Published: 03 July 2017
Some days passed without sight of Bishop even at the hotel and Awen was beginning to believe he had somehow scared him off. McDonald was away working and Billings was never one for conversation without McDonald’s continuous banter to bounce off. Elyan had been released from hospital into their mother’s care and was exploiting Awen’s good nature as his personal messenger boy, sneaking in alcohol and hamburgers from Joe Beninati’s café whenever their mother was absent. With Margaret it was good food and fluids, no alcohol, no hamburgers, chips or any other delights that Elyan may have the taste for. It was a tight ship and for the time of his infirming she had converted back to his infancy, she was mother, nurse and doctor and that was unnegotiable.
Without Elyan to bother him at work it was most peaceful for Awen and to escape from being his brother’s errand boy, Awen commenced spending more time at Alices. Besides his twentieth birthday was approaching and seeing his mother had disallowed him to celebrate with a party at home, Awen decided to have his own at Alice’s. There he could make as much noise and mess as he pleased, without Margaret following his guests with a dust pan and brush, while forcing expensive designer coasters under every abandoned glass. All that remained was to issue the invitations and bring Alice’s home up to bachelor pad standard.
Sitting quietly nursing a mug of tea, Awen thought of moving much of Alice’s belongings into her bedroom and if there wasn’t enough room he could use his room as he had taken to sleeping in what was known as the guest room but couldn’t accept violating Bert’s room. With that notion he concluded he could no more violate Alice’s house with a party as he could Bert’s room.
“Maybe I could hold it in the shed?”
The telephone sounded.
“Hi,”
“It’s Rol Bishop I have some information for you: can I come around?”
“Sure,”
“I don’t think you will like what I’ve discovered.”
“What did you find?”
“Not a great deal but – I’ll be around soon.”
“Okay,”
Two hours passed without Bishop’s visit and as Awen believed he wasn’t coming there was a knock at the door. Awen showed Bishop in carrying a number of pages; some typed some hand written, as well as a number of copies from ancient news papers.
“Looks like you’ve been busy?” Awen acknowledged.
“Not me it was Betty who did all the work, I’m only the delivery boy.” He spread the pages on the table, “A lot of this is more to do with Alice than your Bert.”
“Would you like a beer?” Awen offered.
“No I’ve just had lunch and I can’t stay long.” Bishop selected two most official documents from his collection, “I’ll start with his birth and death certificates.”
Awen found the certificates interesting but they didn’t hold what he wished to know. The death certificated indicated death by miss adventure, meaning anything from falling from a horse to a knock in the head during a bar brawl, leaving the news cuttings to be the most revealing.
“This is the bit I think you won’t like.” Bishop said and passed a news report cutting to Awen. Slowly he read the report.
September 3rd 1899
Last night a disturbance in Asling Street was reported, with a vigilante group taking the law into their own hands, ended with the illegal killing by hanging of a young male. It appeared the mob leader Mr. Arthur Fields had accused Mr. Albert Thomas, a suspected sodomite, for molesting his grandson, a simple lad without speech or soundness of mind…
“Oh,” Awen softly commented on finishing the report.
“See what I mean.” Bishop explained.
“That’s probably why the family and Alice didn’t talk about Bert.”
“Yes but it isn’t all bad,” Bishop passed another cutting from some months later to Awen, “well it was for Bert Thomas but not entirely for his family.” He made light.
The second report was the inquest’s findings and vindication of Bert’s innocence. Bert remained suspected of being a sodomite but not the perpetrator of the rape of the Fields lad, proven to have been another lad from the town, who had thus left the district.
It appeared Bert happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. As for the vigilante killing of Bert, it could not be proven beyond reasonable doubt that Arthur Fields actually attached the rope to the tree or Bert’s neck. Arthur Fields being well placed in the town’s society, managed to hold the backing of the mob. It appeared the crime of being a sodomite far out weighed that of unlawful killing, so the inquest’s verdict was unlawful killing by person or persons unknown, ironically Bert’s demise was reported as killing and not as murder.
“So Bert was innocent.” Awen sighed.
“Yes but he was a poof.” Bishop grinned.
“So they thought but there isn’t anything in the reports to prove he was,” Awen protested as he collected the pages and cuttings together.
“Does it worry you if he was a poof?” Bishop asked soberly.
“No why should it?”
“You know, if there’s one bad egg, maybe others are also.”
