Date: Sat, 24 Apr 2021 21:35:26 +0000
From: Henry Hilliard <h.h.hilliard@hotmail.com>
Subject: Tristan chapter 38 (gay college)

Tristan
by Henry H. Hilliard

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Chapter 38

"Givez a hand wif these, mate."

"Sure," said Colton.  He picked up the tall drum with the painted tribal
decoration and placed it with its brother on the floor in the bay window,
which gave onto Queens Gate.  Then he went back for three more while
Charles struggled with one.

"Phew!" said Charles, wiping his brow with a bandana, "I'm proper glad one
of us has some muscles.

"He plays gridiron," said Emily who held a cluster of gourds and little
bells. And then: "These are Kpanlogo drums from Ghana.  They are played by
the Ga people."

The explanation for all this was found in the peculiar nature of the
Clivedon Hotel.  It was a small establishment in South Kensington that did
not enjoy a constellation of stars, but catered admirably for young
travellers such as themselves.  Behind the imposing brickwork of its late
Victorian exterior was an imposing suite of front rooms, consisting of a
huge hall with a chunky timber staircase that rose several floors and a
large double drawing room that had the air of a gentlemen's club.  The rest
of the accommodation was not of this order and was strictly functional and
budget conscious, although clean.  It was basically a backpackers', with
shared rooms and facilities.  Some rooms, with triple-decker bunks,
reminded Tristan of a slave ship or prison camp.  However, Tristan had
secured one of the private rooms with a tiny en-suite bathroom.  The room
was just big enough to walk around the double bed on two sides, but it
enjoyed a view over the garden of the Bulgarian Embassy and was but a short
distance from the Tube station on the Piccadilly Line that ran direct from
Heathrow.

The guests made their own meals in the big kitchen and sat at a friendly
communal table. Once a week they put on a concert and that night there
would be African music, a poetry reading and a talk on coral bleaching on
the Great Barrier Reef.  Colton, jet lagged, didn't quite know what to
think, but he knew when his help was needed and Emily, a student from
Durham who had taken a gap year to volunteer in West Africa, was quite
attractive.

The Clivedon had also been chosen for its convenience to the Darwin Centre
and the museums.  Also, Tristan could reach his mother's house from the
Hammersmith Underground Station and the moderate cost would enable them to
stay for ten days instead of just a week, Colton having paid his own
airfare and Tristan paying for their shared accommodation.

Colton did not mention it, but the fact that he was sharing a room with
another boy raised not the slightest eyebrow in London--at least not at the
Clivedon--and Colton felt strangely liberated, and besides, no one else
knew him here.

On their first night they did not eat with the others, but had a late (by
Texas standards) meal at an inexpensive Italian trattoria in the Gloucester
Road that was housed in a beautiful Venetian Gothic building.  Several
things struck Colton as exotic--as exotic as the Victorian architecture:
they ate late, they had walked to the restaurant and the service was not
chirpy and geared to securing tips--and the entrée was eaten first.
Two men on a date (if it could be called that) passed without comment.

Tristan was pleased at the educational value of his choice and laughed to
himself. Of course they argued about food, Tristan being soundly beaten on
the horrors of English cuisine, but Colton failing to understand the crimes
that American capitalism and advertising had wrought on the food in his
country and beyond.  "There are committees in giant corporations who sit
down and smooth out anything remotely challenging for consumers,"
complained Tristan as his dipped his bread into the olive oil and balsamic
vinegar. "They have been so risk averse since the 1920s and so preoccupied
with marketing angles, which are usually based on ease and convenience--or
some gimmick or giveaway which has nothing to do with actual food--that
what the consumer is persuaded or forced to buy tastes like shit."

"Y'gotta make it easy to cook, Tris.  There's no gain in having to prepare
everything from scratch."

"You loose freshness, Colt. Then you have to have preservatives.  Americans
have lost the connection to the source of their food--`the product' they
would say."

"Well, commercialized food has made it easier for moms--they can go out to
work.  They don't need no help in the home.  They don't have to go to the
store every day or bake the family's bread. You should write a paper on it
for History."

"That's got possibilities."

"And what about steak at home? I love a prime steak!"

"Yeah, the meat is good--or rather it's cheap in Texas -- but feedlot
cattle and everything feed on corn is crap. Lamb tastes terrible."

"Well, aren't there battery hens and factory farms in Britain?  And I
notice Heinz Baked Beans is practic'ly a national dish here--and frozen
fish fingers."

"Sadly true, Colt."

"Well, I like Hostess Twinkies."

"Yeah, we have shit like that here too; either so bland that no one would
be challenged or horribly over-sweetened to market it to the widest
possible range of consumers--especially kids.  But we got all that shit
from America--especially in the nineteen-sixties when anything American was
considered glamorous and we were not long off wartime rationing."

"Well, that's democracy.  People vote with their supermarket cart."

"How can a Hostess Twinkie be a result of democracy?"

"How can Trump?"

They both laughed and tucked into their pappardelle with spinach and pine
nuts in a cream sauce--a first for Colton--and pushed the boat out with a
whole bottle of an Italian pino at £22 --the same price as their
meal.

"This is so rad," Colton kept repeating as he refilled their
glasses. "Legal drinking!"

Back at the Clivedon they were in time for the entertainment.  The
residents were lounging about in the leather armchairs, laughing and joking
one minute and the next they were earnestly listening to the African drums
and quietly discussing whether they were guilty or not of appropriating the
culture of an oppressed people.  It was quite unlike anything at College,
save for the GSA and perhaps the Film Society.  Here all the young people
seemed much more worldly.

Even before the lecture on coral bleaching was over, Colton and Tristan had
slid away, tired and yawning.  They were pulling off their clothes and
Tristan was just noticing that Colton was commando under his `good'
Wranglers.

"No room for shorts under them, Tris," he said when he noticed Tristan
observing.  "Will y'all come with me t'buy some pants that ain't jeans?  I
get the idea that I'm kinda in ethnic dress here."

"Sure, but let me tell you, there's nothing finer than your butt in a pair
of cowboy pants."

"Thanks, dude.  I'll remember that when I sit on your face." They climbed
under the stiff sheets. "Tris, before you go down on me..."

"Who says I'm going down on you?"

"Shall we place a bet?  Tris, tomorrow you should go to see your mom
alone."

"I wasn't planning to put you through that ordeal.  You'll go to the Darwin
Centre?"

"Yeah, but I want you to know, whatever happens with your mom, I've got
your back, dude.  Y'all doin' exactly the right thang, Tris.  You've come
across the Atlantic to see her and to see y'baby sister. She's been in
hospital. You didn't expect her to come n'see you and, even though she's
been weird about stuff, she's still your mom.  That's right, ain't it?"

"That's how I'm trying to think about it.  I haven't been weird; she has."

"When are y'goin'?"

"She said to come for afternoon tea.  Alice should be awake by then."

"I don't understand you Britishers.  She's y'mom, for fuck's sake, and
you've been away for ages, but you only get an invite for tea.  Y'all a
pack of cold fish."

"I suppose that's true.  It's just how we are, I guess--or maybe how she
is. She's very `proper'--I don't mean that she's a prude or anything, it's
just that certain things are done in a certain way--especially by people of
our class."

"`Our class'? How fucked is that?"

"Yeah, I'm not disagreeing with you, Colt, but that's the way a lot of
English people still think.  They don't expect everyone to behave in a
certain way, but they do expect everyone on the same team to.  And she is a
lawyer, so she don't take shit..."

"She sounds kinda scary, Tris."

"Oh no, she's not scary.  I haven't explained her properly. She's just a
bit uptight and a bit sad really--tragic even.  I feel sorry for Mum. If
Dad hadn't pissed off, she might've been okay."

"Yeah, well her son's okay, no thanks to her.  He pulled himself up by the
bootstraps."

"Thanks, Colt. You helped."

"And y'dad."

"Dad? How do you figure that?"

"I just know."

"You mean with money and stuff."

"Not just that.  Now git y'head down 'tween m'footabller's thighs and I
might just let you clean out my sweaty butt crack."

"Okay."



They were both alarmed when they discovered it was ten o'clock when they
awoke--such being jet lag.  There were still some young people drinking
coffee in the kitchen when the boys went down.

Emily, the girl with the drums, was particularly nice and asked what
Tristan was doing back in England.  He gave a bald outline and Colton
volunteered his love of biological science.  She seemed genuinely
interested and said that a few of the inmates were going to the pub that
night and that they were welcome to join them.

Colton was particularly excited.  "Never been to a pub n' at home we can
only drink at bars if they don't check our IDs too closely."

The others--British, European and Latin American-- laughed good-naturedly
at the uncivilized United States.

An hour later, Tristan found himself at a loose end without Colton who had
gone off to pursue his biological interests and had indeed taken his laptop
with him.  Trying to put the meeting with his mother out of mind, he
decided to hit the shops.  His quest was for some underwear for Colton, of
course, and so he took the number nine bus to Piccadilly Circus and walked
up Regent Street.

Tristan had forgotten how good the shopping was in London and how poor it
was in America--at least in Texas where men's fashion was not given the
prominence that women's clothing was. He went as far as John Lewis and only
succeeded in buying a couple of pairs of black trunks in Colton's size.  He
did however see some trousers that Colton might like and vowed to bring him
back.

A tip from a gay sales assistant took him to Brewer Street--a long narrow
thoroughfare off Regent Street-- and in a certain establishment he found
what he was looking for.  Tristan's mental image of the quarterback jock
modelling the underwear on display sent the blood pumping to his penis and
for a little while he quite forgot the rendezvous with his mother.  He
spent quite a long time looking a elegantly boxed items displayed on glass
shelves or hung from clips on coat hangers like so many kippers in a smoke
house. Tristan eschewed outlandish thongs and micro-briefs in lace and
rubber and all sort of fetish materials. They were not Colton.  Colton, he
concluded, was very masculine and had a big form and bikini-like brevity
and spaghetti straps were not his style.  Instead, he found low-cut
European trunks with discernable sides--even if only a coupe of inches
deep-- and some other pairs that were tight but had pouches for big lads
with ample cocks and balls.  Then he came upon the backless ones he'd seen
online--these may well have screamed `gay' but he had to have them--a pair
each.

