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The Smell of Fresh Apples.
Part 2 of 3.
In the office of Seamus Quinn Metals (1990) Manchester Ltd. 25th October 2005.
"They haven't got one in stock, Seamus. So I've phoned the manufacturer direct and they'll get one out to us. But it's got to come from Germany"
I sigh and rub my chin. "How long?"
My brother Patrick, sitting in the chair on the other side of the desk, shrugs his shoulders. "Three days they said. Maybe four with it being weekend."
I look at the clock on the desk. 10.47am Saturday 25th October. I don't need this today... the damned fragmentation plant breaking down because one of the main gears has developed a fault. I look through the office window at the line of scrap cars being brought onto the yard, and at the lads with pickups and vans full of whatever they've collected on their journeys around the city. If things were okay, every bit of what they're bringing would be shredded into tiny pieces in a few days: ferrous sorted from non-ferrous; ready for shipment to China and other places. I feel like swearing, but not one swearword has passed my lips for over forty years, ever since I swore that day at Peter's and he asked me not to.
Peter. He's not at all well. In fact he's very poorly. Very poorly! But today is the anniversary of the day we first met. I'm going to see him. Nothing will stop me doing that. But I have to set the wheels in motion to get the fragmentation plant repaired. I stare at the clock and tap my fingers on the desk while I'm thinking, and then I look at Patrick. "I'm going to see Peter today. Can I leave you to sort things out? Get back on the phone to them and make sure it's on the first available flight. Will you do that for me?"
Patrick nods. "Yes. How is he really? Really bad?"
I grit my teeth to hold back the emotions. "Not well." Then tears well up in my eyes when I add, "I'm going to lose him soon, Pat. I was hoping we'd reach a half century, but it's not going to happen. He's fading away. Fast."
Patrick understands. He's the only one I would talk to like this. He was there from the beginning. Out of all my family, apart from mam, he was the one who never made silly comments. He's my next youngest brother; the one I've always been closest to. That's why he was best man at my wedding. I wanted Peter to be that, but he refused. He insisted I choose Patrick. What was it he said? "It wouldn't be right, Seamus, and we always do things right, don't we? Ever since the beginning and you left me with a bright sparkling bathroom apart from your dirty socks. But even those were wrapped up properly. We always do things right, and because Patrick is your favourite brother, it's only right that he's your best man when you marry Kathleen. Do things right for me."
Patrick interrupts my thoughts. "Give him my love when you see him, and tell him that he only has to ask and I'll be there for him."
I smile through misted eyes. "I'll do that." Then I look at the clock on the desk again. "I'll leave you to hold the fort if you don't mind, and go now. I'll need to get home and get changed. I want to be early. I've promised to take him out in the car if he feels well enough."
Patrick grins. "Jog his memory?"
I chuckle. "Something like that. He can never remember what he's had for breakfast these days, but he can tell me exactly what I was wearing when we first met." I chuckle even more. "He's still got that rubbish pair of socks mam made me wear that day."
Patrick laughs. "Yes, I remember when mam used to dress us in the worst clothes she could find when she sent us out on the work. What was it she used to say... `You need the ahhhh factor, boy. You go dressed up to the nines and they'll boot your arse and you'll earn nothing, but go like a poor waif and stray and you'll be a rich man.' It certainly worked for you."
I get up and look at the sprawling, five acre scrap metal enterprise that I own most of in the industrial area of Manchester, and chuckle. "All this from a granddad shirt with no collar, and a pair of scraggy old socks. You couldn't make it up."
Then Patrick says something only one of my siblings is allowed to say. "That's not quite true Seamus. No matter what you were wearing that day, he would still have given his all to you. It was a match made by The Little People, as mam would say."
I grin at him, and nod, and walk out of the office.
**************
It takes longer that I expected to get through the traffic south of Manchester to my home in Alderley Edge - a large house in sixty acres – and see that my daughter Megan's car is parked by the house. That means my five year old grandson Jack will be here, and he's going to be disappointed. He loves going to see Peter, but today is just for Peter and me. And I'm right when Jack runs out of the house and into my arms when I get out of the car and asks straight away if he can go with me. While I'm hugging and tickling him, I explain that his granddad Peter is not too well and that he'll be grumpy today, and that will hurt granddad Peter more than it will hurt Jack, because granddad Peter always likes to be in his best mood when his special grandson Jack comes to see him. When I get in the house, Megan comes and gives me a kiss on the cheek and asks how I am. I tell her that I'm fine and ask where her mum is. She tells me that she's in the kitchen just finishing off a cake she's baked for Peter and me, and that I've got to take it with me. I give her a puzzled look and ask why I should be taking a cake. She laughs and says it's got a `44' on it. I chuckle and go to the kitchen holding Jack in my arms. When Kathleen sees me and Jack, she grins, and says, "Two rogues together. I've baked you and Peter a cake."
I go to her and kiss the back of her head. "Thank you sweetheart. Peter will think it's his birthday again. He'll have forgotten that it was two months ago."
Kathleen giggles. "He'll think he's forty-four again more like."
I laugh. "Last time I saw him all he could talk about was when I was fourteen."
Kathleen looks over her shoulders and gives me a naughty look. "Were you still at it when you were fourteen?"
I flick the back of her head with my fingers. "None of your business woman! We men don't gossip like you women do about such things!" Then I grin. "Let's just say that I was coming to my peak at that age."
Kathleen turns back to the cake she's finishing off, and laughs. "I don't want to know, thank you! I'm only interested after you were eighteen. I think that's when you were at your peak."
I chuckle, place Jack on the floor, and watch him run off to his mother. "I'm going to shower and change, gather a few things together just in case, and get off. Thank God it's a lovely autumn day."
**************
The Rolls Royce purrs softly as I make my way to Ramsbottom. The roads are busy, but I don't see the traffic. My mind is elsewhere: Ramsbottom, where it all began... long before I became a rich Pikey.
*****************
Ramsbottom... and things.
When Peter was driving me home that night and I was wrapped in his travel rug, I kept looking across at the man who I'd spent most of the day with. What a strange man he was... not in a bad way, but in the nicest possible way. The strange thing is that I'd done Peter's street lots of times before, but for some reason, whenever I got to the house with the massive tree in the middle of the front garden, something always made me not go and knock on the door. Maybe it was because it always looked so tidy and I'd probably get booted off, but that day something really strange, the smell of fresh apples drifting up my nose made me go and try it. Because it was a big rambling place, I knocked really loud on the back door. (Always the back door. Never use the front door was a rule of thumb if you were on the work.) I expected an old woman or something like that to open the door, so when Peter opened it, I was sort of shocked that he wasn't really old. I didn't show it, of course; but I was. But something else shocked me besides finding a man Peter's age. When I looked into Peter's beautiful blue eyes, I was sort of hypnotized. They looked right inside me, and I actually shivered. After that, I couldn't take my eyes off his, and every time I looked at him, he was looking at me. It was weird, but in a lovely way. But there was something else about Peter that was lovely. Never in my life had I met a person so gentle. He was a gentleman... in his voice; in his manner; the way he touched me; the way he looked at me. But he had a great sense of humour with it. Even that first day I couldn't stop grinning when he looked at me that way.