“I don’t consider Bert to have been bad, just different.” Awen protested.
“Maybe so, I wouldn’t know.”
“Besides are you suggesting Sam or Elyan are as you say – bad eggs?” Awen cautiously disregarded himself from his listing.
“No not at all. I don’t know what I meant; suppose I needed to say something, that’s all.” Bishop quickly backed away from his suggestion and wisely Awen allowed him to do so.
“Can I keep this?” Awen asked.
“It’s no use to me.” Bishop paused and like Awen, he also had an alternate reason for his visit and that was to ascertain what McDonald may have shared about their adventure when they were children.
Sinking deeply into his chair, his gaze beyond the late afternoon’s window, Bishop searched for the words and how to ask without relating more than was necessary. Eventually he realised there wasn’t any easy way and he would simply have to trust Awen.
“Out of curiosity, what does McDonald talk about?”
“You asked me that once before, have the two of you some dark secret?” Awen gave an all knowing smile.
“You know don’t you?” Now Bishop was most animated. “What has McDonald said?”
“The truth is he hasn’t said anything about you or anyone else.” Awen admitted teasingly.
“But you know don’t you?”
“I only know that when you and McDonald were kids you were caught playing with each other’s willies.” Now Awen was patronizing.
“It isn’t funny.” Bishop sulked.
“I think it is and I doubt if McDonald remembers anything, he is only interested in himself and wouldn’t even consider your existence, besides it wasn’t McDonald who told me.”
“I’m not like that!” Bishop blurted out forcefully.
“It wouldn’t matter if you were.”
“But I’m not!”
“Anyway I’m more than grateful for the information on Bert, you must thank your aunt for me but there isn’t anything about where he is buried.”
Bishop eased from his anger. “She also noticed that and couldn’t find anything about a funeral in any of the papers.”
“I’m about to have a beer, would you like one?” Awen again offered.
“Best not, I should be going,” Bishop stood to leave, “are you living here now?”
“Not really but I’m here most weekends, it’s good to get away from Ely and his continuous demanding.”
Bishop hesitated, “would it be alright if I visited now and then?”
“Sure, I’d be glad for the company, besides my twentieth birthday is coming up next month and I thought of having a party.”
“When is it?”
“It’s the third, why?”
“I’ll be buggered, it’s also mine, were the same age. What time were your born?” Bishop expressed excitedly.
“I believe a little after midnight.”
“Ah you’re older than me by a good seven hours; have to call you the old man.”
“Watch it now.”
“I better be going, maybe we could have a joint party – see ya.”
Awen followed Bishop to the door, without acknowledging his friend’s suggestion on having a joint birthday party, again thanking him for the information.
With Bishop gone Awen once more searched through the documents in a vein attempt to discover the location of Bert’s final resting place but there wasn’t anything other than the news report and the inquest. Placing them aside he opened a beer and slumped back into his chair.
‘So Bishop’s birthday is the same as mine.’ The thought gave him a measure of respect for the lad but not enough to share a party. If there was to be a party, he would for once like to be the centre of attention and not have it share it.
‘He was a little protective about his escapade with McDonald.’ Awen thought. “Maybe a little too much so, I wonder what he’s hiding,” he asked rhetorically from the quietness in the room.
“I guess I’ll never know.”
“So Uncle Bert you were poof,” Awen gently laughed but it was not a cruel laugh, one more out of comprehension, “sodomite that’s a quaint expression.” His thoughts turned to Oscar Wilde and flamboyancy with men acting more akin to woman. Another laugh, to him a poof was a man who appreciated other men’s arses while a sodomite was one who bent over and received, while acting more like your aunt than your uncle. He gently shook his head and opened a second beer. ‘Funny how most stories you hear are about gay uncles.’ Awen thought of Sam, he was an uncle but surly not, even if Sam had made that long ago suggestion on the Bradshaw, Sam was much too manly to be so. What of Roland Bishop?
“I don’t mind Rol.” He loudly admitted.
“It’s funny he never became part of our group.”
“Maybe it was because of McDonald.”
“I wonder if McDonald remembers.”
“He must or why would he hold a grudge. I wonder if they went further in later years.” Awen huffed at the thought but could not avoid releasing an all knowing smirk.
“That is something I can’t imagine.” Another huff followed by a cheeky smile.
