sisters you mean? Well, I've got three older sisters and two older bothers, and then I've got a brother and four sisters younger than me."
"So that puts Seamus Quinn right in the middle of the family. And where do you all live?"
I detected a hesitation in his voice, and then he said, defensively, "Springfields."
Springfields. A few cogs began working. I knew all about Springfields. I'd done enough copy-editing on the stories about the permanent gypsy site that the government insisted was sited there. But sited it was... about three years earlier, and since then it had developed quite a reputation which was not in keeping with a market town like Ramsbottom with it being a rural place situated at the foot of the Pennine Mountains and Moors. And now I understood why Seamus didn't use the local dialect that almost everyone used around here when talking. But neither did Seamus use a full Irish brogue. Yes, he slightly rolled his r's when he called me mister, but apart from that, his dialect was a mixture that was difficult to define. Perhaps I'd discover more later about this lovely boy. And lovely he was, and that's why I tried putting him at ease if indeed he did live on the Springfields gypsy site. "Are you one of the travelling families that have made a home there?" Travelling families. Far better than using the term gypsies.
"Yes. We've got two vans on there."
I chuckled again. "I imagine you would. Getting thirteen of you into one caravan would be a bit difficult."
Seamus giggled. "Two of me big brothers have gone to work with me dad. I've managed to get in the one with me older sisters."
More giggles from me then. "That must be difficult... living with three older sisters?"
He'd finished washing his hands and was drying them on a towel when we looked into each other's eyes again, and I could see that the way I'd handled it had put him at some ease. Then to make sure he was accepted, he asked, "So it doesn't bother you that I'm one of them... a Pikey, then?"
I smiled and shook my head. "No. You said you were honest. Are you?"
He nodded in a definite way. "I never pinch off them that looks after me."
I pointed to the table. "Sit down then and I'll fill your belly." Then I winked at him. "I'll have to make sure I look after you properly. Help yourself. What would you like to drink?"
He sat down and grinned at me. "What are you having?"
"I'm having cider. It's perfect with a ploughman's."
"Can I have some please?"
I pulled a wry face at him. "It's alcoholic!"
He grinned. "That's okay. Me dad taught me how to drink when I was nine."
I sat opposite him, and asked, "How old are you now Seamus?"
"Eleven and a half."
I nodded at him. "That's old enough for a small glass of cider, especially because your dad taught you how to drink when you were nine." So I filled my glass and half-filled his. Then I looked at him and saw him grinning, so I poured a little more until it was three-quarters full. When I saw that he was still grinning in that special way of his, I relented and topped him up. I think that was the very first time that I knew that whatever Seamus wanted, I could never refuse him. I really had fallen head over heels in love with the little gypsy boy, and I never wanted less than all of him at any time. If a small amount of illegal alcohol was to be part of having him close was the price to be paid, then I would never refuse him. And the reason for that was not because I wanted to get into his threadbare pants: I just wanted his affection... and to take care of him.
***************
Gypsies are not savages, and I felt ashamed that I stereotyped him that way before I got to really know him. And my first lesson was while we were eating. He ate beautifully; even delicately as he used the cutlery impeccably. I almost started laughing when he used reverse spooning to eat his soup, and he was gentle with the crusty bread he dipped into it. And when he got onto the ploughman's proper, he took chutney from the jar via a jam-spoon, putting it on his plate before eating it sparingly with a couple of large knobs of Strong Cheddar Cheese. Yes, he tore the crusty bread, but that was the done thing, but he used the butter properly when he spread it on the portion. He used a fork to pick up his onions and tomato, and even wiped his mouth a few times with a serviette while he was eating and before he took frequent sips from his glass of cider. I took all this in while we were chatting.
Chatting. It was a journey of discovery for both of us, especially for Seamus. He was a clever boy, knowing just how far to go with some of his searching questions. It didn't take him long to wheedle out of me that I was not married and never had been, and he didn't press me when I didn't want to talk about the war too much, which were the first inclinations that he was sensitive boy. I found out later how sensitive he was, and how loving he could be, but those were our first parting shots across each other's bows, which meant that neither of us fired off a full broadside. But it was a lovely meal: I think the most beautiful I'd shared with another human being up to that day, and by the time we'd finished, there was little between us that we did not know. And we ended the meal on first name terms. I insisted on it. He was to call me Peter in future. Future. It was so important to me. Well, spending as much time as possible with my little gypsy sprite was. But two hours had passed while we were eating and chatting, and eventually, Seamus said, "I'd better be earning me corn, Peter. Where do you want me to start?"
