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-five

(Thursday, October 20th)

Breakfast is in progress. Clive is making the fry-up, when the doorbell rings. I slip on my jeans and run downstairs barefooted. This will be the one and only time that I run down and up a straw staircase carpet without any footwear. But, on the brighter side, a young soldier is at the door, and a lorry is stopped in front.

“Is this the residence of Mr. Daniel and Mr. Yves Mongrain-Bourke?” His smile outdoes the sunny morning.

“It is.” I extend a cheerful demeanour, but nothing to match this guy’s smile.

“This is an official delivery of diplomatic-bag; I’ll have to see your passports.” I motion for him to enter the hallway and I run back up the flight of coconut-straw torture. Clive and Raph watch me with questioning looks, as I take our passports from the kitchen counter, slip on my penny loafers and return to the scene.

It takes the three soldiers all of thirty minutes to unload the lorry. Of a sudden, our apartment looks like a rummage sale. Seph's and Marty's furniture, crated dishes, paintings, pictures and boxes upon boxes of clothing. But the only things I am on the watch for are the bags that contain Maman's Cajun coffee and French coffee maker. And, at last, there they are. However, I have to contain myself to finish the bureaucratic demands in good form.

The young soldier gives me the forms to sign. We have to call Raph for his signature. Clive is trying to suppress amazement at our once minimalist sitting room. I get my wallet off the counter and offer the soldier a pound note. He looks at it and sighs, which to me signals temptation, but refuses politely, since they are not allowed to take anything; it could be construed as bribery.

Once I see them out, I run back up the flight of stairs and find the bags, which are lying open. Raph calls from the kitchen: "Coffee will be ready in about five minutes."

“Where are you going to put all this stuff?” Clive wonders and runs his hand across my back.

The caresses feel good, as any would, but I move out of range, acting as if I want to inspect the boxes and crates for damage. "Most of it belongs to Seph and Marty. They’ll have to deal with it.” This is the first time that I have refused advances from a man, whom I consider desirable. The fellow in the kitchen making coffee is enough for me.

I find the crate with the portraits. I have to have a look at them, before we leave for the exams at the college. I discover, however, that I'll have to find a cross-slot screwdriver. Clive, who is virtually shadowing me, sees the problem. “Be back in a sec.” and leaves through the back door.

I follow him as far as the kitchen, and snuggle up to my man. « Je t'aime toujours plus que possible, tu sais ? »

Raph pulls me into sort of a body lock, recognising that my momentary vulnerability matches his own. He doesn’t even have to say that he knows my love for him is more than even humanly possible. His body language, the way he’s holding me, the warm tears, which are dropping onto my back, are telling me how he feels.

Clive returns with the screwdriver; the coffee is ready, and I go to unpack the portraits, which I then prop on the white leather couch. Raph comes in from the kitchen with two mugs. Clive follows with his mug, sniffing it, as if he'd never smelt coffee before.

When he sees the photographs, however, he stops in his tracks. “I do say; the resemblance is remarkable. Is that man with Seph your brother?"

“No,” Raph gives out a short laugh, and wipes his tears. “he was my father.”

“Was? Oh, I am sorry, Raph,” The underlying tone in Clive's voice is grief. He gives Raph a brief hug. “I had no idea.” Clive wipes his own eyes, which are not particularly tearful. "He was obviously friends with Seph."

“They were partners, lovers; however you care to put it.” I interrupt. “But--”

“--Yeah,” Clive looks at his watch. “we have to get breakfast and then get going.”

At breakfast, I decide to tell Clive about Keith, the moment he mentions Doris. Of course, to bring this up at all, I conjure up Algernon. “You do know that your future brother-in-law is in love with you, do you not?”

“What on Earth” Clive apparently has no idea. “gives you that impression?”

Raph to the rescue. “He told us.”

“Oh.” Clive is stunned. “What do you think I should do?”

“Talk to him about it.” Raph intercedes with the obvious.

“There’s nothing to talk about.” Clive bristles. “I’m fond of Keith, but starting something with him would complicate my relationship with Doris.”

So, I decide to go for the jugulars, just to see how irresponsible Clive is. “And it wouldn’t complicate things if he kills himself, because he thinks he’s all alone?”