“But again although Ashe declares it so, I find it hard to apprehend him doing anything, even when he was a kid; McDonald the champion swimmer, best in his year in track and field,” a lengthy pause.
“Na he’s always chasing pussy and he’s never even looked sidewards at another bloke, not even in the showers.” Another laugh, “shit I’m talking to myself, I am turning into Alice.”
Awen put aside his thoughts on Bishop and concentrated on Bert; retrieving his uncle’s photograph he studied it carefully. Once more he had the urge to again try on Bert’s clothing but deciding the act to be somewhat lurid.
“Come of Bert what’s your secrets?” Awen asked running a finger down the figure in the photograph, “you were a good looking codger.” He added.
“Huh, that could be considered narcissistic.” He realised because of their likeness.
“Where did they bury you?”
“Maybe in an unmarked grave at the cemetery, if so it still should be listed?”
“Maybe they dumped you in with someone else, arriving in the dead of night with shovels and opened another’s grave and unceremoniously dumped you in like some unwanted carcass, with none to stand by and say some words.”
“Maybe like me you didn’t believe in god but still it would be fitting for someone to see you off, to say nice things about you, to shed a tear.”
“I wonder if the mysterious ‘M’ shed tears.”
“I would love to have known you and I don’t really mind if you were a poof.”
Awen laughed realising his own thoughts, his inner secret and how he felt towards Sam, now it extended to Rol Bishop. He was much like Bert; same age same secret, while the difference being Bert appeared to have had Alice to share his secret, Awen had no one.
“Come on Bert, tell all.”
Awen put aside the photograph and went to Bert’s room where he overcame his reluctance to dress in the old clothing. Stripped to nakedness he immediately became aroused but continued. The long-john underwear with the fading but strategically placed stain at the crotch felt like electricity against his skin and the ancient denim trousers shaped his swelling crotch and rear with perfection. He paused.
“I shouldn’t do this, it isn’t right.” He released the large belt buckle to undress.
“Why not they fit you well?” The now familiar voice resinated in his head.
“Who are you?” Awen’s eyes darted around the dimly lit room. He was along. He remembered on the occasion while visiting Alice, she also appeared to have secret conversations. Most thought it was her age and that her mind was leaking reality but surely Awen was too young to become senile. He decided to humour the thought.
“Come on who are you.” Silence prevailed.
“I can hear you but can’t see you.”
Before removing the trousers the voice returned. “Don’t take them off they suit you.” Awen’s heart commenced to thump. “Where are you?” He gasped loudly.
“I’m here with you.”
“Who are you?” Awen once again demanded.
“Albert but you can call me Bert.”
“But you’re long dead!”
“Only to those who wish it to be so.”
“How can that be, can I see you instead of you being a voice in my head?” Awen peered at his own image in the long wardrobe mirror and seated on the bed was his duplicate wearing the same clothing he was wearing. He swung his body around to face the presence. It remained and smiling broadly, it was for sure Bert.
“How is it possible I can see you?” Awen asked nervously.
“Because you want to.”
“But ghosts don’t exist, I must be dreaming.”
“Then I don’t exist.”
Awen quickly left the room his heart thumping and out of alarm he turned every light in the house on before taking to Alice’s favourite chair, his head spinning in disbelief.
What had he witnessed?
Was it real or was he actually dreaming, he slapped his cheek and felt pain. If he were asleep there wouldn’t be pain. It was then he realise he was naked from the waist down and had left his clothes in Bert’s room.
After settling himself he returned to Bert’s room and removing the remainder of his uncles clothing quickly gathered his from the floor and closing the door behind, did not change until he reached the lounge room. Once dressed he decided to return home where he could focus more clearly on what he had experienced, without the encumbrance of Alice’s house overpowering his every thought.
The familiar sound of the door closing behind him comforted Awen.
“Is that you Sam?” Margaret’s voice called from the washroom.
“No mum it’s only me.” Awen called.
“I thought you were staying over at Alice’s for the weekend?” Margaret joined him carrying a load of washing. “Do you have any dirty clothes, I’m about to put on the last load.”
“No I left them over at Alice’s, I’m bring them back tomorrow.”
“You look as if you’ve seen a ghost, what’s wrong, have you got a temperature?”
“No mum I’m fine.”