That done, Tristan felt like a coffee and so walked up past Oxford Street,
pausing to look in the shop windows until he reached `Kaffeine' in
Eastcastle Street.  The coffee came and he sipped it with a
sigh. Everything seemed suddenly familiar to him and he remembered coming
to this place in happy times past.  Suddenly he thought of Saskia, his
former best friend whom he had shamefully cut when he was banished to the
United States.  He dialled her number before he could change his mind.

"Tristan!" she screamed.  "This is a surprise!  Are you in London?"

"Yeah, came over yesterday. Sas, I just want to say I'm so, so sorry. I was
fucked up and I didn't even say goodbye.  You must hate me."

"Of course I don't hate you. You didn't return my calls but Steve--big
Steve--told me what happened.  Are you okay now?"

"Yeah.  I was a mess and on a lot of pills and stuff, but I'm clean now."

"Are you living with your father?"

"Not exactly.  I was--he's got a new place in Dallas with his
girlfriend--but now I'm at a university in Texas and I've bought a house
there. And you?"

Saskia was at London University doing Politics as was their friend
Steve. "I've got a job in a cool bar in Sardinia starting this week. It's
Roxanne's cousin's--you remember Roxy who went out with Steve.  Tristan did
and he knew it was the other Steve she was now referring to, such was being
able to take up the broken threads of a life he had thought was dead.

"Why are you here, Tris?"

"I've come to see Mum.  She's been a bit...er...a bit unwell...pretty
fucked up, actually. You know that she and Rodger have had baby?"

"Shit, no!  You're now a brother!"

"Yeah, to a little girl.  I haven't seen her yet.  Mum and I have been kind
of estranged."

"Oh Tris, I'm so sorry, darling.  Why don't we catch up before I go?  I'd
love to see you."

"That would be great.  Colton told me to not make myself a stranger and to
call."

"And who is Colton, pray tell?"

"My friend. He came over with me."

"A boyfriend?"

"A friend, my best friend."

"Hey! I thought that was me."

"My best boy friend"

"See!  A little twinky friend from your History class or Chess Club maybe?"

"Bitch! I've never played chess."  He laughed. "Actually he's a Biology
major."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah and he's the quarterback for the football team."

"You're shitting me!" she shrieked and then couldn't talk for laughing.

"See for yourself.  What about tomorrow night at The Harp?  Is that still
cool?"

It was and when Tristan hung up he felt that he had mended a nagging wrong



***

Tristan crunched over the gravel in the forecourt of the house his mother
shared with Rodger Trefusis, her second husband.  It was all terribly
familiar, of course; it had only been two years.  One of the cars was
new--a Bentley, Tristan thought, but he did not pause to check. The
stern-looking door was in an arched recess of heavy architectural
pretentions. He pressed the brass bell.

It was Rodger who answered. His manner was ostensibly cheerful, but it
seemed strained.  Tristan felt sorry for him and tried to return a good
humour he did not feel.

"...You think so?  Well, I've been running and doing some weights, but I'm
not very dedicated...Yes, I'm quite well..."

Without being ushered like a complete stranger, he opened the door to the
drawing room (as his mother referred to it) whose bay window looked out
onto the shrubbery and to the passing traffic in Castelnau Road beyond.

 "Oh you've come, have you?"

Tristan's stomach tightened; his mother's tone did not bode well.  She was
sitting in her usual armchair and did not rise.  Tristan noted that she was
wearing a dress of expensive plainness. It was perhaps `taupe', if Tristan
understood the colour, and was augmented by a gunmetal-coloured metallic
jacket that was short and did not button but had long sleeves.  Her shoes
matched. It was very much his mother's style, perhaps her armour.

"Hello, Mum," said Tristan brightly.  "You look like a million dollars."

"Thank you, Tristan, but that is a vulgar American expression."

"I suppose it is, Mum.  I have probably become completely vulgar."  He
leant down and planted a kiss on her cheek.  He fought back tears.

"I am so looking forward to seeing Alice," he managed to say. "Is she
sleeping?"

"Yes, but Rodger will see if she's awake.  She'll want her bottle."

"Yes, of course.  They're always hungry," said Tristan, although he knew
little of babies.

"She's taking a bottle now.  I was feeding her, but my medications..."

"Yes, of course.  You can't risk that."

"That is just another disappointment. I should be able to feed my own
daughter and I'm sure Rodger thinks it is a failing."

"Mum!  I'm sure Rodger thinks no such thing.  He's full of admiration for a
women over forty having a baby," he asserted, although he had no such
knowledge.

His mother did not reply to that, but seemed to withdraw slightly.

"Rodger said you're taking a little work at home now."

"Just a few jobs--contract cases mostly.  I can usually get a little done
when Alice is down and then Rodger comes home most nights by 5:00, so I can
work then."

"Well, that's great.  It keeps that brain of yours sharp," he said,
although he privately thought that his mother was not sharp at all, perhaps
the affects of her medication.

There was an awkward silence.  Tristan had been standing and then sat
down. "I'm sorry we had words at Gran's funeral, Mum.  I guess I was pretty
upset and I'm sure you were too--inside," he added and hoped his mother
didn't notice the barb.

"I won't say I can forgive you for how you behaved in font of all those
people.  What they thought of me I shudder to think, but I'm sure you were
upset.  You were very close--she loved you more than me."

"Don't say that, Mum."

"Why?  It's the truth."

"I don't think so.  She loved you and Aunt Jean.  She told me often--even
when I was sent away."

"You chose to go, Tristan.  I never sent you."  This was a complete lie,
thought Tristan.  "It's just that you are so much like your father."

"How do you mean?"

"You get set on one idea and you don't think how it will affect others--how
it will affect even your own mother."

Tristan didn't think this was true at all but said, "A friend suggested
that Dad might have Asperger's.  He finds it hard to read other people's
emotions, although he is really caring underneath."  Perhaps if his father
was made the common enemy...

"There you are! And who is this friend?"

"My roommate, Colton.  I told you about him."

"Did you?"

"Yes, his parents have a vineyard and he pays football and the guitar and
he sings.  He is majoring in Biology."

"Well, even so, I don't see how he is qualified to make such a judgement
about your father."

"He's met Dad heaps of times and he volunteers at the Students' Clinic
where lots of kids have medical and emotional problems. He's good at his
job."

"But he's not a qualified doctor?" she said sharply.

"No, Ms Tilson-Beck," said Tristan as if his mother was cross-examining a
hostile witness.

She smiled slightly, for this was an old game. "When I was at the Clinic,"
she began, referring to the Nunnery in North London, "they said that having
the baby, after all I had been through, has been detrimental to my
wellbeing. "

"That must make it hard to look after a baby and to take on work."

"Yes, but Rodger has been marvellous.  He is not taking as much work and
brings very little home.  The stress that you and your father--not to
mention my own sister and mother--has caused me, has ruined my life."

"The doctors said that?" asked Tristan who did not believe the half of it.

"It is the best clinic in Britain," she said almost proudly and deftly
sidestepping the question.  She would not have done so well in the witness
box herself, Tristan silently noted.  "All the best people were there...."
And she went on to name names.

"Well, I hope that the doctors can make you better, Mum."

"They're trying and so am I."

"You know, Mum, having a baby often causes problems--with your body
and...er...equilibrium," he said, fishing for a non-controversial word.

"I am not mental, Tristan, don't you dare suggest that!"

"No, no, I was thinking of post-natal depression or something," he said in
a panic.

"I am not depressed.  I am stressed and that has been caused by the cruel
and thoughtless actions of others."

"Well," said Tristan, quickly getting fed up, "I am out of your hair and I
can't cause you any more grief."

"You don't understand, Tristan, the grief of it is always with me and I
can't see a way out.  I can't expunge that part of my life and the blight
has followed me into my marriage to Rodger."

Tristan fumed inside at being referred to, even obliquely, as `a blight'.
His mother went on, almost rambling and this worried Tristan even more. "I
thought our life was good.  We were a little family of three.  I loved your
father--he was my rock-- and I loved you.  I thought we were secure and
respected in the community. We had so much to be grateful for. All that was
an illusion. Everything fell apart."

"Tristan noted `loved', but thought that perhaps she didn't mean it.  There
was no use in picking trouble with someone who was clearly troubled
herself. "You're right, Mum.  In was pretty good up until the end, but
nothing's perfect, even the love between parents and their kids.  There are
lots of families that suffer divorce and having a gay son."

"I never said that you being gay caused me grief."

"No, you didn't say it."

"Your behaviour for the last few years did.  I hope that is all behind you
now--for your own sake, I mean."

Tristan wasn't sure if it was just for his own sake but said, "Yeah.  I'm
pretty happy."

"Good, that will help me. And here's Rodger with Baby!"

"She was awake in her bassinet and just laying there looking up at her
mobile.  She's such a good girl!" he said affectionately.

"May I?" asked Tristan after a moment.

There were no objection and he took Alice and tried not to hold her too
stiffly. He thought he should think something, but found he could not.  She
was a nice little baby and looked rather like Rodger.  Tristan wondered if
he would have more connection when she was older.

"I'll get the tea," said Rodger and ducked out of the room.

"She's lovely," said Tristan, for want of anything else.  He attempted a
little jig and she squirmed.

"She wants a feed.  Give her to me when you're ready."

Tristan handed the bundle over.  Rodger came back in with the tea tray and
a bottle.  His mother fed Alice while Rodger poured.

"How's university treating you, Tris?"

Tristan realised that his mother had not asked a single question about him.
"It's pretty good, Rodger.  I got some good results and have been taking
some second year classes.  I received distinctions. Of course, Dad wasn't
too happy with a couple of Bs I got for subjects that I took only as
fillers."

"Still, that's really good, Tris."

"I've had an interesting holiday job," he added and went on to explain
about his work for Iain Macpherson.  Even his mother knew who he was and
had seen a television series he had made.  Tristan hoped that she was
impressed.