“You’re here, as well.” Clive is trying to pass the buck of responsibility off onto us.

“Today, tomorrow, perhaps the day after, but at some point in the very near future, we’re going to Paris, possibly for good. We’ll be back for visits, but” Raph looks startled for a split second, then nods. “Raph and I are not culturally British, nor for that matter even of English descent. We are culturally French. So, we’ll be going home to our cultural roots as soon as this A-level escapade is finished.”

“But you just got here.” He sounds disappointed.

“True, because shit happened that was out of our control. We originally planned to go more or less straight to Paris.” And at this, Seph and Marty appear in the doorway to the back hallway.

“Did ya know that yer back door is standing open?” Seph says, and Raph and I look at Clive.

“Sorry, didn’t realise that I'd left it open, when I went to get the screwdriver." He takes a sip of coffee. “This tastes brilliant.”

To judge by the sarcastic look on his face, Seph is just about to pass comment on English coffee, when he spots the coffee maker standing on the hob. “Our household things have arrived, I see."

“Yeah,” Raph chuckles. "with military escort, no less."

Vince comes in from the sitting room. “Tanks and police vans always make a good impression on the neighbours.”

And Ron adds: “More than ever, when the soldiers are so cute.”

“Are you coming along for moral support?” Raph puts on the shirt that he’d hung over the back of the empty dining chair and puts on the still-tied necktie. I hurry to the bedroom to dress properly and hear the rest of the conversation through the open door. Nobody watches, and I wonder, if I’m losing my sex appeal.

“If they’ll let us watch.” Vince enthuses. “I didn’t know that one can sit an A-level in Performing Arts.”

“Some schools do, some don’t, as I understand it.” Seph looks at his watch. “Where’s Keith?”

“I’ll go get him.” Clive has obviously had a change of heart. And as if cued to enter, Keith comes walking up the back corridor as I come in from the bedroom.

“How did you get in?” Seph wants to know. His face reveals concern about the lack of security presented by the doors.

“I’ve a key.” Keith laughs then becomes less jovial, when he interprets Seph’s expression. “I look after the place, when no one is here. Do you want it back?"

“No, no, it's good to know that you're watching out for us.” Raph, the psychologist, is giving Keith responsibility, which is large enough to make him feel needed but nothing so major as to put stress on him. Odd, that no one else seems to suss what Raph is doing. There are no thumbs up, no nods of approval.

My breath is deep; the ensuing sigh is audible. "Got the music and the scripts?" Seph’s facial features lighten immediately.

“I do.” He smiles and ruffles Keith’s unruly hair. Keith smiles fondly at Seph.

“What’s in the bag?” Keith points at my cloth shoe bag.

“My Capezios.” Not only his face reveals the need for an explanation, but so does everyone in the room, except for Raph and Seph. “My dance shoes.” Still not clear. “Shoes, I wear on stage, which are much less noisy than my penny loafers with steel caps on the heels."

“Penny loafers?” Keith is still puzzled.

“The ones I’ve got on, Baby Brother.” He does blush at the nickname, but gives me a big hug. “So, are we all set?” Apparently so, to judge by the general mumbling.

The sunshine is brilliant, and the walk to the college is short. The piano in the auditions room is a Grotrian-Steinweg, which the people involved in theatre in Kansas City probably couldn't even spell, much less possess. Seph approaches Mr. Bidwell-Stover and asks if it is possible to have guests present.

His face brightens considerably. “Good lord, yes. The closer we can get this to a real performance, the better.”

Seph walks over to Marty, Ron, Vince and Keith and whispers something. They scatter, only to reappear with about ten or twelve older ladies. Since I actually recognise one from the Square, they must be neighbours. I would imagine that this is Keith’s doing. Quite a few students come in and take a seat, filling up the audition room nicely. And before Mr. Bidwell-Stover can start, we have to wait for Professor and Madame le Docteur de Chaumontel.