That way. I knew what he was the moment I looked at him. It was written all over his face. I'd met quite a few of them before. I'd been on the work since I was seven, and it's surprising how many men like little boys. I suppose the reason they liked me especially was because I wasn't a threat to them. They wouldn't touch the kids who lived near them, but who cares about a gypsy boy? If anything went wrong then it was their word against mine, and nobody would believe a Pikey against a `pillar-of-the-community'. Makes sense. Anyway, some I let do it, but never for less than five shillings. And then the door had to be left unlocked if they wanted me in the house, or they would do it in a shed up the garden. Most of them had my pants down in less than thirty seconds and were slobbering all over me. Mam told me to watch out for them, but I knew by the way she said it that she didn't mean I wasn't to do it, and that's because she understood that it was a fact of life for us little Pikeys on the work, and it did earn a few bob extra. No, I was to watch out for them, which meant that I had to be careful who I would and who I wouldn't let do it. After the first few times, I learned my own technique. I always pretended I was a completely innocent boy and didn't know anything about such things. That way they'd always be gentle with me. When I was seven I wasn't really interested in the results for me... I was just interested in the five shillings I would get when it was over. But when I was about nine, I actually began to enjoy some of the things they did to me. In fact, my first port of call on some Saturdays was to one of them so I could be sucked off. That was always the nicest way: a hot, wet mouth clamped around my little cock while they tickled my balls or played with my bottom. Never up my bottom. No way! Well, a few I let put their tongues up there, but I usually left it a bit dirty to put them off. Only a couple would put their tongues up me when they saw I hadn't wiped properly. Dirty sods! And just wanking an old bloke off for two shillings was a good deal. Better and easier than cleaning their drains out. Same thing I suppose, but different.
But most of them were nice blokes who wouldn't hurt a fly. Well... I never met one who wanted to hurt me.
Blokes? No it wasn't just blokes. Some were women. I never got that... women who wanted sex with little boys. But I came across a couple who did: Vivian and Beryl... the pair of randy and sex-starved buggers, but the best thing about doing it with them was that I wasn't frightened of where I did it. They did it with me in the bedroom with all my clothes off. By the time I was ten I was a proper little goer, and because I was always attracted to women rather than blokes, and because by then I was living with my three sisters, there wasn't much I didn't know about what men and women do, and I knew a damned sight more after Vivian and Beryl had lured me into their lovely lairs. But I knew most things by the time I came across Vivian and Beryl, and that's because living with three older sisters since I was little, you do learn a bit if you keep your eyes and ears open. They talked... and I was like the three wise monkeys: hear all, see all, but say nowt.
My sisters. Peter chuckled when I told him I lived with my three sisters, and he never understood how it could work. He was always asking me if I was shy or they were shy when it was bathtime or bedtime or stuff like that, and I always told him that we were used to each other and it didn't bother us. What I didn't tell him was that I enjoyed living with my sisters because they were always cuddling me. My eldest sister, Bridie, was my favourite. It was as if I was her boy and not mam's. She was the one who, when I was little, always bathed me and then made me sit in her lap while she dried me off and then wrapped me in a towel. Then, while we were listening to the wireless, if she wasn't knitting, she would put her hands inside the towel and play with my little cock as if it was the most normal thing in the world. It didn't bother me. I liked it, and I used to put my hand inside her blouse and play with her big tits while she was doing it. Until I was about nine that was, and then she stopped playing with my cock and I stopped playing with her tits. It was sort of natural that we both knew when it was time to stop playing with each other. In her eyes, I was growing up and was no longer a baby who could be fondled, and by then I was aware of what playing with a woman's tits was really about. And because I did, when Vivian or Beryl invited me in, their tits were always the first port of call. I loved tits, especially sucking on them when my cock was inside them and they'd got their legs wrapped around me crushing me against them so my little cock didn't slip out while they used my pubic bone to stimulate their clitoris until they came. That's why sex with women is better than having it with men. It's never over in ten seconds, and I used to love the way their shuddering and yelling went on long after mine had stopped. I was quite proud that I could do that to them. Then they would always give me masses of kisses afterwards. The best of the two was Vivian.
Vivian. Oh my God! Vivian! What a pervert she was, but I actually had a mad crush on her. I was almost eleven when I first knocked on her door. From Back Lane she was. Back Lane. (Chuckle.) That suited her. She loved my arse more than any other part of me. She was worse than the blokes. But she was fantastic. Her husband was in the forces somewhere and I never came across him. In fact the reason I stopped seeing Vivien was because she went off to Germany to join her husband. She was twenty two and as fit as a butcher's dog. Vivian hadn't had any babies, so that meant her pussy was a lot tighter than Beryl's. (She'd got two kids and was so slack that I could get my balls as well as my cock inside her.) But I could actually feel being in Vivian. She had different ways of doing it, and one of them was putting it up her bottom. Because it was a lot tighter up there and it never took me long before I climaxed when she wanted it that way, I never complained. And she was always spotlessly clean. In fact she smelled like a rose. I used to run as fast as I could early on a Saturday morning to get to her place, and as soon as I got there she would bathe me in a hot tub of water, taking ages and purring over me like a cat with cream. Sometimes she'd get in with me and we'd do stuff in the bath. I was her boy. As I said, she loved my bottom. She'd spend ages licking and sucking it and putting her tongue and fingers up it. Oh, the tales I could tell you about Vivian! (Chuckle.) I only ever let her give me half a crown. I would have paid her ten guineas if I had it. And when she was gone, I bloody missed her like mad for a bit.
Beryl Cartwright from Mill Lane, who was twenty five when I was ten and a half, paid really well, and used to give me ten shillings and a bag of toffees when we were done. I always ate the toffees before I got home, and I always only gave mam five shillings. That was important. Although she never said so, she always knew when I'd earned my money by doing odd jobs rather than odd jobs by the amount I brought home. That's why, until the day she died, she never knew about me and Peter properly. I always insisted he never gave me more than half a crown during the early days.