"What are you planning on doing here?" Rodger asked.

"Oh, we're going to do some sightseeing and I'm catching up with Saskia."

"Oh yes, a very bright spark," she replied with some asperity.  "You said
`we' are you here with someone?"

"Yes, I came with my roommate, Colton.  He's my best friend."

"Why didn't you bring him here?" asked his mother surprisingly.

Tristan wanted to state the bleeding obvious, but kept his cool and said,
"Oh, he's at the Natural History Museum today.  He'd really interested in
biology, evolution an that sot of thing."

"Must be smart," said Rodger.

"Oh, he is.  He was invited here earlier in the year and spoke at the
Linnaean Society.  Met David Attenborough."

"Well," said his mother.  "Perhaps he could come to dinner one night."

"Yes, said Rodger, "Is he the sportsman--the footballer?"

"Yes," said Tristan frantically trying to find a way of this mess.

"We'd like to meet your American friend," said his mother, "The boys will
be here on Thursday, would that suit?  Or are you going out clubbing with
that Saskia Hipwell?"

"I'm meeting Sas for a drink tomorrow, so Thursday should be good.  I'm not
sure if Colt has made any plans though.

"Send me a text," said Rodger in a friendly fashion.

Baby Alice was burped and, as was inevitable, some missed the towel and his
mother had to hand the baby over while she left to sponge the shoulder of
her expensive outfit.

Tristan took the opportunity of her absence to speak his mind to Rodger.
"Mum still appears weird, Rodger, kinda out of it even."

"She's on some pretty heavy stuff an she's been tensed up about your
visit."

"Then why did she invite me and Colton here again?"

"I don't know.  She does things like that.  She's actually a lot better
than when she was at The Nunnery--today just might not be a good one."
Rodger jigged the baby and made some silly noises.

"If she's like this, how does she cope with work?"

"No problem at all.  Her work is seemingly unaffected.  She withdraws into
it."

"Goes to her happy place?"

"Yes, if contract law could be thought so."

"How is Jago?" he asked, naming Rodger's elder son.

"He's pretty shaken after the drug thing.  He's actually out doing
community service today.  He's with a community group helping seniors on
the Old Oak Estate in Hammersmith--so it's pretty easy.  He got off
lightly, Tris, but it might affect his getting into University.  We'll just
have to see."

"Rodger, do you blame me for Jay's trouble?"

"You?  Of course not.  Did you introduce him to methamphetamines?"

"No, I never even knew."

"Look, I know you had your problems, but his were centred on a clique at
his school.  I suppose every parent says this, but he was caught up in the
wrong crowd."

"Mum blames me."

"No she doesn't.  She blames herself, but it's not her fault either.  If
anything, it is my fault.  I chose the school, I didn't help him enough
when his mother died."

"I'm sure he'll come good."

"That's what I'm hoping.  You'll see for yourself on Thursday."

"Ahh, about that..."

"Don't worry, your mother will be on her best behaviour for guests.  It
will be a bravura courtroom performance.  I'd like you to come, Tris."

"Thanks, Rodger.  I guess we all have our problems and they have to work
out in their own way."

"You're a mature boy--young man I mean, Tris.  I think you've become an
adult since you went away."

"It's only in the last year," said Tristan with a laugh.  "I put that down
to Colt."

"We'll, he must be a remarkable bloke. I look forward to meeting him,
although American football is a complete mystery to me."

"It is to me too."

"What are you two talking about?" said his mother as she re-entered the
room.  She took Alice.

"Football," said Rodger. "The tea will be getting cold."



Tristan couldn't wait until he got back to The Clivedon.  He needed to draw
comfort from Colton.  "How was it?' he asked.

"Bloody."

"What does that mean?"

"Fucking awful. She was a bitch.  You know, Colt, I think she's mentally
ill."

"Well, she was in that clinic.  Tell me what happened."

Tristan tried to give a faithful account.  Colton listened with a
professional air and Tristan obtained a sense of how he dealt with troubled
students at the Clinic.

"Sounds like it could be clinical depression or bipolar or something.  More
than just post-natal depression."

"Well, looking back, she was getting like this after Dad left and well
before having Alice.  Of course giving birth may have exasserpated it."
Colton nodded as he put his laptop into its case.  "And there's worse."

"Worse?"

"Yeah. I've promised that you will meet Saskia at a pub tomorrow night."

"How's that bad?"

"She's got a tongue on her--a bit like Alexinia.  She'll give you a hard
time."

"I can handle women, Tris."

"And..."

"And?"

"Mum and Rodger have asked us both to dinner on Thursday."

"Shit!  Will she hate me?"

"Rodger said that she will be on her best behaviour.  I think he's right."

"But she'll be posh an' everythang and I'm just a hick."

"Don't you believe it.  I let drop about David Attenborough and I could
tell she was impressed.  It will be informal and Rodger's boys, Jago and
Huw, will be there."

Tristan spent some time giving Colton a pep talk. Colton had agreed to
support Tristan and now, he realised, he had to make good. Then Tristan
introduced him to Indian food and he hoped that he had not been pushed too
far in one afternoon. However, Colton did not require hospitalization--in
fact he saw chilli as a challenge and Indian food was a moderate success.

Colton then came to see the difference between an English pub and an
American bar. They met up with the crew from The Clivedon at the Queen's
Arms in Queens Gate Mews.  It was a good example of a modern London pub.
The building was old and located on a corner down what Colton described as
`a posh alleyway'.  The food was basic, but Colton was impressed by the
beer served in large pint glasses-- beer rather than `hard liquor' being
the currency of Britain. The lively group had booked a pair of tables and
the noise level was high. The backgrounds of the individuals in the party
were much more varied than the students Colton knew back home.  Not
withstanding his recent experience with the Dutch, there were girls from
Colombia, Germany, Taiwan and France and Colton was exposed to young people
who thought differently about things and who had seen something of the
world.

Colton thought it was wonderful to be able to walk home full of beer and
fall into bed. The need to sleep weighed more heavily than the need to jack
off on this occasion and Tristan had to be content.

The next day Tristan persuaded Colton to forgo the Natural History Museum
in the morning for a shopping expedition.  They took a red bus to Regent
Street and Tristan repeated his journey of the previous day.  Colton was
decked out with to pairs of skinny-legged jeans--one black an one beige--
and some better tee-shirts and an expensive suede jacket with a lambs' wool
collar.  Then he spotted some boots--not cowboy ones, but the sort of
half-boot that was fashionable at the time.  Money was running low, so
Tristan insisted on buying these for him.

In search of a vibrator, in which they decided to go halves, they left
Regent Street and wound their way east past Golden Square in a maze of
narrow streets. In one they stopped.

"Well, I ain't been to one."

"I don't think you'll like it, Colt.  It's pretty heavy, not just gay."

"Such as?"

"Well, you know, leather and whips.  You don't want to end up in a sling
with a fist up your butt, do you?"

They were outside a bar in a yard in the vicinity of Old Compton
Street--the nominally gay centre of the Metropolis. It was early, well
before lunch, and Tristan wasn't even sure that it would be open for
customers.

"Might be educational."

Tristan shrugged and he followed Colton down the stairs from the street
into the darkness.

`Tackle' was not unlike hundreds of other small clubs in London.  The tiny,
stuffy foyer gave onto a large dimly lit space with a long bar down one
side.  There was a dance floor and the decoration wavered somewhat
unsuccessfully between 1970s discotheque and motor repair garage, with oil
drums, stacks of tyres and that sort of thing. An archway, curtained with
chains, obviously connected to a `back room'.

The place was empty at this hour, save for one man sitting at a table
drinking alone.  He was either a telephone repairman or had dressed as one
for some fetishist reason.  The barman was a good-looking boy about their
age. He was topless and wore football shorts with boots.

Tristan asked for two Stellas and turned back to Colton. "Satisfied?  It
doesn't look so exciting in the daytime, does it?"

"I guess not.  I wonder what the john's like?"

"Don't go there!" laughed Tristan."

"Our facilities are scrupulously cleaned once a month-- whether they need
it or not, young sir," said a voice.

They turned around to find two men behind them.  The older one who had
spoken with a slight lisp was middle aged. He had a full head of dark hair
streaked with silver that was swept back to disclose a small sapphire in
his right ear lobe.  He was probably once powerfully built but had run
slightly to fat under a quietly expensive suit that was teamed, somewhat
anomalously, with shoes made from alligator leather.  His cuff links, when
Tristan observed him light a small cigar, were miniature cocks and balls.

The other man was younger and more ruggedly handsome, with a short ginger
beard. He was dressed in casual clothes with boots like the barman. "Mr
Brooke is making a joke," he said.

"Yes, we never clean them," said Mr Brooke, pleased with his own wit.

Tristan gave a nervous laugh.  They were rather intimidating and he was
glad Colton was nearby.

"Were tourists," explained Colton baldly, extending his hand in a typically
Texan gesture. "Colt Stone."

Mr Brooke regarded it coolly, then held his cigar in his teeth and shook
the proffered limb.

"Morris Brooke, Mr Stone.  I am the owner of this club. This gentleman here
is Louis Delgano who manages it."  Colton introduced Tristan and there was
more handshaking.

Their beers appeared on the bar and Tristan collected them and handed one
to Colton who was still talking to the two men in the practically empty
room.

"Is that Ronnie Kray?" asked Tristan boldly, indicating the signed
black-and-white photo over the bar.

"Yes it is," said Mr Brooke.  "I never met him personally, but my father
knew him and Reggie quite well in the old days." He sounded almost
wistful. "My gran was good friends with their mum, Violet, when they lived
in Bethnal Green. The punters who come in here expect that sort of
thing--nostalgia-- so that's why it's there."

Then Mr Delgano spoke. "Colt Stone?  What's your real name?"

"That is my real name."

Delgano looked at Mr Brooke who said, "It sounds like a stage name.  You
know, `Rock Hardon', `Max Steele'.  Are you looking for a job?"

"No, I'm only in London for a few days. Anyway, I don't a have a work
permit."