“We are gathered here,” Bidwell-Stover starts out and I have to chuckle to myself at the thought that he left out ‘dearly beloved’. “to witness the second A-level examinations in Performing Arts ever to be conducted at Kemptown College.” Polite applause. I like this audience, easy rapport and luckily there is no stage with a proscenium arch. “The candidates are Monsieur Yves-Raphaël Mongrain-Bourke and Monsieur Daniel Mongrain-Bourke. We shall start with Monsieur Yves-Raphaël Mongrain-Bourke, reading Othello.” Again polite applause. And as every actor knows, the first seconds are make or break.

Raph announces in his own voice, projecting well, using a mid-Atlantic accent: “Othello by William Shakespeare, Act V, Scene II, at sleeping Desdemona’s bedside.” People, including Professor, Madame le Docteur and Mr. Bidwell-Stover are smiling politely, which fades proportionately as Raph mutates into the tormented Moor.

“It is the cause, it is the cause, my soul,- Let me not name it to you, you chaste stars!- It is the cause. Yet I'll not shed her blood...” His rendition sounds as if he’s speaking modern English; it’s understandable, and it’s moving. Even when he leaves out Desdemona’s lines, no one seems to notice.

By the time he ends with, “Well, do it, and be brief; I will walk by: I would not kill thy unprepared spirit; No; heaven forfend! I would not kill thy soul.” as his final gestures signal that he has finished, everyone, including Professor, Madame le Docteur and Bidwell-Stover, is on their feet applauding maniacally. It’s as if they were hearing Shakespeare for the first time.

Raph transitions nicely to his next piece, which is humorous. And halfway through Extracts from Adam's Diary by Mark Twain he has them bouncing on their seats with delight. Raph has done it. He has them in the palm of his hand. And my job is not to lose them.

Things go smoothly enough through my cuttings of The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde and Biff’s train-station soliloquy from Death of a Salesman by Arthur Miller. Dad’s idea of presenting the British material first, in order to establish a rapport by using stuff they know and then switching to the American material, is spot on. It works beautifully.

When Bidwell-Stover announces a short break or interval, as he calls it, Professor approaches Raph and me. “You are both exceedingly talented. But your presentation of Othello, Mr. Mongrain-Bourke, is on par with that of Lawrence Oliver.” Needless to say, we are dumbstruck. The man drops this bombshell and just walks off.

Now, it’s time for the singing. The audience hushes, as Raph sings his perfect A440 and holds it effortlessly. I harmonise and we give them A Change is Gonna Come, a cappella. Mouths drop open followed by smiles of delight.

Seph adds his little something to the intro of Autumn Leaves by Joseph Kosma, which we are going to sing as Les Feuilles Mortes with the song’s original lyrics written by Jacques Prévert. Raph and I alternate the lines.

« O, je voudrais tant que tu te souviennes
Des jours heureux où nous étions amis
En ce temps là la vie était plus belle
Et le soleil plus brûlant qu'aujourd'hui... »

Then we sing the refrain together in harmony. Madame le Docteur appears to be about to swoon. And, at the back of the audience, by the doors, standing next to Marty, I see Geneviève, swaying with the melody. We do one run through, which is not very long in its own right.

Then Raph gives Seph the sign, which puts him into KC-Jazz mode. Geneviève has her hands over her mouth as she watches in surprise her two eldest sons performing a not-quite-adept but still-better-than-most version of her own all-time favourite. Madame le Docteur is fanning her face with a thin notebook, and Mr. Bidwell-Stover is perched with raised eyebrows on the edge of his seat.

Seph gives Raph an amazing improvised bridge to Once in a Lifetime. We hear some squeals from the audience. And Raph joins in to dazzle everybody. I’ve heard this man sing many times, and I’m even impressed. This, of course, is an absolutely impossible act to follow, although I must.

Now, it’s my turn. Seph goes full Gospel, as he promised, and the chorus is brilliant. Apparently, I have what it takes to get the audience clapping in time; some are even singing along. Seph and I find the collective groove to include the audience. The room is rocking. And, as Raph would put it: ‘Not bad for white people.’

Truth be told, I don’t remember my solo, only the audience’s reactions. That’s what I feed off. The performance of particularly really familiar pieces goes on automatically. I don’t think; I just do. This frees me up to read the people watching me.

When I finish, everyone goes mad with applause, whistles and shouts of ‘bravo’. Then, there is something, which apparently only I find unusual; Seph plays God Save the Queen. Everyone rises and sings along.

