This is a work of fiction. Names of characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously; any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locations is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2011 by Dennis Milholland – All rights reserved. Other than for private, not-for-profit use, no part of this work may be reproduced, transmitted or stored in any form or by any means, other than that intended by the author, without written permission from the copyright holder.

 

Careful! This is a work of fiction containing graphic descriptions of sex between males and critiques of religion and governments.

 

Love It or Leave It

by Dennis Milholland

questions and comments are welcome. www.milholland.eu / dennis@milholland.eu

 

Forty-one

(Monday, October 17th)

Hell, yes, I’m nervous. But let’s just get it fuckin’ over with.” Marty’s voice is louder and more aggressive than I’ve ever heard it. "And what if they nab you? You'll be on American territory inside the embassy building.” He goes back to the breakfast table and grabs one of the cigarettes from the pack of Rothman’s I’d left there last night. He sits and lights it.

Dad has his really obstinate look plastered onto his face, pacing back and forth. “They wouldn’t dare.”

I think they would, Dad.” I add, putting my elbows on the table to lean on for emphasis, clearly taking Marty’s side in the early-morning dispute.

And if they do?” Marty exhales with force. “What're ya gonna do then? Have the place blown up?

I'm Irish." Seph sneers. "I can have it arranged."

Tell you what, Dad.” Raph is about to cut a deal, walking right up to him. “The Yanks are most definitely looking for you. And they’re probably looking for Dan. But they aren’t after Marty and me. I’ll go with Marty, while he renounces his citizenship.” And then my Raphaël leans down somewhat to get directly into his face. “None of us came all this way for you to end up in front of some American firing squad.”

To judge by Seph’s reaction, I would imagine that Raph looks just like his father. Be that as it may, Seph kisses his cheek lightly and relents.

Thank god.” Marty exclaims in relief.

And which god would that be?” I quip and get three nasty glares.

All right,” Seph is still glaring at me. “we all travel to London together, and Dan and I will wait for yus in the next pub, while the two a yus dodge the claws of the feckin’ bald-arsed eagle by yerselves. Somehow, I feel like a fugitive from justice.”

The three of us look at him in surprise and announce virtually in unison: “You are!”

I think that this finally brings it home to him. He has to let it go. He’s not in control this time. Marty has to do this on his own. Seph would be in real danger, if he were to walk into the US Embassy. And for once, he has to deal with not being able to help.

When there’s a knock, all of us turn to see Keith standing at the French doors. “May I come in?”

Of course you may, Lad.” Seph motions for him to enter. “This is your home, as well. If the doors are open, just walk in.”

Keith nods that he understands and takes the empty seat next to Marty. Seph walks behind him on his way to get the pot of tea and ruffles his hair in passing. "Ya really like our Martin, do ya not?"

Keith nods, “He makes me feel safe.” the statement is matter of fact, but the look he gives Marty is pure hero worship.

Raph agrees. “He’s our bodyguard.”

Thought that he’s your brother.” Keith doesn’t seem confused; he’s only setting the record straight.

Yeah, he is that too." Raph acknowledges.

Keith stares at the table top in front of him. “Wish I had a brother.”

Dad arrives with the tea, which, to judge by the smell, could have some of Bob’s dope in it. He sets it down next to the pitcher of milk and raises his hands. “By the power not invested in me by the feckin’ Pope, I pronounce the lot a yus brothers. Will that do?"

Keith laughs. “Sure. May I now call you ‘Dad’?”

Of course, Son.” Seph pours the tea. “But what about Jean-Luc?”

He told me that I’m no son of his, if I decide to be a poof and stop going to mass.” Keith sighs and stares at the table top again.

Keith, look at me.” Seph props himself on the table, resting on the knuckles of both hands, and Keith looks up. “You now live here. This is your home, and we are your family. And here, you can be anything you want.” Seph straightens up. “Do you understand?”

Keith gives us his sweet grin. “Yes, Dad.”

And going to mass is a total waste of time.” Again everyone, except for Keith, looks at me, as if I’d farted. “Look, if any of you can prove to me beyond the shadow of a doubt, that a god exists, I’ll convert on the spot. But anything less than absolute proof is unacceptable.”