“You should go see Dr. Lenny you may need a tonic or something; maybe a dose of Castor Oil.” Margaret released a rye smile as her memory of Awen as a boy being force fed the vile tasting emulsion for misbehaviour came to mind and how sick he had been, vomiting across his bed and the new carpet in his bedroom. Castor Oil was often administrated to children suffering S.O.L., translating to shit on the liver or ill-temper, believed caused by constipation and there was nothing more appropriate than Castor Oil to loosen an unwilling stool.
What Margaret had not realised at the time, Awen voluntary accepted the dose and a larger than usual in order to become sick. It worked and that was the last time he had to suffer his mother’s good oil.
“No really I’m fine; don’t fuss.”
“You’re not getting yourself involved with anything are you?” There was concern in Margaret’s voice but reluctance to come directly to the point.
“Like what mum?”
“You know, I’ve heard lots of young fellows get up to it in the city.”
“What do they get up to mum?” Awen was humorously playing his mother.
“I was only asking.” Margaret remained reluctant to proclaim her anxiety.
“You haven’t yet asked.” Awen continued to tease.
“Drugs, you know marrajwana.” At last her reason was out, bringing laughter from her son.
“Marrajwana? It’s marijuana and no I don’t get up to drugs.”
“You would let me know truthfully?” Margaret asked, searching her son’s expression for any sign of dishonesty.
“Mum I wouldn’t even know where to get the stuff and unlike Ely I don’t even smoke cigarettes.”
“Your brother doesn’t smoke.” Margaret confidently assured.
“Then he must have been eating those lolly fag sticks, you get from the milk bar.”
“Do any of your friends take this marijuana?” Margaret asked, as for Elyan smoking, she would save that for another time when she was in need of some leverage over her first born.
“No mum they don’t, neither McDonald nor Billings smoke dope.”
“Dope, is that what you call it?” Margaret wouldn’t let go of the subject.
“So I’ve heard but truthfully no one I know uses drugs.”
“Fair enough, run these up to Ely’s room for me.” Margaret passed a pile of ironed clothing to her son. “Sam will be home for his tea soon; have you eaten yet?”
“I had a hamburger on the way over.” Awen answered.
“You boys, didn’t I bring you up to eat good food instead of junk?”
“Yes mum I guess you did.”
Entering without knocking Awen received a toweling from his brother. “Don’t you ever knock?”
“Why.”
“I could be doing something.” Elyan pulled the bed sheet high over his bare chest.
“Like what – wanking?”
“You dirty little bugger, not everyone’s like you, some of us have advanced from kids stuff.”
Awen placed the ironing on a chair beside the door, “Here’s your ironing my lord high and mighty and mum even irons your underdaks and handkerchiefs.”
“And my bloody jeans and uses starch, I’ve told her a hundred times, don’t iron my jeans; they look silly with a crease down the front – and no bloody starch, she uses so much I can hardly bend my knees.”
“Speaking of knees how’s the leg?” Awen enquired without conviction towards his brother’s mending.
“Not that you’re interest it’s almost better. I thought you were staying over at smelly Alice’s.”
“No I’m here.” Awen answered sarcastically.
“Good you can go down to the pub for me.”
“Don’t you think you’re drinking too much?” Awen suggested as he heard the front door open. “Mum wants to know if you’re coming down for dinner or do you want it on a tray?”
“I’ll be down as soon as you get out of here and let me get dressed.” Elyan, sitting upright in his bed, waved his brother away, but he remained until a well aimed pillow sent his ducking towards the door.
“Don’t get your nickers in a twist; I’m going, besides when will you be up and about as dad want’s to know when you’re well enough to return to work?”
“Never, I’m enjoying the attention.” Elyan swung his feet to the floor as Awen departed, “and if you repeat that to dad, I’ll rip your bloody head off.”
Sam had finished his meal and was reading alone in his room when Awen approached, trusting his uncle to be the only person he could share his dilemma with but how to do so was a problem. He didn’t believe in ghosts or spirits, not even of the religious persuasion and positively his mother or Elyan would ridicule such a suggestion. It was only Sam who would listen and give his opinion without derision.
“Hey Sam I have something to put to you.”
Sam placed down his reading in anticipation, “What would that be?” He simply asked.
“Do you believe in ghosts?” Awen blushed red as the words nervously past his lips as he waited for the put-down.
“Why have you seen one?” Sam answered without expression.
“Don’t know.”
“Well to answer your question honestly, I don’t but there are many who do believe they’ve seen something as such. What have you been seeing?”