So we cleared away and went outside and I gave him the tools he needed. Then I pointed at the long drive and felt guilty when I said, "Just do the drive today. Put the leaves in the wheelbarrow and take them and put them with the others at the top of the garden, under the corrugated sheets I use to keep them tamed. Give me a shout if you need any help."
And off he went. I stood by the front window and watched him for a while, but it soon became obvious to me that he was as proficient as me at the task, so I left him to it and went and did other things. Other things. Not really. I just sat in the lounge and listened to soft music and thought about the boy who had literally blown into my life on a windy October day.
**************
We all have our fantasies, don't we? I'm sure you all have a particular type of person that attracts you, and eye colour is an important part of that attraction. Green eyes are one of my Achilles Heels, especially when those green eyes are large and round. Seamus's eyes were green and large and round, and so extraordinarily beautiful that, without doubt, he had the most enchanting eyes on a boy that I've ever seen. I'd defy any pederast on the planet to deny that he was a turn-on, and that was simply because of his eyes, especially because he was never afraid to use them. Oh yes... boys use eyes like currency! Seamus's eyes had already bought entrance to my home and a full lunch (including a large glass of cider), and they paid in full for the answers to his many questions. A flutter of his long eyelashes divested me of my full name, and a couple of long stares deep into what I am revealed parts of my private life that no other person knew. I also detected that those eyes knew more than what he revealed in words. A single man aged thirty-six, living all alone, never married, and I was happily entertaining a little boy to lunch? What looks like a duck and walks like a duck, most probably is a duck; and those intense eyes had probably worked out what I was long before lunch was over. But at no point was he afraid of me. No, I didn't make a move on him, and not once did I touch him, but the circumstances of being a small boy aged only eleven and a half were things that all boys take into consideration when they're considering their welfare and safety. So those beautiful eyes of my dear Seamus must have seen into me and detected nothing dangerous about Peter Powell.
And they would have been right. I was a pederast, but I was never a person who would harm a child. Did I desire him that way? Of course I did. He was perfection all over... especially that superb bum of his. The perfect age; a body-type that often filled my naughty dreams, and those eyes that I would die for. But there was something else about Seamus that attracted me greatly to him: his disposition. Despite his obvious poverty, he was happy-chappy... one of those boys for whom smiling is first nature. Rarely did his countenance not carry some sort of amusement on it, whether it be one of his glorious laughs, so many ready smiles, and perhaps most special of all, that look behind smiling eyes. That's how I knew that he knew what I was: what looks like a duck and walks like a duck, very probably is a duck... ergo: I was an obvious lover of boys, and he knew I was much attracted to him.
But he didn't take advantage, and that made him even more special.
***************
When he'd swept up all the leaves and cleaned the gutter at the side of the house, he knocked on the back door and waited for me to open it. That beautiful smile, "I've finished, and I've put everything in the shed. Do you want to look at what I've done?"
So I went outside and inspected his work. My little gypsy boy had not let me down. He'd done equally as good a job as I would have done, and possibly better. I was impressed, and for the first time that day, I touched him. I placed a hand on his shoulder before saying, "Very good, Seamus. In fact I'm more than pleased. Most bob-a-job boys would have made a mess and then demanded I pay them for it. But you've certainly earned your corn. Would you like to come in and have a warm drink before I pay you?" When he was in, I pointed to his pumps that were badly soiled from the work he'd been doing, and said, "Take them off please." I saw him hesitate, and then he did as he was told. Only then did I understand his hesitancy. His toes were sticking through large holes in his stockings, and those toes were as black as the pumps he'd taken off. I pretended not to notice and beckoned him to his chair. "Take a seat and I'll put the kettle on."
"You've got a nice house, Peter."
I looked over my shoulder at his smile. "Thank you Seamus. I'm glad you think so. Will you be visiting me again?"