"That could be arranged," said Delgano.  "He's a fine lookin' lad, Morris,
don't you think?"

"Yes, indeed," said Mr Brooke, appraising him while puffing on the cigar.

"You're from Texas, son?"

"Yeah, is it that obvious?"

Both men laughed and so did Tristan.  "Pretty much. Are you a cowboy?"

"Nope, a farmer's son.  I'm at college and play football."

"How'd he look in overalls or in all that football armour?" asked Mr
Brooke, rhetorically.

"Fucking hot!" volunteered Tristan who had said little up to this point.

"You have a fan cub, Colt Stone," said Mr Brooke evenly, "but I'm inclined
to agree."

"Well, I just wanted to see a gay club.  I'm not looking for a job."

"We could have you behind the bar like Billy over there or maybe dancing
with the other boys.  £200 a night--more if you work the back room."

"What happens there?"

"What do you think, lad?  Suckin' n' fuckin' and hardcore sling.  Piss, but
I don't allow no scat."  Colton nodded in apparent understanding.

"Take your shirt of," said Mr Brooke suddenly.

Colton looked at Tristan sitting on his stool and who merely shrugged again
and took a sip of his beer.  The quarterback took off his jacket and handed
it to Tristan then pulled his tee-shirt over his head in that jock manner
previously described.

"Very nice, Mr Delgano." said Mr Brooke.  "We could make it a little more.
You shave down?"

"Yeah, some.  M'pubes n'balls."

"Do you mind, Colt Stone?" asked Mr Brooke who didn't exactly wait for an
answer and ran his hand over his muscular chest and gave a tug at the
nipple ring.

"Nice smooth body Mr Delgano and look at the tits on the lad."

"The punters would chew them fair off in the back room."

"I'm afraid he's right, Mr Stone.  Even working this room, a lad has to be
able to withstand a certain amount manhandling, although I don't allow no
real rough stuff here, but he customers expect you to be available."

"Like I said, Mr Brooke, I ain't looking for a job."

"Humour me and take off your pants."

"Right here?"

"Of course right here, my dear, this is a gay club."

Colton took off his sockless Vans and slid his jeans down. He was just
wearing a pair of USMC silkies. Messers Brooke and Delgano hummed
appreciatively in unison.

"Those too lad."

The boy at the bar had stopped work and the single customer drew
closer. Colton shed them like a jock in the locker room and gave his newly
freed self a shake.

"That's a sizable piece of equipment, Mr Stone.  And look at his
orchestras, Louis! You don't get many of them to the pound at Smithfield.
And you'd have to sit down the back of the Temple," he added, indicating
Colton's folds of foreskin.

"Grower or a shower?" asked Mr Delgano with a professional air.

"He's more of a shower," said Tristan.

"You speak from experience, son?"  Tristan thought it pointless to be
embarrassed and he barely blushed.

"Do you mind?" asked Mr Brooke again. Colton didn't and the owner hefted
his cock and balls.  "A shower is good for the customers.  When they
squeeze you down there--even mash you--they like to have something to grab
on to."  He now grasped Colton's cock with one hand and was able to pull
the foreskin back to expose the shiny purple head with the other. Colton
let out a slight gasp.

"Very nice!" he commented. "Look at the piss slit on the lad, Mr Delgano.
"I bet you piss like the proverbial racehorse."  Colton said nothing as he
was being manhandled.

"Do you use a sound?"

"That's a metal..." began Tristan.

"I know what a urethral sound is," said Colton. "No, I never have.  It's
naturally this wide.  Guy at the Clinic got an infection from using sounds,
Tris."

"In the back room there'd be some customers who'd be trying to get their
tongues and pinkies in there, all just to make you feel good, Cowboy. Would
you like that?"

"I might, but I'm not gay, Mr Brooke." Colton finished up his beer over the
top of Mr Brooke's bent form.

"Never said you were.  That's your business.  I'm just thinking of my
customers.  When they see you walking around in just a jockstrap out here
or see you being flogged on the St Andrews Cross in the `Supper Room', they
don't care if you're gay or a Chelsea Pensioner.  It's all money."

"Fact is, Mr Stone, straight boys are at a premium," said the manager. "We
could make it a monkey if you could take a little pain."  Colton looked
puzzled. "£500, Mr Stone."

"Mr Delgano! Don't be so hasty!  The boy might have done it for four,"
cried Mr Brooke who was still rolling Colton's penis between his fingers
like a cigar.  "Turn around."

Colton turned around and both Brooke and Delgano now ran their hands from
Colton's wide shoulders down to his narrow waist and beyond to his calves.
"Do you mind, Mr Stone?"  Before Colton could answer both men had spanked
his buttocks.

"Muscle butt alright," said Mr Delgano. "Didn't move."

"Lots of squats," explained Colton.

"I think we might need to see your Aris."

"Look, I'm not working here and I don't know what you mean."

Colton received another spank, Mr Brooke's diamond signet ring leaving a
mark.

"Your Aristotle-- your arse, Sonny Jim.  Bend over and part 'em."

"Well, why didn't you say so," said Colton, annoyed.  Tristan wanted to
laugh, for Colton bent over like the worst slut and parted his jock buns.

"Very nice. I don't suppose you could take a fist?  I reckon Tosher could
have you opened up in a fortnight of intensive training."

"A fist!" cried Tristan.

"Here, look at this," said Mr Brooke to Tristan.  He stood up and fished
out his phone. On it was a poorly executed shot of a young boy in a sling.
He was wearing a hood.  The other man was older and hairier, but obviously
athletic and he had half his forearm up the rectum of the boy.  "Do you
know how old that boy is?"  Tristan looked and thought he may have been
about his own age or slightly younger.  Mr Delgano leaned close and
whispered unpleasantly in his ear.

"Never!" cried Tristan, but Mr Brooke nodded emphatically.  "And the man
was a well known sportsman--but just who is not for you to know or I might
just have to kill you.  The boy is his son!"

"Fuckin' Hell!" said Tristan, the breath almost knocked out of him. "And
that happened in the `Supper Room'?"

"No, that was not at this club at all and we don't employ anyone underage.
It is too risky.  But there are certain illegal gatherings...So, Mr Stone?"

"No thank you, Mr Brooke," said Colton, "I think that's enough."

"Just a minute lad.  Stay like that."  Mr Brooke tapped his moistened
middle finger against Colton's tightly buttoned sphincter.  He then sniffed
it.  "Mrs Brooke is away in Malaga and I'm having a little gathering of
business connections at my home this evening--quite exclusive and private,
I assure you.  £500 for making my friends happy--plus cab fare out
to Golders Green."

"I don't have £500."

"See, the boy makes a joke? I'd pay you, Sunshine."

"No, it's very generous, but I don't want to do it, now if you'd let me..."

"Wait just a minute, my dear.  Let's all have another drink as friends."
He turned to the barman.  "Four Vera-and-Phil, Billy."

Colton straightened up and took his gin-and-tonic.  He was still naked.

"Mr Isley, what can we do to persuade your friend here that he has a future
in show business?"

"I don't know, Mr Brooke.  Of course I could use the cash. £300
would be useful for a poor student."

"Ahh...Mr Isley..." said Mr Brooke, appraising him but clearly worried.

"I was joking," said Tristan and Mr Brooke relaxed and his smile returned.

"See what fine fellows these are, Louis!"

"Perhaps Colton could give us a little show," said Mr Delgano.

"Y'want me to dance?"

"If you like, but I want to see you wank yourself."

"Up on he bar, Mr Stone," said Mr Brooke brightly, "and show us how much of
a stud you are."

Colton leapt athletically onto the bar, knocking over a bowl of pork
scratchings.  He strutted along the bar like a performer and then made his
cock do a `helicopter'. He ran his hands up and down his own body in a
sensuous fashion.

"Touch your toes, lad," called Mr Brooke.

Colton bowed with a flourish and thrust his meaty arse in their direction
while he grinned at himself in the peach-coloured mirror over the bar.

"Mr Isley?" said Mr Delgano. Tristan looked over to him and he waggled the
tip of his extended tongue in a disgusting fashion, but his meaning was
clear.

Tristan, no longer caring that Brooke and Delgano were almost certainly a
pair of depraved villains, slid off his stool and went over to Colton.
"Stay like that,' he said.  He then touched the tip of his tongue to
Colton's pinky-brown fundament.

"We'd have to engage them both, Louis," observed Mr Brooke.

Then Colton suddenly stood and Tristan stepped back. He did a few dance
moves and then flipped himself up and proceeded to walk along the bar on
his hands, his cock and balls hanging at an unaccustomed angle.

Then, with a leap, he sat down on the edge of the bar and picked up his
flaccid `piece'.

He stroked himself without shame in front of his small audience.  It went
on and on, through the various stages of such things.  They followed his
every move, watching his changing expressions and varied actions.  His
young muscles flexed and strained and his flesh was reddened by lust as a
sheen of sweat gilded his masculine form that would have eluded the chisel
of Praxiteles.

Mr Brooke was kneading himself through his expensive suiting, while Mr
Delgano kept his hands free, although he was possibly plumped up in his
black jeans, and he was watching intently.

"Don't worry about the floor, my dear," said Mr Brooke at one point.
"Billy will clean it up. Let's see what you can do."

One..two..three...Colton came hard.  Shot number four was the big one,
while numbers nine and ten had to be wrung out.

"You have the position, Mr Stone.  Any more and I just might have made you
a partner in the business."

"Thanks, but no thanks, Mr Brooke. It made me hot having an audience, but I
don't want to do it professionally."

"It's the second oldest profession, eh, Louis?"

Mr Delgano shook his head in disbelief.

"Thank you for the free show, Mr Colt Stone," said Brooke, visibly red in
the face up to the roots of his silver hair. "I hope you play football as
well as you do cabaret.  I've soiled my round-the-houses, young man, and
that hasn't happened since Bernie Silver got out of bird."

Colton grinned at the underworld figures and retrieved his silkies,
although he was slow to fully dress. They had obviously given up on
recruiting Colton, however Mr Brooke was in a generous mood.