Are you an atheist?” Keith is still grinning.

Absolutely.” I return the grin.

Bertrand Russell and Jean-Paul Sartre make so much sense, don’t they?” I nod, and Keith underscores what he is saying by batting his long lashes at me. “Anyway, when my parents wanted me to talk to the parish priest about not believing, he tried to bugger me."

To bugger?” Marty looks at Seph for an answer.

« Il voulait l’enculer. » Whoa! First, Seph’s odd Irish school accent is gone. He said that as would a native speaker. And secondly, the parish priest tried to fuck Keith in the ass.

And what did you do?” Seph wants to know.

Kicked his balls and ran away.” Keith is looking at Marty.

So, naturally, Marty feels called upon to ask the next logical question. “Did you tell your folks?”

I did.” Tears are now starting to flow down his young cheeks. “And they accused me of making it up.”

I get Seph’s attention and tap my watch to indicate that we have to get going. He nods. “Are ya doin’ anythin’ special today, Son?” He addresses Keith as ‘Son’, which certainly brightens the kid’s day.

Nothing, except for school.

D’ya feel like bein’ truant and comin’ to London with us?” You would have thought that Dad had just offered him a vacation on the Riviera.

Keith can hardly catch his breath. “But we’ll have to have Doris phone the school to tell them that I won’t be in.”

The phone is under the stairs, but do hurry.” Seph takes the tea cups to the kitchen and Marty rinses them in the sink. Raph and I get our jackets, while Keith calls his sister, upstairs.

He comes round the column supporting the ceiling. “She says that she hopes you do realise that contributing to the delinquency of a minor is frowned upon in this country.” He laughs. “But she also said to have a good time.”

So, she’s okay with your skipping school?” Marty puts his arm around Keith’s shoulder.

She seems to be.” He cuddles closer to Marty. “Why are we going to London?”

So that I can renounce my American citizenship.” He wheezes slightly for the first time in a long while. The concern in Seph’s face is substantial.

I move in on the other side of Marty. “You okay, Big Brother?”

I will be, once all this shit is over. Let’s get goin’.”

Can you call a cab, Keith?” Seph is pulling on a baggy tweed jacket with patches at the elbows, which I’ve never seen. He obviously not only had a double life, but two wardrobes to match. That is, with the exception of his old Athletics' baseball cap. Oddly, it goes well with the tweed jacket.

Keith walks calmly to the phone and does exactly that. “She said that it’ll be here in about three minutes. I told them to come to the Bristol Place entrance.”

Seph is just locking the door in the high wall at the end of the garden as the taxi arrives. We all fit comfortably into the large black cab, three on the seat and Raph and I on jump seats, travelling backwards. “What would Bob say about this taxi?” I’m addressing no one in particular.

Raph and Marty together: “This is the way it should be.”

We arrive at Brighton Station with plenty of time to spare, and Seph seems to be remembering times past. Readjusting to living here may prove to be hard on him. But for Raph and me, it's a lark. Brighton Station is a really olde-worlde camp iron structure. And Keith tells Seph that he already has a ticket.

You were plannin’ on comin’ with us all along, were you not?” Seph teases.

Keith, for the first time, that I’ve seen, turns bright red. “Uhm, no, not really. It’s the yearly pass from when I was living at my parents’ house and commuting from London to Brighton to attend school.”

Are you going to a public school?” Marty wants to know.

And again Seph to the rescue. “Uh, Keith, what Martin means is a publicly funded school. You’re going to Kemptown College, are you not?”

Yes.” He looks somewhat confused.

So, what you have to tell Martin is no, you are going to a private school.” Seph seems exhausted. “I’m off to get the tickets. Shall be back in a mo.”

Mo?” Marty's confusion is multiplying.

Moment.” I translate and Keith laughs. So, I explain the problem to him: “Marty understood something else; Mo. is the abbreviation for the state of Missouri, where we were born.”

Did you ever consider being a translator?” Keith appears serious. “Doris told me that you and Yves-Raphaël grew up bilingually.” He is serious. “And since Britain is joining the Common Market, you would never be out of work.”

I shake my head. “Raph and I have to finish school, first. How is the school you go to?”