But I didn't do it with Peter for the money; I did it because I loved him and he loved me and because having sex is nice anyway. In fact, I can honestly say that he's the only man who was ever able to tap into a gay part of me. Another fact is that if I hadn't met Peter, there wouldn't have been a gay part of me. That's why we were so special. That's why I loved him. That's why I still love him. He unearthed a part of me that most people have but never really discover: being able to love and have sex with someone of your own gender if the circumstances are right. The sex part stopped naturally and amicably when I was about seventeen, but the love part has stayed with us both all our lives. But love does change as you get older. Right now I love Peter as if he was my dad and my brother and my best friend rolled into one. But that wasn't how it was when I first met him. Oh no! I loved him for everything, and that included what we did. Sexually, he replaced my Vivian. In fact, after the first couple of months or so when we finally got to do it, my cock was hard just thinking about what was going to happen, and I became a liar and a schemer to get to spend as much time with him as I could, even spending whole weekends with him in the early days just so I could have his love and have sex as well. Now I'm older I know why it happened. My dad was away most of the time and I needed a father figure, but because Peter wasn't my dad and I was a horny little sod, enjoying having sex with him didn't seem wrong. In fact, for me and Peter, it was bloody alright! We both wanted it, so why not? It was hurting nobody else!
The early days. (Chuckle.) They were funny. So funny. We both knew it was going to happen, but we both put it off as long as we could to see which of us would break first. It was me actually. I remember it so well. (Chuckle.) It was just after Christmas... three weeks into January. I plotted it all while I was in the bath. (A long giggle.)
**************
My cock was really hard because I was thinking of being snuggled up to Peter in just the bath towel after I'd done, and that night I was going to try and make him do it. It was time. Our ritual had gone on long enough and we both wanted it. In fact, I was surprised it hadn't happened before. If I was with one of the blokes who used to pay me for it (I didn't do it with anybody after I met Peter) I'd have been done and dusted by the time we got around to it, especially because I was always naked and wearing only a bath towel during our snuggling time. (Thinking back, how stupid was that! All I had to do was let the towel go and Peter could see every bit of me. But I used to hug it tight around me during the early days. Stupid sod!) But Peter wasn't like them, and I wasn't like that with Peter. I knew what was stopping it. Although neither of us had ever said so, we both loved each other in a father and son way too, and we were frightened that if one of us made a move, it might spoil things between us that way. But we were almost there. How could we not be? Ever since I discovered was good sex was like with women and I actually liked some blokes sucking my cock, because I loved having sex and Peter was one of those men who liked sex with boys, it was murder trying to stop it when I was feeling randy! But we didn't do it for a while, and that was because our thing created its own boundaries. Even though we'd got to the kissing stage, we always stopped just before...
Our ritual. I'd arrive at ten; we'd do some work together; then we'd have lunch; then we'd talk for ages; then we'd do some more work; then we'd have dinner; then I'd have a bath, and then we'd cuddle with me naked in the towel until it was time for me to get dressed and for Peter to take me home. But after I spent that first Christmas Eve with him in the lounge that he'd decorated up brilliantly just for me, and after he'd made me open my presents and I was over the moon because he'd bought me a new portable radio (as well as lots of clothes and toffees and stuff), and all we did was eat and drink and cuddle and talk, even more so after I'd had a bath, things had gone slightly different. Not in our routine, but the snuggling part. It had become more romantic. I actually like the classical music Peter played on his record player. He'd got one of those Dansette ones that play about seven records one after the other, and because his music was on long playing records, we never had to move until it was Cocoa Time. And we always had the lights out and just let the logs in the fire light the place up. We played games sometimes, trying to make shapes out of the shadows the flames made. One game we really liked was I-spy-with-my-little-eye... something beginning with... And then we had to guess what the object was after the other had given out the first letter, or letters if it was two words. For instance: L was for log and PF was for photograph frame. I-spy is what led to our first kiss three weeks after that Christmas Eve.
****************
(The kissing stage. That was so funny! It was lovely, but it was funny. It was during an I-spy game. I can't stop laughing, and if anybody looks at me while I'm driving, they'll think I'm a rich lunatic.)
***************
I was ages trying to work out what BBL meant. In fact I was getting angry because I couldn't work it out and because Peter had chosen something that had three words when our rules were two at most, and that made Peter giggle even more. So I stared right into Peter's eyes and glared at him. "You're cheating! You've used three words! I give up! Tell me!"
He grinned and shook his head. "No giving up unless you pay a forfeit."
I was thinking then that he wanted me to let him touch my cock, so I was excited when I asked, "What sort of a forfeit?"
He pointed to his lips. "A kiss."
I giggled. "That's an easy forfeit." So I lifted my head and gave him a quick peck on the lips. "There. Now what does BBL mean?"
He pulled a silly face. "If that's what you call a kiss, then I pity the woman you'll marry. You'll be divorced in less than a year. Anyway, this one is so hard that it deserves a better one than that paltry thing."
That made me laugh, and I was still giggling when I put my lips on his and left them there while we grinned into each other's eyes. Then I gave him a hard closed-lip one before I pulled away and asked, "Was that better, you cheat?"
"Not bad, but still not good enough for the answer to my very, very difficult poser."
I gritted my teeth and compressed my lips to stop laughing again, and then I looked right into Peter's beautiful blue eyes. I knew what they were saying. He was daring me to kiss him properly. I wanted to kiss him properly, and he wanted to kiss me properly so we could love each other properly, even to the stage where he would play with my cock and I would play with his so we really did stuff together. In fact, right then, I wanted it more than anything in the world, and my cock was hard thinking about it. But I chickened out. So I buried my head in his neck and felt awful. Because of how we were snuggled together, I had my hand on Peter's thigh and he had his hand on one cheek of my bottom.
(Before we snuggled, although I always pretended not to notice, before he sat down, he would put his cock between his legs so it wouldn't show when we were snuggled together. That's why it never bothered me holding his thigh. I knew my fingers wouldn't touch his cock because it was tucked away between his legs. Mine was safe from view when it was hard, tucked away behind where I always used to hold the towel so it wouldn't slip off me.)
We were quiet for a few moments, then I felt Peter kissing my hair, and he whispered, "Beautiful Boy Legs."