"Do you want me to?"
"Well, you've done such a good job that I wouldn't say no if you wanted to help out again." I pointed through the back window, up the garden. "There's lots to do up there before winter really sets in, and I'm not sure I've got enough time to do it on my own. I'll pay you, of course. The going rate same as you would charge anyone else. That's if you've got time?"
He grinned at me. "Every Saturday?"
I grinned back at him. "Every Saturday. Saturday will be Seamus Day."
He laughed. "I'll tell me mam. She'll be tickled to death."
"She won't mind?"
"Mind about what?"
I looked right into his beautiful eyes, and I knew he would understand my comment when I said, "That Seamus Day will be spent with an old man who isn't married?"
He grinned. "Nah! She knows I can look after meself." Then he again gave me that special look. "I've already sussed you out Peter. I know you won't hurt me."
I had to turn away then because he might have seen my eyes misting over, so I said with my back turned to him whilst pretending to do something on the kitchen worktop, "Thank you Seamus. And no, I'll never harm you. In fact... the opposite. Would you be offended if I wanted to help you?"
"In what way?"
I still didn't dare turn around when I said, "You know... sort of making things better for you. You can refuse if you want to. As I said, I don't want to offend you, and I'm not sure how your mother would react even if you didn't mind."
There was a short silence, a brief moment in time when I felt completely naked; embarrassed because I'd bared my spirit to another human being, and I knew the cogs would be churning away in my little Seamus's mind. (He told me later that that was the moment when he knew I loved him, and he nearly started crying.) Then he spoke, but it was not an answer to my question. He said, "Peter, would you be offended if I asked you if I could have a bath here?"
That's when I turned around and looked at him again. "Not at all! The water's been heating up all day. It's no problem. Do you want one now?"
He grinned. "Please. These pumps make me feet stink."
I chuckled. "Those toes look like they would enjoy a bit of hot water."
He lifted his right foot under the table and wriggled his toes through the large hole in his sock. "One little piggy went to market; one little piggy stayed at home. One little piggy had roast beef; and the other little piggy had none. Then the other little piggy said, it's time you lot had a bath."
I roared with laughter. And so did Seamus. And when we'd stopped laughing, I went upstairs and ran a hot bath for him. I was careful choosing the towels. I had some white bath towels, but they wouldn't be suitable. I didn't want Seamus not daring to use them because he might leave them stained, so I rooted out some dark brown ones and placed them over the radiator in the bathroom so they would be nice and warm after he'd bathed. Then, for a bit of fun, I added some bubble bath. That would make him chuckle. Posh soap. Hair shampoo. A hair brush for that untameable, beautiful hair. Toothbrush and toothpaste. And while I was doing all this, my mind was working. After his bath he would have to put dirty clothes over his lovely, clean body. Dare I? I looked at my watch. Four o'clock. If I got the car out, I would just have time to get to the shops and buy him a warm overcoat and maybe some long trousers and a shirt and a pullover. But would it be right? Was I going too fast? Would he accept? What would his mother say? Would it ruin what we had? I decided not to take the chance and went back downstairs. Seamus was standing, looking up the back garden when I walked into the kitchen, and said, "All done. Take your time. You'll have complete privacy. There's a lock on the door. There's shampoo for your hair if you want to use it; towels and a hairbrush; and a toothbrush and toothpaste you can use."
Seamus smiled, wiggled his toes at me again, and then, sheepishly, asked, "You haven't got an old pair of socks going spare, have you Peter?"
I grinned at him. "They'll be a bit big. I'd rather go to Woolworth's in the car and get you some while you're having a bath."
"I don't want you to go to that trouble. I'll make an old pair of yours fit me. I can roll them over once I've got them on."
Thinking discretion would be the better part of valour, I nodded. "Okay. Maybe it would be best. I'll sort you a pair out after you've had a bath. Anything else of mine that you want?"
He looked at my body, and giggled. "I'd look a bit daft going home in your clothes."