Best in the country.” He then whispers. “But don’t let anyone from Eton or Harrow know about that.” He then looks fondly at Marty, “And you also speak French, I believe.” and his voice cracks and becomes louder than intended. “Or at least, you understood enculer more readily than bugger.”

Two older women and a priest, standing within earshot, turn toward us. “Well, I never.” is the comment of one.

I’d bet they have, or they wouldn’t be in the company of a priest.” Keith chuckles to himself.

Both Marty and Raph are blushing, when Seph returns with the tickets. “Now, what are yus like? Can’t leave yus alone for five feckin' minutes.”

At this, the priest comes over to complain about our collectively bad language. “Would the gentlemen please refrain from profanity? There are ladies present.”

Would the gentleman in black please mind his own fucking business? If you don't like it, move yer paedophile arse along with yer upset ladies down the god-damned platform.” Seph growls. Then he adds for good measure. “Now, ya wanker.” Upon which, they move.

I don’t believe it.” Keith is impressed. “You actually told off a priest.”

Naw, Son, I was talkin’ to a wee fecker in a black dress, who thinks he has a moral right to correct our use of language.” Seph grins devilishly. “I also once slugged a feckin’ nun, when I was in first form back in Dublin. You can ask yer Auntie Françoise about that episode. We both had to leave and go to a protestant school.” Then he looks saddened. “That’s where I met George.”

Marty takes his lover into a hug. "Let's get on the train, before it leaves without us.” He squeezes Dad’s shoulder. “Sorry about this mornin’, Joseph."

Ah, yer grand, Son. T’was me own fault fer bein’ so feckin’ bull-headed.”

We are somewhere between Gatwick and London, when Keith wants to see Marty’s American passport. He muses at the stamps from South Vietnam, Thailand, Japan, and of course, the re-entry stamp into the United States next to his picture. “It says here that your name is Martin Bennett. When Uncle Seph adopted you, did you change your name?”

Marty only smiles and hands him his laissez-passer. Keith examines it very carefully. He has more than likely seen a British passport, possibly even holds one himself. But considering the amount of attention he is paying to every detail, this is the first document of this type he has ever encountered. He opens the page. “My word! That is a change. Martin George Mortimer Maurice Mongrain-Bourke. And you were born in Lebanon?” He reopens the American passport. “Here, it says you were born in Missouri, USA.”

By this time, the rest of us are trying not to laugh. He sees us and snickers. “Is there a place called Lebanon, Missouri?”

Marty nods, not being able to hold back his laughter any longer. “They also have a Paris, Versailles and East Looney to choose from.”

Damn,” Seph releases a long, hissing sigh. “am I happy to be out of there.”

And as fate would have it, the discussion of who is likely to be on the United States' most wanted list rekindles. For some reason, Dad thinks that Raph could be involved, since Maurice was shot for political reasons. This seems to persuade Keith to volunteer. “They don’t know me from Adam. So, I’ll go with Martin.”

He’s right.” Marty agrees. “Besides, he’s much too young to be hanging around with you guys in a beer joint, anyway.”

Beer joint?” Keith looks at me.

But before I can say ‘tavern’, Dad translates it as ‘public house’.

The British Rail journey to London’s Victoria Station isn’t really as flash as you see in the movies. The backs of the houses along the tracks are a uniform dark greyish brown from locomotives’ coal smoke, since not all trains serving Victoria are electric.

Victoria Station is crowded with commuters coming up from the South. It vaguely resembles Brighton Station only much larger. We follow Seph to the taxi rank to the front of the station. We get into the cab and Dad tells the driver to drive to Grosvenor Square at the corner of North Audley Street.

The taxi takes off and negotiates traffic knowingly making a right-hand turn. About two hundred yards into the trip, Seph leans forward and knocks on the dividing window. The driver slides the glass panel open.

Without letting the cabbie say anything, Dad growls in public-school English: “You are presently travelling east on Victoria Street.” And I somehow recognise, since this manner of speech seems more spontaneous and natural, that his Irish intonation is possibly a thing of the past.

Right so, Guv.”

You should have turned left on Victoria Street and be driving north on Grosvenor Road by now.” Dad’s tone does not allow for descent.

Thought you’d like to see a bit of London. They’re changing the guard right about now.” The driver tries for Cockney amiability.