I giggled, mostly because I was relieved that Peter wasn't angry with me for not kissing him. As always, he had forgiven me for hurting him, and I knew he would have been hurt that I hadn't kissed him. It was as if I was saying I don't want to kiss an old man. But that wasn't how I meant it when I chickened out... the safety mechanism had kicked in to keep our father/son type love safe so nothing would spoil it. Beautiful Boy Legs. How beautiful! That was worth a kiss, worth taking a risk; so I turned my head up to him and smiled. He smiled down at me; I pursed my lips, and he lowered his to mine. The kiss was soft and gentle and lasted a long time... just our lips caressing each other while we looked into each other's eyes. It was a proper kiss of love between a boy and a man who loved each other that way, and we both knew it. Then Peter broke the kiss and hugged me really tight. After that it was easy. We both pretended we didn't know the answers to the posers and spent most of the night kissing... and me feeling at his leg and Peter fondling my bottom. But no further than kissing and feeling and fondling. Well... not until that night after the bath.
*******************
I remember exactly what we had for dinner that night... my favourite... a lamb stew that Peter used to cook over the fire slowly in a big black pot on a hook that was fastened up the chimney. With Peter's home-made crusty bread. He would do all the meat and veg and put them in the pot about lunchtime, and keep topping it up with bits of water during the day until everything was dissolved almost. Then he'd chuck a couple of Oxo Cubes into it just before he served it, and it was fantastic! With cider of course! And that night I had two glasses and not the usual one when we were eating dinner before I had a bath. That's why I'd been plotting in the bath. The cider had gone to my head and given me a bit of courage. Peter loved a couple of glasses of whisky while we were cuddling. I think it gave him courage to be relaxed with me and fondle my bottom. I remember smelling it on his breath during that first kiss and thinking that the whisky had helped. So after dinner, before Peter got to preparing the lounge for our cuddling, I poured him quite a big whisky before giving him a quick peck on the lips before I went upstairs to get my bath, and then giggled at him when I asked if I could have another glass of cider after my bath. He giggled, and then smacked my arse and told me to get a bath.
I actually rushed the bath that night. I was impatient. Beautiful Boy Legs. That night I was going to show them to him, so when we sat on the sofa, when the bath towel sort of fell off my legs as it often did, instead of pulling it back as I usually did, I left it open. The cider helped. Peter had actually poured me one, which, besides giving me a bit more courage, meant that I had to keep reaching out to pick the glass up from the occasional table by the side of me. So every time I moved, the towel revealed a bit more of me until all my right leg was visible (as was all of the right side of my body because the towel had also slipped off my shoulder), and the only reason he couldn't see my cock was because I was holding the other side of the towel over it. Peter pushed the agenda. I-spy. BBL again. I pretended not to know. We both giggled. I rubbed his thigh particularly hard. His hand on my bottom was really going at it. (Over the towel because he hadn't quite worked out what I was up to yet.) Then I pretended that I'd suddenly remembered what BBL meant, started laughing, took hold of his hand that was on my bottom, placed it over the leg that was naked, and said, "Beautiful Boy Leg!" He laughed. I laughed again... and then it all came naturally. We stopped laughing and looked into each other's eyes. The kiss was soft and gentle as Peter fondled the top of my naked thigh. And when I relaxed completely, allowing my legs to open and letting go of the bit of towel that I was holding over my cock, and when I pushed Peter's hand onto my hard cock, the kiss became passionate. In less than a minute he'd wanked me off and I was clinging to him like a leech to stop him feeling any guilt. Then to make sure he knew I was alright with everything, I grinned at him and said, "It should have been BBC."
Peter couldn't stop laughing. Then he said, "Naughty boy. Is that what you call it?"
I giggled. "Yes. What do you call yours?"
He pulled a silly face. "OMC."
I laughed. I knew what he meant. Old Man's Cock. But I wanted his old man's cock, so I stopped laughing and kissed him again, and while we were kissing, I pushed his legs open and got hold of it. It was rock hard. I'd felt bigger ones, but it was big enough for me, and I wanted to hold it properly and reward him for what he'd done to me, so I undid his zip and pushed my hand inside his trousers and inside his underpants and got hold of it properly. I expected him to try and stop me, but he didn't, so while we were still kissing, I wanked him off until he filled his underpants with semen.
Then came the beautiful moment. I was still holding his hot cock and smiling into his face while we were looking into each other's eyes. He stroked my cheeks with his fingers, and then he said, "You know I love you, don't you."
I nodded. "We love each other. Are you okay with what we've just done?"
He nodded. "I'm fine with it as long as you are."
I took my hand out of his trousers and hugged him. Then I whispered, "I've wanted to do it for ages. Have you?"
Peter whispered, "Of course I have, but it had to come from you. I might have lost you if I'd done it first."
I lifted my head and put my lips by his. We looked right into each other. I smiled at him. "I know that. That's part of the reason why I love you. I know you've always wanted me and it must have been hard for you not to do it. But can we always do it now?"
Peter nodded, and then grinned. "Yes. Providing you want to, we can pretend it's our pudding after dinner."
I giggled. "Do I get second helpings tonight?"
Peter gave me that naughty look of his. "Now?"
I giggled. "Now."
"Can you wait until I've had a bath. My underpants are a bit sticky."
***************
I did get second helpings, and third helpings, and fourth helpings after Peter had bathed and put on only a dressing gown, which didn't stay on long once we got going. So, on that lovely sofa, while the logs on the fire sent flickering shadows around the room, creating many colours on both our bodies while we loved and explored each other, we made love properly. I didn't care for the bodies of the other men that I'd been with for money, but I loved Peter's body as much as I did a woman's. His body was like his face and eyes... warm and gentle and soft and lovely; every part of him. Because of what he meant to me in so many ways, I loved his cock and his big balls, and he loved my cock and my little ones. Especially he loved my bottom, and I let him kiss it for ages. In fact there wasn't a part of me left that night that he hadn't kissed a hundred times. And I made sure I kissed almost every part of him, including his cock and balls to show him how much I really loved him. It was the night when we discarded all our inhibitions, even talking about the things we liked doing most. But most important of all, it never interfered with the son/father relationship we had. In fact that night was the first time we actually talked about that side of us, and Peter told me that he would love to adopt me as his boy. But that would never happen. I had a dad even though I hardly ever saw him.
It was truly beautiful... man and boy in love without interference from anybody. Doing our own thing, which we always did after that first night, and the more we did it, the easier it became, until eventually, after we'd been together for years, there were few homosexual acts that we didn't do. But only Peter could open the door to that part of me. I couldn't care less about any other male. Peter was the gay part of my life, and I've always treasured it. It really isn't much different than having sex with a woman if you love the man you're doing it with, and at that time, I loved Peter with all my heart and soul in every way possible. Yes, he was still my father figure, but he was also my sexual outlet when I was a hormonal teenager. It happens sometimes with proper fathers and sons, but Peter wasn't my blood father, and that's why I was easy with it. I could never have done the same thing with my real dad.