We both giggled. Then he went upstairs and I went into the lounge, put two more large logs on the fire, poured myself a small whisky, and sat on the sofa thinking about things, but trying not to think too much that I had a beautiful naked boy upstairs. The whisky helped soothe the nerves, and I was nervous. Part of the reason I was nervous was because my emotions were all over the place. A little boy had come into my life that I was deeply attracted to, and things couldn't have gone better than they had regarding seeing him again. But I'd long since learned that the best laid plans of mice and men can go awry. It would take very little to unsettle the equilibrium, and then I would be plunged into an abyss. Yes, that's how I now saw Seamus not being part of me. That got me thinking that I wished he had never walked up my drive to ask for work. Losing him would be far, far worse than never having known him. I'd managed up to then. Boyless is a normal state for a pederast. One gets used to being Boyless. But would I really have been better off not meeting him? The day had been fantastic. Talking with him had been fantastic. Watching him work and eat had been fantastic. Having him upstairs taking a bath was fantastic. Thinking about him was fantastic. Having a vision of reality was fantastic. So whatever happened, even if I were never to see him again, a small sliver of not being Boyless was fantastic. So what to do? Take the plunge; not take risks, and let the devil take the hindmost. Whatever will be, will be.
He was in the bathroom for almost an hour. Not once did I venture upstairs, and not once did he shout down and request anything. It was as it should be when a stranger is taking a bath in one's home. Well, Seamus was not quite a stranger now, but he was not on familiar enough territory for me to intrude on his bathing. So I waited two whiskies long before he eventually came down the stairs, and the evening sun was just setting on the golden leaves of my copper beech while the logs blazed in the fireplace. Because I'd not yet switched on the lights, and because most of my lounge furniture was old Victorian mahogany that reflected the sunset beautifully from its polished patina, it must have looked like a Christmas scene to Seamus when he popped his head round the door, and said, "I'm done. Can I come in?"
I turned, expecting to see him dressed, but he wasn't. He was swathed in one of the large brown bath towels, one hand popping between the folds clutching screwed up shorts and shirt and pullover that he'd obviously washed. He grinned at me, and said, "I didn't fancy putting these on until they were clean. Do you mind? Can we dry them by the fire?"
I smiled at him. "Of course I don't mind!" I got up and took the wrung-out clothes from him, and pointed to the sofa. "Sit there where it's warm." And then I unscrewed his raggedy clothes (not missing the fact that there were no underpants amongst them, which meant that he was either not wearing any or he had them on, and considering that he didn't want to put dirty clothes on his clean body, most probably he didn't wear underpants), hung them on a small, wooden clothes dryer that I kept by the side of the dresser at the back of the room, and placed the clothes dryer as near to the fire as I could without masking the warmth of the flames on the small boy who was by now settled in front of the fire. Then I asked him, "Would you like a hot drink? Cocoa... made with hot milk?"
Seamus gave me a beautiful grin. "Yes please... if it's no trouble."
Ten minutes later he had one hand popping out from under the folded towel holding onto his mug of cocoa, and I sat on an easy chair furthest from the window so I could look at both him and the fading sunset. Some things are beyond beautiful, and some moments are almost indescribable, and this was one such moment. But it wasn't just me who was thinking that way. How often will you get an eleven year old boy sitting quietly, listening to classical music playing softly in the background, and so obviously enjoying the ambience of flickering flames sending shadows across the room as the sun set behind the beech tree. It was a moment of spiritual harmony that had never been equalled in my life before. My gaze flickered between the glorious colours of that sunset to the small, clean head adorned with unruly curls that popped out above the large towel, which became even more beautiful because the sunset reflected on his hair, creating many faceted colours of gold. And below the towel were two sparkling clean boy legs (one with a boy scarred knee showing), and on the end of them were two feet and many toes that looked as if they'd just been born. And guess what? There was not the slightest stirring of blood vessels in my groin. The moment was too beautiful to be despoiled by earthy needs. I was in the company of the most beautiful thing on earth, and I almost cried at the beauty of those precious moments. But eventually, when the sun had almost set and just the flickering flames were the only light in the room, I got up and took the empty mug from Seamus, and asked him, "Would you like another?"