If you do not turn this vehicle round and immediately head for Mayfair, I’ll break your fucking neck.” Seph hisses. “Do you understand?”

As the man complies with Seph’s demands, although he doesn’t say anything, he does close the sliding glass panel and latch it. Unsurprisingly, he keeps an attentive eye on us.

As we pass to the side of Victoria Station and along Grosvenor Gardens, Seph points out a large building. “That’s where the Yank Embassy used to be. We could have walked without having to contend with this gobshite.” He nods towards the driver.

Moments later, driving alongside a long, high wall on the right, Seph, our disgruntled tour guide points to the wall. "The arse end of Buckingham Palace." And when the driver glances back at us, Dad snarls: "Just showing 'em a bit of London, Mate."

Keith is enjoying this. He is silently giggling with tears streaming down his face. Marty is watching Keith and enjoying his levity. Raph is looking out the side window in the direction whence we came. After all, we are travelling backwards on the two jump seats.

The route is seriously uneventful, and after a stretch of leafy Park Lane, at least, that’s what the signs call it, the taxi driver turns right onto South Brook Street. He keeps to the extreme left and, after two blocks, stops. Slowly, I’m becoming used to getting out next to the curb on the left. And now, I’m curious as to how Dad is going to deal with the driver, who is staunchly demanding a guinea.

Since you were arsing us about at the station,” From his dark-brown leather briefcase, Seph pulls out the sack of coins he had in Brighton, which contains the shilling pieces for the meter. “I will give you exactly eighteen shillings, and you can thank your lucky stars that you are still able to breathe.” He then proceeds to count out eighteen one shilling coins with a facial expression, which dares the driver to utter one word.

That done, the driver speeds off, offering us a two-finger salute, which is basically the same as flashing someone the bird in North America. Dad laughs at him and turns to us.

Didn’t you see?” Keith is surprised that Seph hasn’t reacted more aggressively. “He showed you two fingers.”

That he did, Laddie.” Seph seems very content with himself. “But he will soon discover that eight of the shiny, new shilling pieces I gave him are in fact shiny, new French Francs."

Seph’s mood becomes more sombre, and he takes hold of Marty’s elbow. “Got everything, Martin?” Marty nods. “Good luck, then.” As he turns to Keith, moisture is building in his eyes. “Do you see the first red-brick building at the next corner on the left?” He’s pointing down North Audley Street, and Keith nods that he does. “It’s called North Audley House. We’ll be waiting for you in the snug in the lounge rather than in the public bar. Please, watch Martin’s back, Son. He’s irreplaceable.” Seph turns and walks off down the street before his emotions finally do catch up with him.

Raph and I stand and watch Marty and Keith cross the street and proceed along the west edge of Grosvenor Square and enter the veritably abominable stressed-concrete and glass building that the United States’ government deemed appropriate to plop down amongst established, old, brick and stone Mayfair residences.

We trot to catch up with Seph as he’s entering the lounge bar through the left door of the pub. It’s virtually empty as opposed to the public bar, which is behind the ornate glass-and-wood partition. He opens the frosted-glass door of the snug he’d reserved by telephone yesterday from home, hangs his well worn, once-black baseball cap on the spike and takes a seat at the round table that will accommodate us all comfortably, as soon as Keith and Marty arrive.

Raph closes the door and looks at the possibly six-foot, carved-wood-and-cut-frosted-glass partition, aged with generations of smoke, which subdivides our table from the partitioned-off lounge, and which prevents anyone from seeing who is in here and what they’re doing, that is except for the proprietress, who has access from behind the bar. Then, with one cocked eyebrow, he grins. "Now, we know what a snug is."

You’re Mr. Mongrain-Bourke from Brighton?” she smiles at Dad through layers of too-pale make-up while balancing an immaculately teased, sprayed and stacked beehive hairdo that runs risk of getting caught in the ceiling fans.

I am.” He returns the smile. “We’ll have drinks while we wait for the others before ordering lunch.”

What would you like, Sir?”

Seph flinches at the title but tries to ignore it. “Three fingers of single-malt Scotch.”