"Mr Isley, here is my card.  If you should be at a loose end tonight, you
are welcome as my guests at Golders Green.  If you would like to dine at
Chez Antoine, your money is no good there.  It is one of my businesses and
the duck is very good."

Tristan thanked him and helped Colton dress.  They regained the doubtful
fresh air of Soho.

"That Mr Brooke," said Tristan turning to Colton as they walked back to Old
Compton Street. "I think he is the one who was said to be involved in
Charlie Wilson's death."

"What?"

"A Great Train Robber who had fled to Spain where he was shot by some punk
in the 'nineties."

"Shit!  He might have killed us!"

"Made it exciting?"

"Shit yeah!" said Colton grinning and with a slight swagger in his gait.



They returned to The Clivedon with their purchases.  The vibrator had to
remain in its box because it would not work on British power.  However,
Colton, still `sexed-up' (as Tristan put it) from his recent display eyed
the new dildo lasciviously.

"You want me to try it out on you, do you Colt?" asked Tristan
disingenuously.

"Now Tris, you know I don't take anythang up m'butt."

"Except a tongue?"

"Yeah, a love a tongue."

"And a finger?"

"Maybe an occasional pinkie in the heat of passion.  That things goin' up
you, Tris, if I have to hammer it in."  Colton was joking--at least Tristan
hoped so.

"We can't make too much noise," said Tristan suddenly conscious of the
other residents as he lay on his back with his knees raised and his `hole'
lewdly on display for Colton.

"I can't use the `traditional solution'," said Colton looking round.  "I
didn't bring no jockstrap."

"I might have to punish you for that," began Tristan just before Colton
shoved his left high top Van into his nose.

"Put your face in there.  They're pretty sweaty from all the walkin' an' no
one will hear you scream."

They did stink of hot rubber and sweat and Colton had thought it was more
masculine not to wear socks.  Tristan held it aside until he thought he'd
need to muffle himself and took advantage of the fresh air.

Colton set to work with his tongue and Tristan squirmed in pleasure.  His
tongue was a strong muscle and he alternated force with tender, teasing
swipes.  Colton became clearly worked up and kissed and sucked at Tristan's
anus, making him think that he would prolapse into Colton's hungry mouth
just like the pair of college luge competitors in the story set in Aspen
that he had read called, `Rosebud is not just a Sled'.  But that never
happened.

"Right, lube!" said Colton eventually in a business-like manner.  "You
enjoying it?"

Tristan removed the shoe and said, "Yes, thank you."  Colton laughed and
planted a kiss on his lips and placed the shoe back on.

Colton set to work with his fingers:
one...two...twisting...curling...withdrawing...three, then stretching with
one from each hand.

When Tristan could speak, he remarked, "Why are guys so fascinated with
sticking things inside other people--girls and guys?"

Colton paused but left two fingers inserted. "Dunno.  Must be a
reproductive urge, a primal turn on.  Girl's get off on feeling good before
they'll let a guy in."

"Feeling good?"

"Yeah, might be `safe' or `loss of control' or `loved'--not often
`used'--not like in porn."

"And a guy might get off shoving his fist up a girl or a guy?"

"Sure--even if just in a dark fantasy.  We're sick, eh?"

"I'm not sure that men don't actually hate women."

"I'm not sure either.  I sure get off on sticking things in you."

"Even if it hurts?"

"Good question.  I could ask you the same thing."

"Good point. A bit more lube, please Colt."

Colton spent a very long time before Tristan accommodated (if that was the
right word) the new larger dildo--a black monster, replete with hawser-like
veins."

"Looks so hot in you, Tris," said Colton with eyes shining.  He was
stroking his cock as he looked down on his handiwork. "How's it feel?"

Tristan had cast the shoe aside as he needed big gulps of air.  "I can't
really describe it.  It fuckin' hurts, but feels good."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, but the best feeling is that your doing it to me and I'm pleasing
you in some sick way."

"You're actually turned on?"

"Yeah."

"Let's come together.  Think you can?"

Tristan actually found it was difficult and Colton held off until Tristan
secured a proper erection.  Eventually Tristan signalled that he was
`close'.  They came together on Tristan's chest and, after a pause, Colton
eased the dildo out, admired the `damage' and tenderly put some numbing
cream around the red and puffy lips.

"Enjoy that?"

"Yeah, I did. Must be a sick as you."



Tristan had recovered by evening.  They look the Tube to Leicester Square
and walked south.

"Know what that is?" asked Tristan mischievously.

Colton looked ahead to an illuminated classical building standing a little
apart from the others.

"No.  Town Hall?"

"Of course you don't.  It's St Martin's-in-the Fields."

"Oh shit!  Yeah, I never made it to the service because I was busy fuckin'
Jemma Swire."

Tristan giggled and they turned left down one of the many narrow streets
that so fascinated Colton and they were quickly at The Harp. It was a
traditional Victorian shopfront in dark wood with leaded glass with the
Welsh Harps in the design.  Two big `gin palace' lamps adorned the front
along with a row of kitsch hanging baskets in full bloom.

"This pub has the best beers in London," said Tristan as they entered the
long, narrow space.  "I had to book a table."

"What's `Shepherd's Pie?"

"Meat n'potatoes.  Mashed potato on top instead of pastry."

"So it's not dessert?"

"No, main course--sorry `entree'.

"Shut the fuck up.  And no curry?" Tristan shook his head.

"Go and pick a beer.  Get one for Sas.  She'll be along soon and she'll be
thirsty."

Colton walked up to the bar with its intriguing row of pump handles.  He
held a conversation with the Australian barman and eventually returned.

He had just sat down when a girl appeared.  "Tris!" she exclaimed and bent
down and hugged him until Colton thought he'd break.  Saskia was not the
willowy girls that he'd imagined. She was fleshy and round and wore tight
black pants and tall boots beneath a long coat of some light, summer
material.  She was sexy, but not strictly beautiful.

"I was so surprised to hear your voice.  Let me look at you..."

"Sas, this is Colton--Colt--my best friend."

"Well!  Hello Colt!  And so you play chess?"

Colton looked confused.  "She's teasing, Colt.  She didn't believe I'd be
friends with a jock."

"I can play chess," said Colton coolly."  Tristan knew that he'd made a
gaff.

There were some pleasantries and an awful lot of `catching up', Colton only
occasionally making a comment. Tristan suddenly realised that something was
wrong, but felt powerless to do anything as the evening moved along.

They ordered food--three shepherd's pies.

"I was such a mess, Sas," said Tristan.  "I was taking all these
pills--anything I could get my hands on and even hording them in the hollow
of the towel rail at Dad's in case I should want to overdose.  I was so
fucked.  It was Colton who helped me."

"Any friend would have," said Colton pointedly.

"No, Colt. You've got it wrong. Saskia didn't let me down.  I refused to
see anybody and Mum made it pretty clear that she wasn't welcome at my
place."

"Perhaps I could have done more, Colton.  I didn't know he was hurting
quite so badly. He kept it inside, but I didn't cut him, I promise."

"If 'n it was me, I wouldn't have let anythang stop me."

"Well," said Saskia.  "You probably are a better friend than me, but I love
Tris, but maybe not as much as you do."

"Come on guys, please don't fight.  What was wrong with me was my
fault. Colt, Sas was a good friend but I owe Colt everything, Sas.  He gave
me my life back."

"I can see that."

"Tristan has done a lot for me.  I wouldn't be here seeing London, if it
wasn't for him."

"Where would you be, Colt?"

"Back on the farm, helping m'dad."

"This is your first time here?  Do you like it?"

"Yeah, it's great," said Colton with renewed warmth.  "I came over with
some other students 'bout six months back--it was only for a week and we
stayed at the University of London."

"Colt delivered a paper to the Linnaean Society and met David
Attenborough."

"Cool.  Biology right?"

"Yeah, natural selection and stuff like that."

"Well, you should meet my father.  He was probably there."

"Who's y'father, Saskia?"

"Richard Hipwell.  He has the Fink Chair in Evolutionary Biology and
Environment."

"As in Hipwell and Mason?' asked Colton with surprise in his voice.

"Eric Mason died about eighteen months ago.  He was Dad's colleague, but
pretty old.

"Tris!" exclaimed an excited Colton, "Saskia's father was the author of one
of the texts I read this year.  That's so cool!"

"Shit, Sas! I knew he was an academic, but I never knew his field."

"Boring.  Want to speak to him, Colton?  He's at home.  I'll give him a
call." Without waiting she pulled her phone out of her bag and hit the
button.

"Tris, what will I say to him?" asked Colton in a panic.  "What do I call
him?  He's a proper professor, not just a teacher."

"Relax, Colt.  He' a nice guy.  He likes making lame `dad' jokes."

They could hear Saskia.  It was noisy in the pub and she held a finger in
her other ear.

"...Yeah...an American student, just finished first year...yeah, a friend
of Tristan's--he's gorgeous," she looked at the boys and grinned "...he was
with a group who were at the Linnaean Society at the beginning of the
year...yeah...yeah...I don't know, evolution and stuff...do you want to
speak to him?"  She handed the phone to Colton.

"Hello, Professor Hipwell...Richard then..." He stood up and walked out
into the street, despite the light rain, still talking on the phone.

"Well, that's a lucky break," said Tristan.  "He's a bit protective."

"I wish he'd protect me.  Is he your boyfriend, Tris?"

"No, he' not my boyfriend.  He's straight."

"So there's still a chance for me?"

"Aren't you going with Dominic Whatshisface?  Anyway, you can't have him."

"Why not, if he's straight?" said Saskia mischievously.

"It's complicated."

"Knowing you, I thought it would be."

"What's he look like without his clothes on?"

"Sas!  How would I know?"

"You shared a room for a whole year, sure you know."

Tristan caved. "His body is unbelievable.  He's the quarterback for the
college football team--amateur but they take it very seriously. It's a real
honour for a first year to start."

"Then I guess that's not football padding in those tight jeans?"

"We bought those today.  No, it's all genuine."