He looked up at me with a serious face. "No thank you." Then, still with his serious face on, he stared into the flames. So I left him and took the mug to the kitchen. When I went back, Seamus was exactly where I left him, and still looking at the fire. He looked a little worried, which unsettled me, so to take my mind off it, I rearranged his clothes on the dryer. While I was doing it, I heard a soft voice from behind me say, "Peter. Am I any trouble to you?"
Something told me not to look at him, so still fiddling with his clothes, I replied, "No. Absolutely not. The opposite actually. Why do you ask?"
Again his voice was soft. "I was thinking in the bath. Nobody has ever looked after me like you have. Do you really like me?"
I could hardly get the words out when I answered, "Yes. I really like you Seamus. I think you're a wonderful boy."
"And you like boys, don't you."
I felt sick at heart. I was outed for the first time in my life, and I was appalled that the small boy I'd fallen in love with was the one to do it. But how to extricate myself from this awful situation? Right then I was pleased that we still were not looking at each other, and I used the camouflage of partial obscurity to say, "Not all boys. Just very special ones."
"And am I a very special one."
I took in a deep breath. "Yes. I think you're very special."
"So are you."
Then I turned around. He was grinning at me and no longer had the serious look on his face, so I grinned back at him. "Well, that's that out of the way. Will you still be coming next Saturday?"
"Yes. And you can buy me some new clothes if you want to."
I was puzzled. How did Seamus know I wanted to buy him some clothes? I'd deliberately not said that I did because I was aware of the complications that might arise. I tilted my head to one side and asked, "Are you a mind reader? Have you got a crystal ball tucked away under that towel?"
He giggled. "Me mam tells fortunes. I'm surprised she hasn't been here selling you one of her charms."
That made me laugh. "She might have been. I tend not to answer the door to gypsies."
Seamus nodded. "Ahhh... I'll look for the sign next time I come."
"The sign?"
He giggled again. "We leave secret signs so any of us that follow know where we don't call." My puzzled stare amused him even more, and he added, "I'll make sure there's one next time I come. I don't want no other boys muscling in on my man."
"My man?!"
He laughed. "Sorry, but that's how I'm beginning to think of you. I was thinking in the bath that it was nice to have my own special man who cared for me. That's how I knew you wanted to buy me clothes. Lots of people do, or want to give me second hand ones. But I never let them."
"Why not?"
He laughed. "I've got some good clothes. I just don't wear them when I'm working. If I was wearing better clothes and had knocked on your door asking for work, would you have let me do some for you?"
I smiled at him. "Probably."
He gave me one of his special looks. "I thought you would. That's why I don't mind if you buy me things."
I shook my head. "I can't work you out. If you've got some good clothes, then why would you want me to buy some for you?"
"Because coming from you, they would be special. I'd sort of be your special boy. Is that what you want me to be?"
I went all tongue tied by what he'd said, so I just gave him one of my special looks, and nodded. My reward came from his beautiful eyes. He didn't need to speak to tell me that affection was becoming mutual, and I was overjoyed. In fact I was so overjoyed that I asked him if he wanted to stay for dinner, and when I told him that I was having home-made steak and kidney pudding and chips and peas and gravy, he pulled a silly face and rolled his tongue around his lips and said that his belly was rumbling just thinking about it. So, because his clothes were dry by now, I gave them to him, told him that I would go in the kitchen and prepare dinner, and he could dress in the lounge in privacy.
Dinner was more fun. The ice had definitely been broken between us, and when he waggled his empty glass at me, I laughed because I knew he was demanding more cider without asking. Thank goodness it was mild stuff or he would have left in a right state. In fact it did affect him a little, and eventually, after we'd finished eating, he refused when I offered him more. When I questioned him with my eyes, he gave me a special look followed by, "Are you trying to get me drunk Peter?"
I laughed. "No! You're a right handful when you're sober, so goodness knows how I would manage if you were not. What time do you have to be home?"
He shook his head. "Not `till late. I go home when I want. Unless you want me to go, that is?"
I shook my head. "No. Shall we go into the lounge and watch some TV?"