Mr. Bidwell-Stover takes the stage. “I’m sure everyone still realises that this is an examination, no matter how finely presented. The results will be posted in due course. Thank you for your participation.” This time, the applause is once again polite. And Bidwell-Stover, Madame le Docteur and Professor vanish.

Geneviève, Doris and Marty rush to the front through people going the other way. « Absolument génial, mes enfants. » Geneviève gives Raph, me and Seph her usual cheek kisses, then hugs all round, including Vince, Ron, Clive and Keith. My first thought is that Jordan is missing.

"He's staying with my sister." And again for one of the few times in my life, she is speaking English with Raph and me. “He didn’t feel up to the trip.” She laughs. “He’s in love with a girl from school and can’t bear to be parted.”

“He has a girlfriend already? That was quick.” Raph voices his scepticism. “And a girlfriend at Shawnee Mission North?”

“She’s the foreign exchange student, not one of the Jayhawker rednecks.” She chuckles along with everyone, who has spent some time in the border region between Missouri and Kansas.

“When did you get to Paris?” Seph seems to be in the know. “And how was the flight here?”

“I got to the apartment yesterday morning, very tired, and went straight to bed. Woke up this morning at four, drank coffee and gazed at the Eiffel Tower until the taxi came to take me to Orly." She suppresses a yawn.

“You can see the Eiffel Tower from our apartment?” Raph’s excitement is close to that of a child.

“The top three-quarters of it, at least.” She laughs and runs her hand down his cheek. « Tu es toujours mon petit gars. » She smiles at me. « Et toi aussi, Daniel. Je suis très fière de vous deux. »

It means a lot to me that we’ve made Geneviève proud of us. As a matter of fact, it means more than all the applause.

The walk back home is sunny and accompanied by a pleasant breeze from the sea. The colours are becoming more autumn-like, since the Canadian maple trees now add red tones. We walk in twos and threes, enjoying the tranquillity and peace of mind. That is, until we reach the house.

“T’ere y’are.” An overweight, balding man, who smells of stale sweat, cigarette smoke and alcohol, is sitting on the stoop of the entrance to the first two floors. "About feckin' time ya showed up, Yer lordship." The man sounds as if he's stolen ‘Yobbo Joey's’ identity. At least, the sound is a diluted north-side Dublin accent, identical to the one Dad used; the appearance, however, is an entirely different matter. “Ya gan t’invite me in?”

“Indeed, I shall, Sean,“ Seph uses his educated Irish accent. “when Hell freezes over. Now, state your business and be gone.”

All of us are standing on the pavement in front of the house, gawking, and I’m wondering how this man fits into Seph’s life. It doesn’t take more than two seconds to find out. “That’s a poor way o’ treatin’ yer cousin.”

“Let me state this clearly, so even you can understand.” Seph gets in his face. Yobbo Joey remerges. “I shan’t be callin’ the feckin’ law and havin’ yer sorry bollocks carted off, like I did the last time. I’ll break yer feckin’ neck and then be callin’ the cops.”

Sean is obviously afraid of Seph. “Now, don’t ya go treatin’ me like scum of the earth.”

“Speaking of which, when did they let your out of the Scrubs?” Seph wants to know.

And faces light up. This distant or perhaps not so distant relative of ours was in prison. And as Arthur Conan Doyle once wrote: ‘The plot thickens.’

Geneviève whispers. « Qu'est-ce que c'est que cela, Scrubs ? »

« La prison à Londres. » is my knowledgeable response, thanks to Keith. Then I wonder if the Scrubs is the only prison in London.

“I’m after gettin’ out this past week.” Sean sulks. “But I need a place for me mate, George, ta stay fer a while, when he gets out on the 22nd.”

“George?” Seph pries. “And does your mate, George, have a surname?”

“He does.” Sean's voice goes very soft. "Blake."

Seph resorts to an emphatic stage whisper. “George Blake, the feckin' Soviet spy?”

Sean nods but motions for Seph to keep his voice down. “We were cell mates. I owe him.”

This causes Seph to lose his cool. “He’s not getting out on the 22nd. He was sentenced to forty-some-odd years at Her Majesty’s pleasure.”