Our preferred ones are Aberlour, Glenfiddich, Glen Albyn, a single Highland malt, and Clynelish, which is heavily peated, Islay-style malt, personally my favourite.”

Then, Clynelish it shall be.” He chuckles. “Just out of curiosity, is it also the dearest?”

I wouldn’t be drinking it, if it were, now would I?” She winks at him in good humour and looks at me still smiling.

I decide to go for it, to see if I can pass for old enough to drink, having no idea what the drinking age is in England. So, out comes my Algernon Moncrieff accent, and I repeat what I once heard Richard order: "A G and T with a twist of lime, please."

Bombay or Beefeaters?”

Now, really being out of my depths and not having the slightest clue as to what she is asking, I go for the exotic. “Bombay, please.”

Very well.” She smiles at Yves-Raphaël. “And you, Sir?”

A pint of cider, please.”

Sorry.” Here it comes. She’s caught him for being underage. Blood is slowly rising in Raph’s face. But unexpectedly she explains: “We had a run on our cider stock at the weekend. Would a bottle of Gwynt y Ddraig Perry be all right?”

Absolutely.” Raph agrees, smiling nobly. And I’m sure that he would agree to anything as long as it doesn’t involve showing an ID.

What is the matter?" Seph looks suspicious. “What are the evil twins up to now?”

I whisper across the table. “I thought she was going to ask for an ID?”

Whatever for?” Seph is starting to see the joke.

Raph is trying to control his voice along with laughs. "Have you forgotten that we're not twenty-one?"

Relax.” Dad is shaking his head. "You're not registering to vote. We're having a drink."

I decide not to whisper any longer. "And what is the drinking age in England?"

The proprietress overhears my question. "The last I heard it was five." Then, responding to our dumb-struck faces, she clarifies. “In order to drink alcohol in the presence of a parent in private, you must be at least five years of age. Would you like the G&T with ice?”

Yes, please.” I’m still dumbstruck.

She doesn’t ask Dad, since absolutely no one drinks single malt uisce beatha with ice. But she does ask Raph, who again blushes and shrugs. She then realises that he has no idea what he ordered. “Our normal cider, Scrumpy Jack, which is made from apples, is sold out. What we’ve got for you is perry. It’s a Welsh cider made from pears, which, personally, I prefer.”

And if she prefers it, it must be good.” Seph looks at her and raises his glass. “The recommended whiskey is flawless. Thank you. Would you like one yourself?”

Ta, but no.” She gives Raph his perry with a few ice cubes. “I have to get through lunch. But maybe another time, though.” There is a knock on the door to the snug. “Are you expecting two gentlemen?”

We are.” Seph answers and opens the door. Keith and Marty are smiling broadly. "Do come in. Something obviously went well.”

Keith points to Raph’s bottle of perry and gives the proprietress the thumbs up. He takes off his blazer and hangs it on the peg next to Dad’s baseball cap, then proceeds to roll up his sleeves.

What are you drinking, Martin?” Seph asks while the proprietress waits.

Whatever you’re having.” She acknowledges with a wink and walks off. “They said it will be final in a month or so. But I took the oath today.”

Oath?” I’m confused. Raph shrugs.

Ya have to swear an oath to renounce your citizenship.” Marty sneers. “Here’s the carbon copy.” He hands me the copy of a cheaply mimeographed form filled in with a typewriter using carbon paper.

I look in total disbelief at this important document, which is on a tacky piece of wood-pulp paper. “’OATH OF RENUNCIATION OF THE NATIONALITY OF THE UNITED STATES, (This form has been prescribed by the Secretary of State pursuant to Section 349(a)(6) of the Immigration and Nationality Act, 66 Stat. 268.) Embassy of the United States of America at London, United Kingdom of Great Britain, ss: I, Martin Bennett, known also as Martin George Mortimer Maurice Mongrain-Bourke, a national of the United States, solemnly swear that I was born at (Town or city) Lebanon (Province or county) Laclede (State or country) Missouri on January 17, 1943’” I look up and glance at both Seph and Marty in surprise. “You have the same birthday?” Neither responds.