****************
Whether it was the warmth of the log fire or the effects of the cider, I wasn't sure, but after about an hour of us sitting on the sofa, watching TV and chatting and talking about things in general, he moved closer and leaned against me. Gingerly, I lifted an arm and put it around his shoulders, and he snuggled even further into me, even putting an arm around my chest to get more comfortable. His head was on my chest, under my chin, and the smell of my shampoo drifted up my nostrils from his unruly curls, so, secretly, I kissed them. It was beautiful: man and boy together. But nothing lasts forever, and at ten o'clock I shook him and told him that it was time he was getting home and that I'd take him in the car.
When he stirred and looked up at me, because he was adjusting his eyes to the light, only then did I realise that he must have dozed off. And then he said, "I wondered where I was for a minute. What did you say?" When I repeated it, he smiled and nodded. "Yes, I'd better be going. But I can walk. I don't want to put you to any trouble."
I stroked the hair from his forehead. "It's no trouble. And I want to be sure you're safe before I'll rest easy. Come on... I'll take you. Let me get the car out of the garage first. It's cold out, and I don't want you catching a chill. I'll find a travel rug to put around you."
My car was a Ford Zodiac Mark ll, just a year old, in powder blue livery, and it had a good heater, but it would take half a mile to heat up properly, and that's why, when I led Seamus out of the back door, I placed a tartan travel rug around his shoulders before he got in it. When I got in the driver's side, he smiled at me and snuggled the rug tightly around him. No seat belts in those days. I knew the way to Springfields. It was across the other side of town, and in ten minutes I was at the entrance to the caravan site. I pulled up by the kerb and looked at Seamus. "See you next Saturday?"
He looked at me and smiled. "Ten o'clock. Can I stay all day like I've done today?"
I nodded. "Providing it's all right with your family. I don't want to get in trouble... and you neither."
He grinned. "You won't. I'll tell them I've got to bring your socks back. They won't believe me, but that doesn't matter. They're glad to see the back of me most of the time. See you next week."
I reached out a hand and touched his. He took it and squeezed it, and then got out of the car and put the rug on the seat. Another grin. "Get some cider in." And with that he was gone, and I heard dogs barking as he ran between the brick pillars of the entrance to the site and vanished into the darkness.
****************
When I got back and had put the car in the garage, I went into the house and up to the bathroom expecting to see it in a mess, but it was spotless. Everything in its place, and I loved Seamus even more because of what he'd done. I'd dropped on a very special boy. He might have been a gypsy boy, but he had more manners and self-respect in his little finger than most boys who live in proper homes. I checked again to make sure everything was alright, and then grinned when I looked in the waste basket. Although they were wrapped in toilet paper, I knew immediately what they were: Seamus's holed socks. I took them out, unwrapped them, and walked down the stairs with them. They really should have gone straight into the outside bin, but I couldn't bear to part with them. So I took them to the sink, filled it with hot water and soap flakes, and scrubbed them clean. Then I took them into the lounge and placed them on the hearth to dry. And for the next hour, while I was drinking a couple of Scotches, I watched the steam from them evaporating as they dried, and while I was doing it, I thought about that special day. And then I thought about another special day... a very sad day.
****************
We were approaching the Elbe. The Germans were surrendering in their thousands, streaming to the west to escape capture by the Russians. But there were still a handful determined to protect their homeland. Some were old men, but most were fanatics of the Hitler Youth, and even more harrowing, the brainwashed children of the Hitler Jugend... later additions of a generation of children given to Adolph Hitler to use as he saw fit... yes, even sent to be slaughtered by the megalomaniac if he so chose to do. And he did... in the thousands.
The platoon I was with went through a thicket of trees, and as soon as we reached the other side, a burst of fire, including a machine gun, pinned us down. It was coming from the two upper windows of a red bricked farmhouse about two hundred yards in front of us. It wounded two of our men, but we managed to drag them back to the relative safety of the thicket of woodland, and there our Sgt Major worked out a plan of action. We had twenty-two men left in our platoon now we were two men down, so he split us into three parts. Two groups of six were to take the flanks while the rest were to concentrate fire on the farmhouse to distract the enemy. Carrying the radio, I was assigned with the men on the right flank, using a natural curve in the thicket to get at least to the side of the farmhouse. Considering the thicket was only twenty yards from the farmhouse at that point, unless the flank was heavily guarded, those in the farmhouse must have been suicidal to have put up resistance at that particular place. Within twenty minutes we'd surrounded the place, and it took only a single grenade to silence the machine gun. Then six of the guys stormed the building. I heard a few shots, and then our guys came out with two prisoners in front of them with their hands on their heads. Hitler Jugend. Two young boys; one about sixteen and the other about fourteen but who looked about twelve. A fantastic looking boy he was. His helmet had been knocked off and he had a lovely head of flaxen hair that flopped over his forehead, but I couldn't miss the beauty of his cobalt blue eyes.