After that first night, and because I was beginning to get into puberty, we began to see each other more often. Although I should have gone to school, I never did. Mam knew every excuse in the book if the School Board Man ever called to ask where I was. We gypsies learned lessons of life rather than an education. The Quinns were a horse family. I had Sally, a cross-bred Welsh Cob that I did the scrap with. She lived in a stable between our two vans, with the dogs. Most days, while mam was out selling her charms and telling fortunes, me and two of my brothers, Patrick and Shawn, were out with the horse and cart collecting scrap. Peter used to go mad at me because my hands were a mess, and he'd spend ages trying to clean them as well as putting cream and all sorts of stuff on them.
Peter. My family got to know about him, but they never met until I was fifteen. I tried to get Peter to come and visit us, but he wouldn't. Well, not until he had his lung operation. The reason I wanted Peter to visit was to show him that I didn't live in a pig sty. The Quinns had the two finest caravans on the site, and mam's Crown Derby collection was worth a fortune. But he wouldn't come. I think he was frightened that it might spoil things between us. Anyway, as he said, as long as my family didn't object to me seeing him, then why rock the boat. He was also frightened of the dogs. Peter didn't like Bull Terriers or Alsatians. But when you lived like we did, they were necessary to keep the police away. Not everything my family did was legal and above board. We didn't burgle people's houses or anything like that, but if anybody wanted to get rid of a bit of hot metal, then we always had cash to buy it.
(But back to Peter and me.)
I always told mam that Peter wanted to adopt me. That's how he was looked on in our family: as my second dad, and part of the reason they chose to believe it (even if they didn't really), was because Peter wasn't happy that I couldn't read and write. So when we weren't doing things in the garden and having sex and loving each other, he taught me to read and write. And he taught me how to do arithmetic. Once I'd learned to read, I loved books. It took me ages to read them, but I read Treasure Island all the way through in one week. I loved it. One of the most beautiful things about learning stuff from Peter was that he was so proud of me. He was a proper softy, and sometimes it would make him cry when I insisted on reading to him while we were cuddled in the lounge. I loved it when he cried over me. That's when he really was my dad. Actually, I looked on him as my proper one because I only saw my real dad two or three times a year. My real dad was always home when the Appleby Horse Fair was on though.
That was the only week I didn't see Peter. All the Quinn family was there, from Ireland and Wales and Scotland and everywhere. Although I missed Peter during that week in June, and I used to ring him every day from a public call box on reverse charge, I loved going to the Appleby Horse Fair. Mam took me when I was a baby, and in all my life I've never once missed going to the fair. In fact, nowadays, Seamus Quinn is quite a famous gypsy lad. Not many of the `family' can boast of the success Seamus Quinn has had, but less than a handful know that it would not have been so were it not been for a man who loved a gypsy boy: Peter Powell the boy lover, the most beautiful man on this planet. And it was at Appleby Fair when I was eighteen and she was sixteen that I began to court the second true love of my life: Kathleen O'Brien with her fiery black eyes and a body that most men would die to enjoy, including big tits. Strange that... Peter and Kathleen are light years away in temperament, but both are my life. While Peter is the gentlest person I know, Kathleen has a temper to cut the quick. There's only one way I can tame her; when she's underneath me and I'm using every ounce of my sexual skills to bring her the supreme pleasures. Little does she know that some of them I learned from Vivian who smelled like a rose. (Chuckle.) But she'd be even more surprised if she knew I learned some of them from a special man. Oh yes, besides educating me with reading and writing and arithmetic, once we'd got over those first tentative steps, nothing was out of bounds to me and Peter providing what we did was mutual. And everything we did was mutual. Peter would have it no other way. Me neither.
****************
I remember the first time I slept with him. It was a Saturday, about three months after the first night we did it on the sofa. Peter told me that he wanted to go and see a classical concert in Manchester. I liked the music he played on his record player, so I asked him if I could go with him and then stay over at his house when we got back. At first he was reluctant because he was afraid that my mam might come storming around with the dogs and give him the big heave-ho as far as I was concerned, but I managed to persuade him that she would do no such thing. By then, he'd sort of got used to us being public knowledge with my family, and just to show that we really were going to a concert, he bought me a dress suit and dickey-bow tie and posh shirt and shoes and stuff like that, and made me take it home and get dressed in it to prove that's what we were doing. It was a fitted suit. He took me to the tailors to have it made. So I took it home and dressed up in it. Everybody made fun of me, and my older sisters fussed over me, but it was mam who loved it most.
(I told you that mam was a fortune teller. Well, that night when I wore the suit, she took me to one side and whispered something in my ear that I've never forgotten, and every word she said was to come true. She said, "Seamus, me lovely boy, you'll marry and have one child and two grandchildren, and you'll be happy, but it will be a man you love who will break your heart." But I'll explain that later.)
Anyway, because I didn't really want to tell them I was sleeping at Peter's, I lied to my family and said we'd be stopping in a hotel in two single rooms after the concert because it didn't finish until very late and that Peter wanted to meet some people he knew. Whether they believed it or not, they knew better than to tell me not to stay in the hotel with Peter. I might only have been nearly twelve, but I had a good temper on me when I needed it, and I would have kicked up such a big fuss that it would have been heard in Appleby if they'd tried to stop me. So we went to the concert, and when we were coming back, I told Peter that I'd told mam that we were staying at a hotel in Manchester. That was the really funny part of that night. When we got back, he put the car in the garage and wouldn't put any lights on in the house just in case any of my family passed by and saw that somebody was at home. So we did everything by candlelight with every curtain drawn, laughing and giggling while we were doing it. It was so funny, until we got in bed that is.
Wow! What a wonderful night! Actually sleeping with the man I loved. We did stuff when we first went to bed, but the most beautiful part was snuggling up to Peter and going to sleep in his arms. It wasn't even gay stuff. It was just the wonder of being held in strong arms, knowing I was loved by the man who held me. A bit like being in the womb: no worries. And in the morning, apart from us both having a pee, we spent all of it in bed together. Even breakfast... eggs on toast that Peter made and brought us in bed, and we laughed because of the crumbs getting in the bed. Wonderful memories of beautiful times. So many of them. But difficult ones as well, like the time he was ill when I almost fretted myself to death worrying about him.