So, I get back to the ratty piece of paper. “’That I am a national of the United States by virtue of my birth in the United States. That I desire to make a formal renunciation of my American nationality as provided by Section 349(a)(6) of the Immigration and Nationality Act and pursuant thereto I hereby absolutely and entirely renounce my United States nationality together with all rights and privileges and all duties of allegiance and fidelity thereunto pertaining.’ Marty’s Signature. Wow, your signature takes up two lines. And then it reads: ‘Subscribed and sworn to before me this 17th day of October 1966 in the American Embassy at London, UK.’ This makes me want to walk right over there and do the same.”

The proprietress arrives with Keith’s perry and Marty’s whiskey. Marty nods his thanks. “You can. I asked if you have to wait until you’re twenty one and the Consular Officer said that you don’t.”

Marty takes a nip and smiles approval. “Also, the advantage of doing that now, is that you don’t have to register for the draft, if you don’t go back. But if you’re still a dual national when you turn eighteen, you have to register at this Embassy or wherever you're living on the birthday.”

But Raph and I don’t have an American passport.” I look at Seph for help.

Use your UK passport to establish your place of birth.” Seph speaks forcefully. “If I were you, I’d go over there right now. Both of you. Do you want to have lunch first?”

No, I’m like Marty.” Raph also becomes unusually assertive. “I want to get this shit over with.”

We’ll be back.” are my last words before my heart starts to race and my head goes light. It's as if I’d smoked three joints. But it could also be from the G and T and nicotine withdrawal. I fish for my cigarettes and remember that they are on Seph’s dining table in Brighton. I think Algernon’s voice is appropriate for the request. “Sorry, Joseph, but could I have a quid or ten bob to buy some fags?”

Totally taken aback by my request, Seph opens his wallet and gives me a one-pound and a ten-shilling note without as much as asking why. “Be back shortly.”

We leave the pub and it’s not quite lunchtime, so we hurry to the embassy before it closes. We arrive at the Consular Section and luckily no one is waiting.

May I help you?” The man posing the question is not very much older than Raph and me. He seems pleasant but tired.

We would like to renounce American citizenship.” Raph tells him in no uncertain terms.

May I see your passports?” And his brow knits, when we produce our British passports. “I meant your American ones.”

We’ve never had one." My response is just as assertive.

He opens them and registers the place of birth. “I suppose we can use these to establish dual nationality. Is the Kansas City listed here, Missouri or Kansas?”

Missouri for both of us.” Algernon doesn’t want to go away.

He takes our passports back to a typist, who feeds sheets of paper, presumably the forms, sandwiched with carbon paper, into the typewriter. The young man looks up. "You may take a seat."

In less than five minutes, he has our passports and the stencilled forms on pulp paper. “Since you have not reached the age of majority, you have to convince me that you fully understand the nature and consequences of the oath of renunciation, that you are not being subjected to duress or undue influence, and you are voluntarily seeking to renounce your US citizenship.”

Raph turns dark rosewood red and looking in disgust at this very fair Caucasian who cannot understand that not everyone is allowed to participate in the American dream, and who is demanding to be convinced that we don’t want to. “Neither of us has ever voted in your country. Neither of us has ever drawn welfare in your country. Neither of us has ever required your country’s passport. Neither of us would ask your country for the time of day much less for any assistance. And neither of us wants a bullet through the head in your absolutely asinine war in Southeast Asia. Convinced?”

Couldn’t have said it better myself. The young man glares at Yves-Raphaël, who has a French name anyway, and whom the young man, in all probability, considers an uppity trouble maker. He returns to the typist's desk, takes a rubber stamp and demonstratively, very loudly slams a stamp into each of our passports on just about page five.

Very well,” He is exaggerating his accommodating tone. “I’ve revoked your dependent’s visas. You will have to reapply, should you want to return. You may, however, before or within a month of becoming twenty-one, have your United States nationality reinstated. Please, sign here.” We do as we’re told. No raising the right hand, less ceremony than at a pauper’s funeral. "To which address do you wish to have the approval sent, Mr. Mongrain-Bourke?

Raph states clearly: “Bourke House, Sussex Square, Royal Borough of Brighton.”

The young, rosy-complexioned man in his dark grey, mod, double-knit suit looks impressed but also somewhat sad. I wonder how many times each day he has to witness people who want nothing more to do with the country he represents. He returns our passports and hands us a carbon copy each; it’s just like Marty’s, and we are out of the building within fifteen minutes of arrival.