I think I stared into them too long, because for just a few moments, I saw that look. It's the look that happens when two like-minded souls meet. After the rush of adrenaline, I was shaking, but the poor boy was shaking more. In fact he was peeing himself. And then disaster as I went to the boy to search him.
Some British soldiers were no angels during the Second World War. In fact we had a right bastard in our platoon - Danny Grice. He was the cruellest man I ever knew. A psychopath. And it was Danny Grice who raked both boys with his sub-machine gun before I could reach them. The moment he did it, I went into a mad rage and turned my Lee Enfield towards him. I would have shot him dead then had my pal, Alfy White, not knocked me to the ground and removed my gun. I still had my bayonet and I would have used that had I not seen the flaxen haired boy move. I crawled on my hands and knees to him and lifted his head into my arms. Blood was oozing from his mouth and I knew he was a goner, but that didn't stop me shouting for the medic, and when he came to my side, I insisted he give the boy a shot of morphine. He looked at me as if I was crazy (which would not have been far off the mark right then), but then reached in his pack and gave the boy a shot.
I felt his body relax as the morphine hit, and then those beautiful blue eyes looked into mine. I was crying, and he knew why. I could tell. He smiled and managed to say: Sagen mutter. Danke. (Tell mother. Thank you.) And then his spirit left him, leaving me completely hollow and devastated. Part of me went with him that day. But there was a weird paradox when he died. Despite the strong smell of cordite all around us, there was a strange smell of fresh apples in the air that I remember most.
We had one more major skirmish after that, and I was well-placed to put a .303 bullet right through the back of Danny Grice's head. They call it green-on-green nowadays: the error of shooting one's own side in the heat of battle. Green-on-green has its uses.
But why was I thinking this when I was thinking about me and Seamus Quinn? Because on October 25th 1961, when Seamus presented himself at my back door, I smelled fresh apples and saw the same look in Seamus's eyes that I saw in Franz Schreker's eyes. Oh yes, I discovered the German boy's name. As a matter of fact, I spent a lot of time after the war discovering who he was, and when I discovered who his family were and that they lived in Frankfurt, I sent them the wallet that I took from his tunic, and a covering letter to tell them the date he had been killed (without the gory details) in battle, and the coordinates of where I buried his body. (Yes, I actually did that. We stayed in the farmhouse that night, but I spent part of it with Alfie, digging a grave four foot deep to put Franz in after I'd wrapped his body in my waterproofs, and then I said a small prayer for him before Alfie left me to fill it in on my own. When I was done, I sat and cried some more, and then pulled myself together to get on with ending that damned war.)
It took all of five years for it to happen, but eventually Franz Schreker was re-interred and buried in the family grave. His mother wrote to me and thanked me. She had four boys. Franz - the youngest - was the last of them to die. He was just fourteen years old when he died. But at least she had something physical to mourn over. Franz's brothers were all killed on the Eastern Front... and they just disappeared.
*************************
But I didn't send everything in the wallet back to Franz's mother. I kept a photograph of him that was in there, and when I went to bed that night after Seamus left, I got it out and kissed it, and afterwards I kissed the two holed socks that Seamus had discarded. Then I put them all under my pillow, and when tears escaped from my eyes, they were of sadness and joy and hope. But that's what boys can do to you when you truly love them. Boys plural? Yes... just like I did with Seamus, I also fell in love with Franz in those few seconds before his life was so cruelly taken away.
To be continued...
You can find my other stories on Nifty here. If you wish to comment on this or any of my other stories, just drop me a line to jtst449@gmail.com Genuine comments will be appreciated. All flames will be extinguished in the trash bin.