*****************
I was a big lad by the time I was fifteen, and strong, and we'd almost turned the tables as far as Peter and me were concerned. I was becoming the dominant one. Then Peter had to have an operation on his left lung. He had something called Bronchiectasis, and often had a bad chest and coughed a lot, and they had to operate on him and perform a lobectomy: cutting away part of his left lung. He was a poorly soul when he came out of hospital, and I was the one who looked after him by making him sit up and lean forward while I patted his back to get the sputum up and make sure he took his medicines and Penicillin. I told you that Peter didn't meet my family until I was fifteen. Well, that's when it was... after his operation. I can laugh now thinking about it. He nearly shit himself when mam and my eldest sister Bridie turned up on the doorstep because I'd told them that I wasn't coming home until Peter was better. I was with Peter at the time and I told them to sod off when they knocked on the back door, but they barged in and introduced themselves to Peter while he was lying in his dressing gown on the sofa in the lounge. I'd got a real Mick on that they'd done this to me, but by the time they went just after dinner, we were all friends.
Mam was always a forthright person. If it was to be said... she said it. You got both sides from her: the bad and the good. And just before she and Bridie went home and we were in the kitchen together while Bridie was chatting to Peter in the lounge, she made me hug her and then pushed me away and left her hands on my shoulders and looked right into my eyes. I remember her words to this day: "Seamus, I once told you that you'll marry and have a child and two grandchildren, and you'll be happy, but it will be a man you love who will break your heart. Well that's him in there. He's not one of us, but there's more goodness and spirit in that man than you'll find anywhere. You chose well Seamus, me boy, and from now on, he's one of us." I was just about to tell her to sod off, when she flipped me around the ear, and said, "You don't argue with your mam! Don't worry, once we've got him better then we'll leave you alone, but right now he needs more than a squirt like you to take care of him. Has he lost some weight?"
I nodded weakly. "Yes, about two stone since he began to be poorly."
And that was it. For almost four months she and Bridie looked after him, cooking him proper meals and giving him gypsy herbs and stuff. Mam even put her hands on him and did one of her spiritual things, and then she made him wear one of her charms around his neck that she said she'd blessed herself with holy water from a spring somewhere in Ireland. That's when Patrick got to know him as well. He started coming round with mam. That's why I love my brother Patrick. Not once did he say anything he shouldn't have. In fact, he came and spent a few evenings with me and Peter while he was getting better, and Peter would cuddle us both. Me and Peter never did anything when Patrick was with us, and I was never jealous that he cuddled my brother as well as me, but I did ask Peter if he fancied Patrick. He chuckled and kissed me, and then said that Patrick had got a bottom as cute as mine, but that's where any resemblance stopped. So I worked it out that he would have done stuff to Patrick if I wasn't around, but because I was, Patrick was not even on his radar. It's a good job. I would have strangled the pair of them if they'd double-crossed me. Peter was my man... my dad!
Anyway, mam kept to her word, and once Peter was proper well again, she stopped coming. But she did invite Peter to the caravan. He went, with me. Just the once with me, and I had to farm the dogs out that evening when he came. He was always terrified of gypsy dogs. When we got back (I stayed with him that night) he was over the moon that our caravan was so beautiful. I'd often told him that we didn't live in a pig sty, but I don't think he believed me until he came with me that day. Mam even gave him a Crown Derby paperweight to take home! That was amazing! Mam thought more about her Crown Derby collection than she did of us!
*****************
(Then there was that other troubling time when I was sixteen. That was really sad.)
******************
Franz Schreker the German boy. I was sleeping over and we were watching TV. There was a documentary on about the war. Peter said he didn't want to watch it, but because I was ignorant of what had gone on because he never talked about the war, I insisted on watching it. And it might not have happened then had I not insisted Peter have a couple of extra whiskies because I was feeling randy and he did things to me that he wouldn't normally do if he'd had a couple extra. (I told you I was a randy sod, and at sixteen, for some strange reason, I was into a phase when I liked having Peter's cock up my bottom while he wanked me off. I'd been having it up there since I was thirteen, and we got it part way in when I was twelve. Before that, I'd let Peter wank himself off inside my bum-crack, which he loved doing. I liked it as well. We didn't do anything I didn't like. I told you we did everything.) Anyway, we was just loving each other on the sofa and Peter was a bit tipsy when the documentary film started. Then it got to a part where the German boy soldiers was having to fight because most of the German army was finished. That's when Peter broke down and started to cry... and I don't mean cry! He was heartbroken! Of course, I turned off the TV and tried to console him. In fact I was crying as well... at sixteen! But I was crying because I was feeling guilty. I was the one who insisted we watch the damned thing, so I was responsible for Peter being upset. Then Peter went sort of doolally. He began to drink more whisky. Eventually I had to stop him and he let me take him to bed. When we were in bed, he hugged me so tight I thought he was going to break my ribs. Then it all came out.
He suddenly stopped crying, kissed me really passionately and told me that he was going to tell me something, and that whatever he said, I was always to remember that I was his special boy and that he never loved anybody in the world as much as he loved me. After he said that, nothing would have hurt me. And it didn't hurt me when he told me all about Franz Schreker the German boy.
They always say that you never really know somebody, even if you live with them for a lifetime. Well, that night I discovered more about my beautiful Peter than I'd ever known, and nothing since that night has surprised me about him.
It came out like somebody reading a book. He told me about every detail of that horrible day in his life, and then he told me how he'd contacted the boy's mother and how things had been sorted out. Then he got out of bed and got the photograph of Franz and showed it to me. That's when I cried... again! He was even more beautiful than Peter had described him. In fact, when I saw the picture of him, I had one of those daft thoughts you get in daft situations: I wished he was still alive and was exactly as he was in the photo, because right then I wanted to fuck him and him to fuck me. I didn't tell Peter that, but I did think it. Some things are just strange, and that was one of those strange things in life. But an even stranger thing is that as soon as I saw the photo of Franz, I had a mad crush on him! Crazy, I know, but I'll tell you something even crazier! Sometimes, when I'm fucking Kathleen, even today I fantasize that I'm fucking Franz.
(Anyway, enough of that. I'll tell you what happened next.)
After Peter had finished talking and we'd sort of collected ourselves, I was lying in his arms and I said, "If I could meet that Grice bloke who shot Franz, I'd kill him."
Peter let out a strange giggle. "Too late, my beautiful boy. I blew his brains out not soon after when I knew nobody could pin it on me. We were in another skirmish. He was on my right flank. There were some Germans over that way. I should have been shooting at them. It was easy, and I never felt an ounce of guilt."
I lifted my head and looked into Peter's eyes. "You didn't!"
He winked at me. "I did, and if anyone was to harm a hair on your beautiful head, I'll guarantee that I'd do the same thing again."
And I cried again! At sixteen! Bloody cry-baby! But I cried in the arms of the most beautiful person I've ever met in the world, and if truth be known, if anyone was to harm a hair on my Peter's head, I would do the same. Well, I'd get some Pikeys to do it and then feed whoever harmed Peter to the pigs.