"Has he got a girlfriend?"

"I've lost count of the number of girls he's bedded in the last twelve
months.  He even picked up one when he was here last time--and that was
only for five days!"

"And no boyfriends?"

"Shut up."

"Well, you don't often get brains with a body like that, not to mention a
pretty face with that dimple in his chin."

"Yeah, and he's really nice too.  You know he volunteers at the College
Clinic?  He talks to students and refers them to doctors and counsellors
and that sort of stuff.  He knows a lot about sex."

"You're making that up, Tristan Isley!"

"No, it's true.  I couldn't believe it when I found he was my roommate in
the dorm for athletes."

"You in a jocks' dorm?"

"Shut up, bitch, but yeah."

"Are you sharing next year?"

"Better than that.  When Gran died, she left her house to Nigel and me."

"Oh your gran died!  I'm so sorry, Tris, she was great."

"Thanks.  Well, I used some of the money to buy an old house near the
campus and I've done it up.  Nine of us are moving in and Colt and I will
share the loft."

"Is that the honeymoon suite?"

"Shut up--and don't say that in front of Colt.  Have a look at these
pictures and tell me if it's the honeymoon suite."  He fiddled with his
phone and handed it over.  Saskia was still scrolling through and
commenting when Colton returned.

"Well?" asked Tristan.

"Your dad's real nice, Saskia.  He actually remembered my talk--I don't
think he was just bein' nice.  He was real `chuffed'--is that the right
word?"  The other two nodded, "when I told him the house was called `HMS
Beagle'." He nodded to the phone Saskia was still holding.  "He said that I
should come and have a talk to him. Where's Islington?"

"That's where we live--in Gibson Square."

You've been there, Colt.  Remember XOXO and Jessica?  She was the one,
Sas."

Colton blushed and said, "That was a mistake."

Thereafter followed a very British debate about the best way to get there
from South Kensington, from which Colton was excluded.

It was interrupted by the arrival of their food and Colton was so excited
that he barely tasted his shepherd's pie. Tristan went on to tell Saskia
about his mother's odd behaviour.

"She never like me," Saskia commented.

Then Tristan asked after her brother and about how Saskia was faring at her
father's university.

"Where did you two meet?" asked Colton at length.

"At School.  We were both borders, weren't we Tris?" That then opened the
floodgates of school stories and Colton listened because he knew Tristan
had done the same with Brady.

They were all in a good mood when they stepped out into the rain.  They
decided on another pub and Saskia led the way through a series of small
streets until they come to an open square.  "This is Covent Garden," said
Tristan.

"As in the opera?" asked Colton as they hurried for shelter from the rain.

"Yeah.  That's the Royal Opera house over there--or the back of it," he
said pointing.  "The front is in Bow Street."

"As in Bow Street Runners and Oranges-and-Lemons."

"Yeah, do they have that nursery rhyme in America?"  Colton nodded.  "Well
that's St Clements Danes over there."

"The market is gone now.  It's just a shopping mall," said Saskia.

"And here?" asked Colton, indicating the portico of a rather gloomy
classical building under which they were sheltering.

"This is St Paul's Church--the Actors' Church.  It was designed by Indigo
Jones in the early 1600s and was one of the first Italian Renaissance
buildings in England."

"I suppose American are always sayin' `That's old!', but that's old!"

They made a dash across the road to the market building where there was
another very old pub, The Punch and Judy.  They had more drinks and talked
about all sorts of things.  Tristan pointed out that this was where Henry
Higgins met Eliza Doolittle selling flowers.

"Cheer ap, Keptin; n'baw ya flahr orf a pore gel," began Saskia.

Tristan replied: "Really, sir, if you are a detective, you need not begin
protecting me from molestation by young women until I ask you.  Anybody
could see the girl meant no harm."

They roared with laughter until they looked at Colton who was not laughing
and only looked puzzled at their behaviour.

"It was a play we did at School.  Sas was Eliza Doolittle."

"And Tris was Colonel Pickering--he was the nice one."

Still Colton was unmoved.

"It was Pygmalion--you know, about the professor who teaches a poor flower
seller to speak and act like a lady.  It was made into a musical, My Fair
Lady.

It registered.  "Oh yeah.  I didn't know what it was called.  Pretty Woman
is a rip off."  They nodded.

"It was fun, wasn't it, Sas?  Sas was brilliant until she had to talk
proper and couldn't do it."  Saskia gave him a wack.  They fell to
reminiscing.

"You're school must have been pretty good," said Colton who had been
listening. Tristan knew he meant more than academically.

"I suppose so," admitted Tristan, feeling a little guilty, "but we had
nothing like he sports facilities you had.  You should see the football
stadium and athletic track at Colton's school. Olympic standard!"

"Well, they spend the money on football, but not proper teaching."

"Hey, don't say that!" He turned to Saskia. "Colton's mum is a teacher and
she's really insightful with kids."

"I suppose she is," said Colton.  The praise had come at the right time.

 They were getting rather drunk and silly and Sakia grew bolder and quizzed
Colton on his love life.

"So, when you're having sex, Colt, is it more important to satisfy a girl
or to satisfy yourself."

"That's a good question." He finished his beer.  "My round, I think." When
he returned a few minutes later he continued: "It's more important to
satisfy the girl."

"Why?"

"Well, I could say it's `gentlemanly' but I won't. Girls are slower to get
in the mood and to reach orgasm; guys are always in the mood and can get
off pretty easy--ain't that right, Tris."

"Hey! Are you dissing masturbation?  That's my hobby!" They laughed.

"No, it's true.  Girls are more complicated and their needs are more
mysterious. You feel great when you've made them cum."

"Or are they just faking?" asked Saskia.

"Could be, you can't really tell and heaps of girls fake it just to keep
their boyfriend happy.  Some girls go through life never having an orgasm.
I've had two girls tell me that at the Clinic."

"They haven't slept with you,' said Tristan.

Colton took this flippant remark seriously.  "No they haven't.  I would
have tried m'hardest to give them pleasure--even if m'dick dropped off."

"Oh, my ideal boyfriend!" exclaimed Saskia, theatrically.

"That girl I got onto in London--I won't tell you her name, 'cause y'daddy
just might just teach her--or she'd probably turn out to be a friend or
something..."

"A school friend?"

"Not unless you went t'Cheltenham."  Saskia shook her head violently. She
was a bit drunk.

"This chick wanted t'have sex bad, but she couldn't get over the fact that
she hated me, or thought that she should hate me.  I'd have sex with her
and make her cum, then she'd slap m'face--like I'd done somethang wrong."

"That's weird."

"Why did she do that, Colt?"

"I reckon she suffered guilt and shame for wanting an orgasm.  Maybe it was
admitting that she wasn't I control--I don't really know.  Like I said,
chicks is complicated."

"What happened?" asked Saskia.

"Well, I got m'face slapped a heap o'times until she threw me out.  Had
t'damn fight her to get m'clothes."

"Well, I've had guys who think only of themselves.  They get off and leave
you hanging.  I even had one bastard who got up and switched on the
football."

There was just a trace of guilt in Colton's expression but Saskia caught
it.

"Boys!" she said with contempt. "Just when I thought I'd found one who
understood us." It was her round and he went to the bar and was engaged for
some minutes with another Australian barman.

When she ferried the three large glasses back Colton said: "We should
introduce Saskia to Brady, eh Tris?"

"And who is Brady?" asked Saskia.

"He's a buddy o'mine from home.  Really understands the female mind."

"Humm. Does he look like you, Mr Texan?"

"No, he doesn't," said Tristan.  "But he does have something."

"I might have to come out there to see for myself."

"You're welcome at `HMS Beagle' anytime, Sas. We've got Deshawn and Hollis
who are footballers and Parker who plays lacrosse.  There's Carlos
too. They're all hot-looking dudes."

"They've regular features, I suppose," said Colton, begrudgingly.

"Don't listen to him; they're hot.  I'll send pics and biographies."
Saskia was laughing. "Anyway, what about Dominic?"

"Remember what I said about football? Maybe he's past his use by
date. Anyway, I'm off to Sardinia on Thursday and maybe I'll hook up with a
hot Italian.

"They like football too."

"What's your use by date Colton?" Saskia was obviously a little drunk.

"Y'better check the tag." He stood up lifted up his jacket and and Saskia
made a show of looking at the label on his underwear that protruded a
little above his jeans.

"Ah! Army issue. Civil War, I think.  Might have spoilt."

"You could give it the sniff test," laughed Tristan.

"Don't think that I wouldn't sniff a hot boy's butt, but right now I'm
feeling quite pissed and I think I'd better be going home. Big day
tomorrow."

"Taxi and not the Tube, Sas," said Tristan firmly.

They helped her into the street. "Colt, promise me you will look after
Tris."

"Yeah, I will."  She leaned in and gave him a soft, but slightly inaccurate
kiss.  Colton jumped.  "You are a big boy," she said with beery breath and
a leer. "I bet you could make me cum.  I'd do my best to fuckin' suck you
dry!"

"You're a naughty girl, Saskia Hipwell,' said Colton with good humour. "I
guess I won't see you when I see your dad."

"I'll be with Gio or Luca or somebody on the beach, with any luck."

A black cab was hailed.  "Text me when you reach home," said Tristan.  He
gave her a kiss.



"Saskia was fun," said Colton.  "English girls ain't as hung up as American
ones."

"I don't know about that."

"Well, Saskia ain't. Hey! I'm stoked about seeing Professor Hipwell."

"Colt, don't plan anything for Friday and Saturday, I have a surprise."

"Yeah?  What is it?"

"Well, it wouldn't be a surprise then would it, doofus?"

It was six stops from Covent Garden Tube Station to South Kensington and
they were just at Green Park when there was a text.  She was safe and the
message was surrounded by a constellation of heart emojis.

In their hotel room they were pulling off their clothes.  In London, the
rooms were notably cooler than their counterparts in Texas--especially in
summer, but Colton was pretty insistent on nakedness and Tristan was now
used to it.