« Je suis très fier de la façon dont tu lui as dit ce que nous pensons de son pays, mon amant. » I give Raph a strong, albeit a one-armed hug, since the presence of American military inside and of civilian London police outside the building is intimidating, but I want him to feel how proud I am of him for how he told the consular officer what we think.

When we arrive back at the snug, everyone, particularly Seph, looks amazed. “Did they turn you away?”

We shake our heads with broad grins, as we hand him our respective Oath of Renunciation of the Nationality of the United States, and I relate what Raph told the man.

Seph winks at me but addresses Raph. “Sounds as if Dan has had a bad influence on you, after all.” He then files the papers into his well-worn leather satchel.

I’ve never seen that briefcase before.” I nod at the bag he has on his knees.

It never crossed the Atlantic, Lad.” His once permanently tensed facial features have begun to relax, and he's slowly reverting to being less of a full-fledged Celtic macho. “T’was my sheet-music bag, when I was at the Royal College of Music.” His eyes become moist. “George bought it for me at a saddlery in Knightsbridge.”

Marty leans in to draw his partner closer and kisses the side of his head just above the right ear. Keith is taking this all in. “Now,” Seph sighs. “it collects court orders, name changes, adoption papers, renunciations of nationality and passport applications, or the verifications thereof.”

The proprietress appears in a flowery-frilly, bibbed, nylon apron, which hides her miniskirt. Someone must have climbed on a ladder to get it over her beehive hairdo. “Ready for lunch?”

Seph latches his bag and smiles at her. “What do you recommend?”

Steak and kidney pie. Mum made it fresh this morning with an entire bottle of sherry, half of which actually ended up in the pie.” Dad chuckles but she only smiles, so it must be an accurate description of what happened.

Sounds brilliant.” is Keith’s appraisal, and I’m trying my best not to label it ‘disgusting’ in my head. My ability to keep an open mind, however, is not at its best after dealing with the embassy.

So it does.” Dad seems to be going for the steak-and-kidney option. I glance at Raph, whose expression seems to mirror what I’m thinking, and Marty’s is not far off. I give Seph a helpless, lopsided grin.

Try it.” He says sternly, looking at each of us individually. Then he relents a little. “If you don’t like it, we’ll go to Wimpy’s after Keith and I have finished.”

Five steak and kidney pies, then?” She looks round the partition. “Give me a mo, Milton.” Her attention is now refocused on us. “Do your drinks need topping up?” Everyone gives her a nod, and she disappears, presumably to attend to Milton.

Keith, who has been studying Seph’s necktie, clears his throat. ”Umm, you attended Kemptown College, as well, I see?"

That’s where I finished my Higher School Certificate, after we came over from Dublin.” His voice then becomes hushed. “Back when dinosaurs were still on the prowl in Hove.” he chuckles and Keith giggles.

How did ya see that?” Marty looks concerned at Keith, as would a father whose child has run off to become a Spiritualist medium.

I read his tie.” Without undoing the knot, he slips his own over his head and hands it to Marty. “Compare the two.”

Whoa! This is spooky.” He scowls and throws a worried glance in our direction and hands Raph Keith's tie.

Raph leans over the table and holds it up to Seph’s necktie. They are identical. Raph returns the necktie to Keith. “And do you have a secret handshake?”

Dad grins mischievously. “And we have secret passwords. If you don’t get it right, you’re not British.” He winks at Keith. “Land of...”

...hope and glory.” Keith replies without hesitation, readjusting his tie.

Marty laughs in disbelief. “You mean to tell me, that I have just renounced my citizenship to become a member of a huge Masonic lodge?”

No.” Seph’s grin mutates from mischievous to devilish. “We’re much worse than that. We have secret neckties, secret handshakes, drive on the left and control the world.” He hunches over the table propped on his elbows; he looks round in mock conspiratorial mode. "We let the Americans think that they control the world, so they’ll do our dirty work.”

Your drinks, Mr. Hyde.” The proprietress winks at Seph with a straight face as she sets down the tray on the bar and hands him his whiskey. “The pies will be along shortly.”