******************
Frankfurt. Germany. February 14th 1975. The thirtieth anniversary of Franz's death.
Peter and I stood holding hands as we looked down at the wreath we'd laid on the grave of Franz Schreker... the boy we both loved. (Yes, that crush I first had for Franz, turned into love over time.) And then we walked away linking arms with our heads resting against each other. Strangely, there were no tears. It wouldn't have been right to cry after we'd both been spiritually connected with Franz. We were connected because we'd buried one of mam's charms that she said she'd blessed herself with holy water from a spring somewhere in Ireland and told us to bury with Franz because his spirit would never leave us afterwards. WE. US. How did she know? I never breathed a word to any soul on earth about how I felt about Franz; not even to Peter, and certainly not to mam! Crazy woman!
*****************
Back to October 25th 2005.
Ramsbottom. Familiar sights. Home. Gypsy boy comes him. They say that home is where the heart is, and my heart has always been in this small town. I love the house where I live now, and I love all my family who live `down there', but a big part of me will never leave this place. It's changed little since the old days. Springfields has long gone: a supermarket on the place where our caravans once stood and the dogs barked and Sally the cross-bred Welsh Cob that I did the scrap with chewed her hay in the stable between our caravans. I don't even bother going there. Instead, I cruise the old haunts. Back Lane. (Chuckle.) Vivian. Oh my God! Vivian! What a pervert she was, but I can still see her big tits and feel her tonguing my bottom out. I was ten and she was twenty two, so that means she'll be sixty-seven if she's still alive. (Laugh.) I'll bet she'd still tongue me out if I met her again. That would be fun. But I need to go home before I go to see Peter in the nursing home.
I've got a key. Home. It's in good order. While Peter has been in the nursing home, I've spent some time here (sometimes on my own and sometimes with Kathleen) keeping the place tidy, and I've hired an old bloke (Mr Simms) as a gardener, and his wife keeps the inside clean and fresh.
The old familiar smells; the same pine table and chairs in the kitchen; the posh three piece suite I bought for Peter. (I had a battle and half to get him to let me throw the old one out because all the springs had gone and the fabric was worn out.) There are logs stacked up by the fireplace, so I get some kindling and light a fire, and when it's blazing, I put two very large logs on because I may need the place warm for later if what might happen, happens. And then I put the brass fireguard around it to stop any sparks doing any damage. I love this place, and because I do, my heart is heavy as I wander around looking at the many photographs in silver frames of me growing up and some of when I was married to Kathleen, and of my daughter Megan, and my grandson Jack. I run a finger over the Georgian mahogany dresser and notice that Mrs Simms has done a good job of polishing it and the rest the mahogany furniture that used to reflect the sun and make the place look fabulously homely when we played I-spy and had fun.
The Dansette record player has long gone, but Peter bought a mahogany radiogram to replace it. It's one of those where you stack the records underneath, so I search through them and select a song I used to like when I was little, and put it on. I loved Peter's classical music, but he let me buy some songs I liked and we would listen to them sometimes. The one I put on is Paul Anka singing Lonely Boy. (Hyperlink.) Tears now, running down my cheeks. While it's playing and I'm crying, I come across them. I know why these two records are together.
********************
Running Scared. (Hyperlink to the song.)
It was 1963. I was thirteen. For some strange reason I went through a silly phase of being jealous of another boy replacing me. And the more I thought about it the worse it got. After all, I didn't think I was that good-looking, and there were lots of prettier boys than me about, so why shouldn't Peter fall for another boy? He loved boys, so why was I unique! Anyway, I was just a bloody Pikey!
Peter sensed that there was something wrong with me, but I wouldn't tell him why I was moody much of the time. It even got to the point where he asked me if I didn't love him anymore. But I just couldn't talk about it. Then things began to get difficult between us and I could see that Peter was really upset. I wondered what to do. Then I thought of an idea... I could explain it through music. So I went to a record shop and bought a record: Roy Orbison – Running Scared. It said everything I was thinking. I knew all the words because I used to sing it when we were out with Sally-the-horse, swapping balloons and goldfish for scrap metal and rags.
We'd had dinner and I'd had a bath and was sitting next to him on the sofa. I was quiet. Again he asked me if I'd stopped loving him. I looked into his eyes and started crying. That made him think that I had stopped loving him and that I was going to tell him that it was over. Tears were running down his cheeks. So I got up and took the record out of my bag and put it on the player. Before it could start, I went quickly back to the sofa and threw myself into Peter's arms and clung to him like a leech.
Just runnin' scared,
each place we go
So afraid that he might show.
Yeah, runnin' scared, what would I do
If he came back and wanted you?
Just runnin' scared,
feelin' low
Runnin' scared, you love him so.
Just runnin' scared, afraid to lose
If he came back which one would you choose?
When the song was over, Peter was quite rough with me and pushed me away and stared right into my eyes. He asked me why I'd played that particular song. I was blubbering like a girl when I told him. He was mortified and pulled me into his lap and crushed me to him. We both cried for ages. Then Peter pushed me off him, went to his records, selected one, put it on, and came and pulled me onto his knee again and crushed me to him.
*********************
I'll Walk Beside You. (Hyperlink to the song.)
I'll walk beside you through the world today
While dreams and songs and flowers bless your way
I'll look into your eyes and hold your hand
I'll walk beside you through the golden land
I'll walk beside you through the world tonight
Beneath the starry skies ablaze with light
And in your heart loves's tender words I'll hide
I'll walk beside you through the eventide
I'll walk beside you through the passing years
Through days of cloud and sunshine, joy and tears
And when the great call comes, though sunset gleams
I'll walk beside you through the land of dreams.
Even more tears then, from both of us as Tony Newley sang the song I'll Walk Beside You Peter had selected for me. Afterwards he made me promise that I would never bring the subject up again, and that he could never love anybody as much as he loved me and that looking at any other boys was just something he never did now he had me. I felt ashamed that I had doubted him, but I learned a couple of good lessons from that episode in our lives: I trusted him completely after that, and it taught me that jealousy is a horrible thing. But even bad things can have a positive side. That night Peter gave me so much loving that I was completely knackered and utterly satiated with his loving by the time I fell asleep in his arms. It's good sometimes to get through problems when you think they're insurmountable.
***********************
So I look at both records and put them back. The first one I'll never play again, but Peter's choice will be played at his funeral and I don't care what anybody says.