“Well, he’s not gettin’ out regular like.” Sean concedes. “Me and a couple o' mates are goin’a be springin’ ‘im.”

“I see.” Seph laughs at him. “Yourself and a couple of your drinking buds are going to spring George Blake out of Wormwood Scrubs prison.” He laughs again. “Fair play to ya, Sean. You should write a book.”

“Could do.” Sean gets off the steps. “So, yer not gonna help George out?"

“Your memory isn’t very long, is it?” Seph pushes Sean out of the way with his shoulder and unlocks the door to the house. And Marty successfully motions for Sean to leave, while Raph and I glare at him for good measure.

Seph picks up Geneviève’s valise from the floor of the entry and carries it through the kitchen, down the stairs to the downstairs kitchen. We follow as if he were the pied piper. He sets her luggage on a dining chair and opens the French doors to the patio and garden. Of a sudden, the warm breeze fills the downstairs with autumn fragrance and maritime air.

He shows Geneviève to her room and returns to use the telephone, into which he spouts a series of numbers and waits to be connected. “My cousin, Sean Bourke, said he’s planning to spring George Blake from prison on the 22nd.”

Laughter and merriment can be heard through the Bakelite receiver; Seph joins in with a chuckle. “Look, I’m just reporting what the wee fecker just told me. And there are about ten very credible witnesses.” There is a long pause without laughter. “Do you think that that’s necessary?” Another pause. “True. All right, then. You make the reservations for tonight. I’ll be at my alternate address as of tomorrow.” He replaces the receiver on the hook.

“Who were you talking to?” I sort-of just wonder out loud.

“If I told you, I’d have to kill you.” Clive, Keith and Doris laugh; Raph and I do not. Their merriment dies, when they see our straight faces. “Ah, fer Fuck’s sake, Lads, lighten up, would you? I was joking.” Everyone chuckles, but no one means it.

“Who is Sean?” However, I do demand an answer to this one.

“One of our good-for-nothing, alcoholic cousins from Limerick.” Seph sighs as if he were wishing that all relatives would go away. “His great-grandfather was my grandfather’s little brother. Luckily not immediate family.”

“You could always send him over to ask Busby for help.” Raph remarks offhandedly, which sends Seph into fits of laughter. I fail to find it that humorous, but Dad apparently needs the emotional release.

“And how often does he show up?" I would like to know as a matter of reference.

“When he’s not in the slammer, about once every ten years.” Seph sighs. “Of course, most of the time, I wasn’t here. But when I was he’d seem to get wind of it.”

“Did you used to stay here often?” Raph wonders, and I sadden at the fact that he never brought us with him. But then again, we didn't know about his double life.

“The longest I was here was once for a week some twenty years back, just after the war.” He seems to take up on my sadness. “Mostly though, only for a couple of days. Then it was back to my life as a prol in Kansas City.”

Then Doris asks the question that has been preying on her mind ever since we saw Sean on the stoop. “He’s not related to the MacDonalds, then?”

“You can relax; he’s a Bourke.”

“Condolences.”

“Accepted. Now, what are we going to do for lunch?” Seph asks the round in a more upbeat mode.

"We have loads of stuff in the icebox.” Marty speaks up. “And we have to get rid of it, if we are going away tomorrow."

“Tonight. We’re sailing tonight.” Seph corrects.

“Sailing?” I sometimes forget that we’re on an island.

“That’s what we say, when we putter across to Calais on a ferry.” Keith laughs. “It’s like the Empire. It has to appear to be much more momentous, than it actually is.”

“Very well, Martin,” Geneviève appears in the doorway, wearing a different dress and a string of pearls. “what exactly is in the refrigerator?”

“Most everything.” He knows that she is going to pull the school-teacher routine on him.

And she knows that he’s expecting it. “That’s far from exact, so let’s have a look.” She teases him, laughing. “H’m. This looks like chicken and ham jambalaya. Do you have any rice?”

“Afraid not.” Martin answers shaking his head.

“I bought some for Raph and Dan.” Keith offers. “It’s upstairs. I’ll go get it.” He darts out through the French doors to the garden and up the back stairs. In less than ten seconds, we hear his scream for help.