"I'm glad things worked out with Sas," said Tristan.  "Thanks for being
friends with her.  It means a lot to me. I suppose it puts something right
that was left wrong when I was exiled to America."

"Yeah, I can se how she'd be good for a gloomy fuck like you."

"You think I'm gloomy?"

"A bit.  Should say `you've got hidden depths'."

"Maybe.  That sounds sexier."  Tristan was now down on his knees before
Colton who towered above him with his hands defiantly on his hips and he
determined to do what Saskia had boasted.



The next day Tristan was trying to put the dinner with his mother out of
his mind.  At breakfast, Colton organized a group from The Clivedon to go
for a run around Hyde Park, which was close to their hotel.  They were a
mixed bunch, but mostly young. One fellow, Milorad, was in his thirties and
it was clear he was trying to impress several of the girls, two of whom he
was travelling with.  He forged ahead and urged the others to catch up.
"Come on, fucking!" he called, a sheen of sweat on his shaved head catching
the summer sun which had come out. Tristan could see that Colton didn't
approve but Colton allowed him to take the lead, even going to far as to
drop back to keep pace with two girls from Iran who were wearing hijabs.
They were struggling, but Colton admired them for being bold enough to
travel abroad and to mix with boys on their own terms.

The route around the perimeter of Hyde Park and Kensington Gardens was
about four miles and Colton knew how to pace himself.  He could easily have
sprinted, but he saw this as a social event and made sure he ran alongside
every member of the troop to have a chat or share a joke.  Only Milorad, up
ahead, was on his own.

Of course the obvious happened.  At Cumberland Gate they caught up with
Milorad.  He was off to the side of the path throwing up and looking quite
distressed.  A policeman was with him and not looking pleased.  A lesser
man might have pressed on, but Colton had the whole group pause.  Tristan
talked the policeman round while Colton got Milorad to do some professional
movements to apparently ease his difficulties.  He shepherded him out into
Bayswater Road and hailed a taxi to take Milorad ignominiously back to The
Clivedon.

They continued on but paused for a rest before Kensington Palace.  The
mellow redbrick building set in formal gardens behind railings was
interesting enough, but a sleek car exiting through the police control
caused much debate.  Some said that it was carrying Princess Eugenie but
Birgit, a German nurse and keen Royal watcher, said authoritatively that it
was Princess Michael of Kent. Tristan was asked by Sakura, a Japanese
student, to explain who the princess with a boy's name was. Tristan
faltered and was unable to give a satisfactory genealogy. Birgit stepped in
and stated flatly that she is the wife of Prince Michael of Kent whose
father was the Queen's late uncle and who was killed in an air crash during
the War. She then went on to give the Princess's German lineage.

They were only walking when they came back to the stupendous Albert Hall,
which loomed over The Clivedon.  Here they stopped in the cafe and
entertained themselves for close to an hour before leaving, giving thanks
to Colton for organizing the exercise and promising to repeat it the
following day.

Tristan felt like some more sightseeing in his own hometown and hoped that
Colton did too.  They took the tube to Westminster and viewed the Houses of
Parliament.  Tristan tried to explain how Parliament worked in comparison
to the United States Congress, but found he was making a hash of it, but
stressed that it was paramount in making laws, unlike it's American
counterpart which had to find accommodation with an elected president.
They talked about politics as they strolled along The Embankment taking in
the mighty Thames until they reached The Mansion House.  Tristan couldn't
explain its name. They came back via another route and drank coffee sitting
on an ornamental bench looking at Cleopatra's Needle and the river beyond.

The Tube then took them to St James's. Tristan led the way.  "This is shop
sells the world's best shoes...this is the oldest hat shop in the
world...this is the oldest barbershop in the world (they went in)...you
know this business is famous for tobacco.... Here!" They stopped before a
wine merchant.  It was a lovely old shop, but Colton was puzzled.  Tristan
led him around the corner to a covered passage that led into a yard.  "Read
this plaque."

" `...to the Court of St James'. What?" He didn't quite understand.

"This was the embassy of Texas when it was an independent country.  Cool?"

"Yeah!  Shit!  I want a photograph of this."  He got out his phone.  "How
did you know about this?"

"Well, I thought I better know the history of the land I now call home."

There was an old pub--`The Red Lion'-- deeper in the maze of little
streets.  They had a drink.

"If I lived here, I would try to visit all the pubs in London," said Colton
with enthusiasm.

From Piccadilly Circus they took the Tube to Regent's Park.  Colton wanted
to see the Zoo.  There was some light rain, but Colton was pleased to have
seen the species of snakes that he had written about, but had never
actually seen in their native country.  Tristan only saw a couple of inches
of tail emerging from a hollow log.  They clearly weren't putting on a show
for the tourists--but Colton was `chuffed'.

It could be put off no longer; they had to get ready for dinner with
Tristan's mother.  Colton dressed in his new, tight black jeans and his new
jacket.  Tristan tidied himself up a bit--he did not feel the thrill of
buying new clothes for himself.

They left at a quarter-to-seven and walked down to South Kensington Tube
station.  "You don't really need a car if you live in London," observed
Colton.  "It's weird."

"Can't afford one or to garage one, is more to the point.  But, yeah,
public transport is pretty good.  No, not that train, Colt, that's the
Circle Line. We wait for a District train or we can go deeper to the
Piccadilly Line."  Colton was amazed.

It was a short wait and only four stops.  As they rumbled underground
Colton asked questions.

"What's your mom's name? I ain't never asked."

"Fiona Tilson-Beck.  That's the name she practices under.  Rodger's last
name is Trefeusis--it's a Cornish name, like Tristan, I suppose.  The boys
are Jago and Huw--he's the younger one.

"They all sound so `posh' as y'all say."

"Just like people everywhere, Colt.  You'll be fine."

Colton was not convinced but kept reminding himself that he was doing this
for Tristan. He thought for an instant of going into a bathroom and
practicing saying `Trefeusis'.

At Hammersmith they alighted and walked down towards the River.  It was
very beautiful and the bridge was elegant, especially when a dying gleam of
evening sun suddenly illuminated the scene.

In Castlenau Road the houses began after the shops ceased.  They were large
and seemed very ancient to Colton and they were mostly constructed in
imposing pairs. Nearly all had heavy bay windows that gave a rhythm to
their uniformity. There were plenty of old trees and Tristan explained
about the Victorian reservoirs that had been replaced by a nature wetland
that added to the open space of Barnes Common that apparently lay further
down the road.

They hadn't walked for more than ten minutes when Tristan turned into a
gateway.

"Wow!  Nice house," said Colton.  It was one of the villas constructed in
yellow brick with white cement decorations. He silently noted the expensive
cars on the gravel.

"Clients' money," said Tristan with humour.

Tristan rang the bell and this time the door was answered by his mother.
Tristan quickly noted that she was dressed with studied casualness--slacks,
flat shoes, and a summery top relieved by some gold chains.  It was very
much his mother's style: understated, no patterns and `good'. Her hair was
perfect and Tristan was sure she'd been to the hairdresser that day.

"Hello, dear!" she cooed.  It was a long time since Tristan could remember
being addressed by other than his name.  "Come in. And this must be
Colton!"

"Ma'am," said Colton.  Tristan felt that had he been wearing his Stetson he
would have touched the brim.

They were in the hall.  "Please, it's Fiona, Colton."

"Great to meet you, Fiona.  Tristan's told me so much about you." If there
was a flicker in his mother's eyes Tristan did not detect it.  "Come
through to the conservatory."  She smoothly launched into a commentary on
the rainy London weather, with side remarks about the supposed differences
to the climate of Texas, barely drawing breath. The weather and transport
were always safe topics for the English to disguise those that might prove
to be unpleasantly dangerous.

The conservatory was a modern addition to the old house that formed an
extension to the very flash kitchen.  Colton half sensed why Tristan did
not want a kitchen like his mother's.

"This is a lovely room, Fiona," Colton observed, taking in the immaculate
potted plants, hanging baskets and the informal furniture.  "We'd probably
fry under all that glass back in Texas."

"Well, we love this room for our family breakfasts," said Tristan's mother,
no doubt emphasising her central role in the life of a proper family, "but
it will be nice to eat our supper here tonight.  Perhaps Tristan could show
you the garden later." Colton looked out through the lattice of
white-painted windows and doors to a bright green sward of lawn that looked
like velvet under discreetly placed lights. He glimpsed, stone, trellis,
clipped box and a distant statue. "The Wildlife Wetland Centre is beyond
that wall, and is home to several rare types of birds.  Tristan tells me
that you are studying biology."

"I am.  We went to the Zoo this afternoon and I saw the species of snakes
that I wrote a paper on.  The Zoo is fantastic."

"Well, you'd like the Kew Gardens then. They are not far away and world
famous." Colton agreed they were.

Fiona drew breath as she went into the kitchen for the champagne.  Tristan,
who had said almost nothing, was just about to speak to Colton when his
mother called: "Tris, can you get the cork out."

They exchanged places and Fiona informed Colton that her husband would be
down shortly with the baby and that she expected `her boys' to return home
in time for `supper'.

Tristan returned with the opened bottle and filled the four glasses on the
tray.

"Tristan, did you say that Colton's parents grew grapes?"

"I did, Mum.  Their farm is in a very attractive part of Texas called `Hill
Country'.  It's quite different to where Hollis lives out west.  That's
prairie like we see in films."  Tristan steeled himself.  If she said `How
fascinating' he'd scream.

"That must be lovely, Colton.  We loved the wine country in France."

"We used to holiday there when I was younger," explained Tristan.

"Well, it's more hard work than romantic," explained Colton.  "Dad runs
some cattle too."

"Globoco has placed a steady order for their shiraz for the Corporation's
planes and functions.  It is hard for small vineyards to find a market."

"Well, that's just like your father, Tristan.  Practical help."

"That's true," said Tristan then shut up.

Colton was made to tell about the Linnaean Society and had just got started
when Rodger came into the room.

The introductions were repeated and Colton had to stop himself from calling
him `sir'--such was the habit of a lifetime.  He was then made restart the
Linnaean Society and his snakes and he was starting to feel that his claim
to fame was wearing a bit thin.