Our bedroom. That's when the tears really come. At fifty five! Cry-baby! But why not? In this room I was loved more than any time in my life by the most beautiful person who ever lived. The sex is immaterial: love is what matters, and in this room I lay as a boy in the arms of a man who loved me. This is where I returned to the safety of the womb. In here, nothing could ever harm me. Until now that is. "Seamus, me lovely boy, you'll marry and have a child and two grandchildren, and you'll be happy, but it will be a man you love who will break your heart." It's time for a broken heart, in this room. It can only happen here. Nowhere else on earth will be a suitable place for it to be broken. But first I need to get Peter home. It might be today, that's why I've lit the fire and switched on the heating. Time to bring Peter home.
*****************
At the nursing home.
"He's asleep in his bed. Having a nap after lunch. He's fading fast, Seamus."
"How long, Matron?"
She shrugs her shoulders. "How long is a piece of string?"
I smile at her. "Long enough for me to take him home and care for him for a short while?"
She smiles back at me. "Do you want me to make the arrangements for today?"
I nod. "I've switched the heating on and lit the fire and brought a few things with me. I can look after him, but I'm not going to wipe his arse."
She giggles. "You men! You're useless! Do you want day and night care?"
"Does he need help at night?"
"Not usually. We've a job to wake him up these days. He's got a catheter in so he won't pee the bed. He's eating very little, so an incontinence pad will look after the other just in case, but up to yet he's needed very little care that way. How about I get somebody in during daytime, and make the last call about ten at night? The doctor will call every day, so you needn't worry that way."
"Every day? How long for Christ's sake?"
"Maybe a week. Maybe less. The doctor's surprised he's lasted this long. What is it with October 25th? He's been asking all week when the 25th was."
I smile at her. "We first met on October 25th."
She chuckles. "Ahhhh... that explains it. The old bugger was insistent after we'd bathed him last night that even if he was dead we were to wake him up on the 25th."
I laugh. "I'll go and see him then before he pops his clogs."
********************
My Peter Powell. He looks like death warmed up, but he still has a good head of hair. Silver it is now, and soft as I stroke it from his forehead to kiss him. And then I get a chair to sit by his beside and pull his hand from under the bedclothes so I can hold it. At least he's breathing okay and there's no sign of the death rattle in his throat. Good lad, Peter. I don't want you popping your clogs until I get you home. I'm not breaking my bloody heart in this place!
******************
Going back home.
"You're going to have to hold the fort for longer than I thought, Patrick. Peter's on his last legs and there's no way I'm leaving him until it's over."
"No problem Seamus. You do what you have to do. I've played merry hell with the Germans and managed to persuade them to get that part on a plane today, and somebody will be at the airport to pick it up as soon as it clears customs. I'll have the lads working tonight and we'll be rolling by the morning."
"Good lad. I'll end this call now. I need to phone Kathleen. I'll see you whenever."
When I break the call, I think how lucky I am that I have my brother Patrick. Next to me, he's the most efficient in our family, and we make a great twosome. Part of the reason for that is because now we've grown up, we never fall out.
******************
"I'm staying, sweetheart. He's worse than I thought. We're taking him back home in about half an hour. I want him to be at home."
"Do you want me to come up to you? I can get Megan to look after things here."
I expected Kathleen to ask that, and I'm prepared for it. "If you would please. I'll need you sweetheart. Bring a few stayover things with you. It could be in an hour or it could be three or four days."
I can tell she's crying when she says, "I understand. I'll see you later this evening. Give Peter a big kiss for me."
Despite everything, I giggle when I say, "It'll have to be me! He won't have no woman kissing him!"
She giggles through her tears. "Only boys, eh."
"Boy! Singular!"
Another giggle. "That's what I meant."
****************
Kathleen O'Brien that was.
I love my woman. Always have, ever since she set my heart on fire with her blazing eyes and jet-black hair and lovely body and big tits the day I met her properly at Appleby Horse Fair when I was eighteen. (I'd known her since I was a nipper, but I was eighteen when I really fell for her.) One door closes, another one opens. The sex part with me and Peter was over. It died a mutually shared natural death and was replaced with something else: a life of sharing normal things like going to concerts together and eating out and buying clothes and cars. And when I met Kathleen and told Peter how I felt about her, he was over the moon about it. That's when he became a proper father to me. He was at the wedding when I was twenty, but as always where family matters were concerned... in the background enjoying watching me being happy. He cried when he first cuddled our daughter Megan, and he's always doted on her, just as he has his grandson, Jack.
But before he became a grandfather, he showed the true measure of his love for me... when I was forty years old and Peter was the reason I became so successful.
******************
The key to success.
The family had bought a five acre scrap yard in Manchester about five years earlier. It took every bit of brass we had. It was doing okay, but I knew it could be more profitable. Because Peter and I discussed everything, he knew all my thoughts and goings on. I'd talked with him about getting a magnetic fragmentation plant to boost business. I knew Peter was reasonably well-off, but I never asked him about his money. But I soon found out when he knew what I wanted. He did his homework while I was thinking about it, and one day when I turned up at home, he told me to go ahead and sort things. He didn't have enough brass to buy it outright, but he told me he had enough for me to negotiate a deal so I could go to the bank and get the rest of the brass, and I could use him as surety. At first I wouldn't take his money, but then he wore me down by saying it was a loan no different than I would get from a bank. So I went ahead and bought it and had it constructed. We played a fine line for a year, but then it began to really pay off when those who wanted clean, sorted metal contacted me, and over time I repaid Peter every penny he loaned me, including interest. (Now, it's made me one of the richest Pikeys in the land.) It was only after I'd paid him back that I found out that he'd re-mortgaged our home to get me the money. So, because of a man who loved a boy, Seamus Quinn Metals (1990) Manchester Ltd is 75% owned by me, 10% owned by Patrick, and the rest by my original family. And very soon I'll be owning our home. But I'll never part with our home. Me and Peter made plans for it.
******************
Back home at Beech House. (A private ambulance has brought Peter home.)
"What date is it?"
"It's the 25th of October, Peter."
Peter tries to smile. "Thank you Seamus. I love you my boy."
I lean over the bed and kiss him softly on the forehead. "And I love you, old man."
"And we're back home?"
"Yes. And I'm never going to leave you."
"What date is it?"
I chuckle. "It's the 25th of October, Peter, our 44th anniversary, and to prove it I've got a cake here that says so. Kathleen baked it for us."
Peter strokes my cheek with his frail fingers. "I love you. Pass me my false teeth and we'll have some cake. Where's Franz?"
"He's in the wardrobe."
"Get him out then! We'll all have a piece of cake. We've got a lot to celebrate."
I giggle. "Okay... let's have a party."
To be continued...
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