“Probably nothing – more than likely it’s all in my head, you know Alice’s death and her connection with her brother.” Awen paused.
“Ah you’re referring to Bert.” Sam softly laughed. It wasn’t a scornful laugh, more as one would release while in agreement or showing understanding. Awen lost his nervous tension.
“I guess something like that.”
“Alice seemed to think Bert was around.” Sam declared.
“Did she tell you that?”
“No she didn’t say but I caught her in conversation on a number of occasions yet I can’t honestly say I ever saw or felt anything. I used to do odd jobs for her before you took over.”
“Well what do you think I’ve seen, do you think I’m going crazy?” Awen asked seriously, leaving Sam in thought for some length. Eventually he spoke.
“I believe you’ve seen something, or at least think you have. Whatever it is or was it can’t hurt you, so why not humour it and go from there.” Sam folded his arms and cocked his head to one side and smiled, “would you like me to come and stay over at Alices with you for a while?”
“Na I’m not really frightened, more concerned I’m going loopy and if Bert was a ghost he wouldn’t be the kind of spirit that would hurt anyone.”
“Well the offer stands.”
“Did you know how Bert died?” Awen quietly asked and on receiving the negative commenced to tell Bert’s story. He spoke of Bert being gay and as he did, he once again recalled Sam declaring as such those many years previous on Bradshaw Island. He disclosed Bert’s demise at the hands of a mob and how an inquest proved him to be innocent of any crime and of the letters from the mysterious author. Sam appeared to be most interested while hanging on every word. Eventually Awen came to denounce the perpetrator of the crime in the guise of Arthur Fields being an ancestor to their very own Barry Fields.
“It seems depravity runs through that family. Barry’s father is a right mean bastard as well. As for Barry the sooner someone runs him out of town the better,” Sam shamelessly admitted before adding a clause of warning to his denunciation. “You don’t kick around with Barry I hope.”
“Of course not,” Awen answered sharply, somewhat offended to think his uncle would consider he would stoop so low for association.
“You do realise Barry has been in trouble again with the police.” Sam freely admitted.
“No when?”
“I heard about it at the pub the other night, allegedly he broke into the hotel’s store room and stole half a dozen bottles of scotch.” Sam folded his arms and shook his head, “are you sure you don’t kick around with him, he was in your year?”
“Christ Sam, I can’t stand the bloke, give me some creditability.” Awen loudly protested.
“Good to hear it, problem is pinning anything on him, everyone knows it was Barry but his family gave him an alibi and he’s got away with it. As for the scotch they discovered in his possession, it was only black label and sold at most outlets, besides he said and it was confirmed by his uncle, it was given as a present last Christmas,” Sam paused and smiled, “don’t ask me how he, or his old man could resist the temptation not to consume it since then.”
“Ely reckons he’s gunna get Fields for causing the accident.” Awen added.
“I think he should leave it to the police, eventually our little friend will slip up.” Sam warned.
“That is what I said.”
“How’s the fishing out at Bradshaw?” Sam changed the topic.
“That’s another problem, I’ll have to get another tent, I left ours out on the island and someone found it and left it for a branch to fall through it.”
“There’s a tent in the shed.” Sam suggested.
“Maybe, but I don’t think dad will let us use it, besides it’s a full family size tent with annex.”
“Then you’ve a problem.” Sam collected his reading and marked the page. “Do you want to come to the pub for a couple?” He offered.
“Another night Sam, I’m not feeling sociable at the moment.”
“You’re not letting this thing over at Alice’s get at you?” Sam appeared apprehensive.
“Not at all, it’s more what happened to her brother than anything else.” Awen explained.
“All that was over sixty years ago and I don’t think anyone even remembers the incident. Don’t you think if our Uncle Bert was homosexual or not is now somewhat academic?”
“I guess it wasn’t academic for Bert.” Awen surmised.
“I guess it wasn’t but what can anyone do about it now?”
“Not a lot but I feel if at least one person gives his passing some thought, his short life wouldn’t have been for nothing.”
“Have you asked Margaret about Bert?” Sam asked.
“I have, she said she had no idea but appeared to be somewhat guarded.”
“Sorry mate, I don’t know anything either and I think you shouldn’t become too involved with something that happened so long ago,” a pause, “are you sure you wouldn’t like to come for a drink?”
“Thanks but I’ll give it a miss.”
If you are following this story, let Gary know what you think of it:Gary Conder
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