Rodger, however, saved him by directing the conversation to sports.
Tristan didn't mind that, for he knew Colton was comfortable and he enjoyed
seeing Colton admired.  Rodger knew a little about American football, but
Fiona was not used to being at a conversational disadvantage and ramped up
her praise for Colton's height and muscles and was even straying away from
good breeding when she commented on his looks and speculated (quite
accurately) about his prowess with `the girls at your university'.

Tristan was unsure if his mother's manner, which had gone from smooth to
almost garrulous, was the result of the champagne or some mania.  She was
now laughing at some remark that Colton had made about the unctuous man in
the barber's shop in St James where Tristan had bought him some aftershave
at £50 to replace the hated Axe.

Baby Alice was awake at last and she too was introduced to Colton.  She was
fed and then placed in a bouncing seat and remained the subject of much
attention.

At last Fiona stood and said she had to be seeing to the supper. Tristan
knew his mother was a good cook but had little time to practice it.  "Do
you want a hand Mum?" Tristan found himself saying, curious to see how his
mother would react without Colton's presence.

Surprisingly she said he could chop some parsley and so he followed her
back into the stainless steel empire that was her kitchen.  Tristan waited
for it, but it never came.  "Colton seems a very nice young man, Tristan,"
said his mother as she tended something that smelt good. "It just goes to
show that money does not compensate for character.  I've seen that often
enough in court."

Tristan thought that this was a bit condescending but detected no snide
edge to his mother's observation.  "Well, I think he's a terrific guy; full
of confidence and yet really concerned with the welfare of others.  His
parents are like that."

"You've met them?"

"Yes, many times."

"I'm sure your father would like him, he's the type."

Tristan took this to mean Colton, not his father.

"Yeah, Dad does like him--even helped him out when he was in trouble."

"With the law?"

Tristan hesitated but decided to speak frankly. "Yeah, a girl accused him
of raping her." He couldn't keep the distress out of his voice. "Mum, he'd
never even slept with this girl and thank God we were able to prove Colton
was on the other side of town when it happened."

"We try not to touch rape.  Too had to prove either way. But there was one
case I must tell you about sometime."

"Yeah, but there's more.  It was the girl's brother, and their father was
an important politician.  Dad helped, but you should have seen the way
Colton handled the father.  Got him to make a big donation to the Clinic."

"Jesus, Tristan!  All this happened in your first year?"

"That and more.  Pretty eventful, Mum."  Tristan felt the first tinge of
warmth toward her.

"I suppose with his profile he would attract that sort of thing." She was
busy taking down plates from a cupboard and then rejecting them with a
curse and searching for ones she deemed more appropriate.  "Football is
very important out there, isn't it?"  Tristan agreed and was just trying to
think of some other fact that would show Colton in his true light when Jago
and Huw entered.

"Tristan!" they cried.  Huw even gave him a hug. Jago dragged Tristan away
from the kitchen and out into the conservatory.  They were introduced to
Colton and Jago complained that there was no champagne left.  Rodger went
to get another bottle and two more glasses. Colton didn't think this free
attitude to wine would be so common back home.

"So how's the holidays, Huw?" asked Tristan.

"Okay, Tris.  Just hanging out with mates. We're going to Greece in two
weeks."

"`With friends'," mimicked Jago.  "Little prat has a girlfriend.  Haven't
you, Hugo?"

"Shut up."

"Well, you should talk to Colt.  He'd the expert.  Had more girlfriends
than you've had wanks," said Tristan.

"Yeah?"  Huw seemed interested and so did Jago.  "We'll talk later, man,"
he said like a grown up. Colton fist-bumped him.

"So how's Community Service, Jay?"

"Oh, you've heard.  It's actually great, Tris.  I'm on this nice estate in
Hammersmith.  I did the shopping for this nice old geezer who played
football for Chelsea in the 'fifties. Loves to talk.  And I have this sweet
old girl with a motorized chair.  Just have to go for a walk with her to
make sure she doesn't get lost--has dementia."

"Well, I'm glad for you, Jay."

"Hey Colt, you're built, man," said Jago.  You must play sport."

Colton admitted that had been known to and the conversation settled into
this safe rut once again.

"I want to go to America!" announced Huw.

"Well, there's a bed in Texas waiting for you--if you don't mind sharing my
house with six hot guys and three hot girls."

"Six?" said Colton.

"Alright, five."  There was laughter.

Eventually dinner came and it was served on the large mosaic tiled table
under the glass roof.  The sky was almost dark, but not quite and it
remained an attractive purple colour.

The meal was elegant but informal.  It was a tajine presented in the
traditional pottery of Morocco and Tristan wondered how Colton would cope--
but he seemed to. Rodger talked of their holiday in North Africa. Tristan
thought it was typical of his mother to be able to present such an exotic
meal as correctly as at a restaurant.

The conversation was general.  Fiona was still very `up' and periodically
Tristan looked toward Rodger to see if he was conscious of this, but he
could not read his expression. Then Tristan tried to describe his house to
the others and they asked some polite questions, but were not overly
interested as it was perhaps outside their ken.

After dinner, Jago and Huw disappeared upstairs and Fiona paused in her
animated conversation to announce that she was going to put Alice down. The
others repaired to the drawing room.  Tristan could see that Colton was
impressed with the grandeur of the lofty room with its parquet floor.  He
quietly pointed out one or two items that had come from his Gran's house
and bespoke of the nineteenth century tea trade.

"Mum..." began Tristan looking at Rodger.

"She's having one of her good days, Tristan. She has them sometimes and
other days she's withdrawn."

"Like she was when I was here?"

He gave a short nod. "The specialist is trying to get her medication
right."

"If y'don't mind me askin', is it depression y'all talkin' about?" asked
Colton.

"Yes. Maybe bi-polar or cyclothymic disorder.  Don't ask me what that
means."

Colton didn't know either.

They talked about other things and Rodger made coffee and brought it in on
a silver tray.  They then talked about coffee and Colton explained how
Tristan had introduced `proper' coffee into their group.  Rodger then
augmented the coffee with Grand Marnier served in tiny glasses and Rodger
was just giving the history of these antiques when Tristan's mother came
back into the room.

"I almost fell asleep myself," she laughed nervously and then moved about
the room, restlessly, straightening things--vases, cushions, a
picture--still talking in an animated manner.  "Must put these right," she
kept saying. Tristan looked on with horror; it was not normal behaviour and
his stomach tightened.  He looked sideways saw the same look in the eyes of
the others, but he continued to automatically respond to his mother's
questions and comments for fear of distressing her further. Then, almost as
a crescendo, her busy hands knocked a Tang figurine--one of her mother's--
off a highly-polished Regency games table. It was deftly caught by Colton.

"Well saved, sir!" said Rodger with an attempt at humour.  "Come and sit
next to me, Fi.  I've poured you a coffee." The incident apparently had
acted as a circuit breaker and Fiona too seemed to catch her breath and her
nervousness seemed to suddenly dissipate.

Somehow the conversation was restarted and it turned to Colton's
clinic. Tristan's mother, who had been silent since the incident, brought
up a case that her firm had been involved in.  Her manner was now calmer
than before.

"I didn't handle it, you must understand--it was outside my area, but we
were all keenly interested. We were testing the law on abortion in Northern
Ireland where it was still illegal until only just recently, even though in
the rest of the U.K. it has been legal since 1967, Colton.

"Our client had been raped--it was a dreadfully sad affair. She'd been
raped, but the law in that province made no provision for this and deemed
the foetus had rights irrespective of the circumstances it was conceived
in.  Our client could have travelled to England or Scotland to have one
performed, but it was costly and so she delayed."

"What happened?"

"We lost the case. Hostile judge.  She had the baby--a boy, I think.  Put
it up for adoption and then she took her own life--she had pre-exiting
mental health problems.  It was all very tragic."

"Wow!" said Colton.  "In College we're always under pressure from
Pro-Lifers.  There're ain't many clinics and some girls go across to New
Mexico where the laws are more liberal."

"That's really interesting, Mum.  I didn't know you took social activist
cases."

"It was led by Michael Cunningham, Tristan, I only worked on the articles
of organization for the supported care centre where our client had been
living at the time--quite peripheral. Our firm would have been better
approaching it from the point of view of European treaties rather than by
arguing it on case law."

"Still, you played a small part in something that will be remembered,
Mum--even if that step was an unsuccessful one."

"Why, thank you, Tristan!  I will spare you the story of how I successfully
challenged the appointment of the board of directors of Eastern Insurance,
which hinged on the definition of the word `severally'."  There was polite
laughter.

The rest of the evening was on an even keel.  It was raining so Rodger
ordered a taxi.  Both Rodger and Fiona walked them to the front door and
said goodbye with warmth. Tristan did not know when he would see them
again.

"What did you think, Colt?"

Colton was looking through the window at the lights that were distorted by
the rain.  "Your mum is a nice person, Tris, and I reckon she loves you.  I
could see a familiarity between you--d'y'know what I mean?"  Tristan nodded
in the darkness of the taxi.  "But she's ill.  She has `mental health
problems' as they say.  She's probably really distressed inside and doesn't
know what in the hell is going on, so you've got to be there for her, Tris,
despite how she's reacting."

"But the cause?"

"Only a psych can tell, bit she might have been predisposed all her life."

"Well, she was always pretty wound up."

"Then there was the divorce and that may have set her off.  Then there were
all the hormonal and emotional changed with having a baby late in life..."

"So, I've got a father with Asperger's and a mother with bi-polar and I've
been depressed and suicidal."

"Families is complicated thangs, Tris.  You're mom will get better.  She's
rich and will get the best help. They'll get her meds right.  And she's got
Rodger to look after her."

"Yeah, he's a saint. I'll keep in touch, no matter what happens."

Colton put his arm around his shoulder and gave him a squeeze.

***

Please look for the next chapter. Henry would love to receive feedback and
will endeavour to reply.  Please email h.h.hilliard@hotmail.com and put
Tristan in the subject line.