The Death Of Dreams

Forward

There are no heroes in this story, set in the mid to late 1950’s, it is a tale of misconceptions, of twisted facts, or even fabricating facts to make what little was known of a situation to fit in with what was believed to be right…..It is about prejudice.   Prejudice means judgement without knowledge or evidence, which makes it a tool of the ignorant, a tool that can be instrumental in bringing about broken dreams for those who dare to be different.

It is hard to know where to start this story; the characters become so entangled in the events that were to lead to the up-ending of their lives, that each, in their own way, could be the starting point.  But, because one of these characters was the trigger, by the mere fact of his turning up in the rural town of Landbury to live, I will start with Seth Jollet.

Chapter One - Seth Jollet

Seth had seemingly drifted into Landbury; this was not at all true.  Seth had already arranged employment as a legal secretary and paid a full six months’ rent on a ground floor maisonette several weeks before his arrival.  What he had left behind was a heart rending story, and one he never shared with any in the town….perhaps if he had, but then hind sight is a marvellous, but totally useless thing.

In the closing days of the war Seth had been cruelly wounded.  The crude reconstructive surgeries along with painful recuperation had taken more than a year; the knowledge that he had to live the rest of his life in enforced celibacy was perhaps the hardest to bear.  On returning home to his innocent young sweetheart he had carefully, and patiently, explained to her why they could no longer marry.  She had tearfully implored him to change his mind and stay with her, begging him, swearing that she was willing to live her life without children, without that close intimate knowledge that comes with the marriage bed, so long as she could live her life with him, she vowed her love was strong enough.  Seth’s love was stronger, and more realistic.  He could not condemn her to the half-life she would have with him, and if the maternal urge should over whelm her, should she seek her satisfaction in another man's bed, the pain of knowing that would be too much for him to bear.  The greatest gift Seth could bestow upon his beloved was the gift of being free to live her life with the fulfilment of her young womanhood.   And so he left his home town and the woman he had once dreamt of returning to in those dark moments of combat.  He set out to find a new dream, a new beginning.  Seth returned to education and completed his studies in law, he had no interest in becoming a solicitor or barrister, and despaired at the thought of politics, but he could use his new education to earn a living, and a modestly well-paid living at that, as a legal secretary.   It was after leaving university that Seth had drifted for a couple of years, unable to settle, taking his time, gaining experience in his employment, looking for somewhere quiet and out of the way to call home.   What lead him to choose the rural town of Landbury may never be known.  

Landbury was a close knit community; whole streets were occupied by extended families.  Family histories could be traced back over generations.  Everyone knew everyone else.  This meant that strangers stuck out like sore thumbs, and soon became the subject of speculation and gossip.  Seth working as a legal secretary was the first cause of more than a few titters and behind-hand conversations amongst the women of the town.   ‘Wasn't being a secretary a woman’s job?  Well, he was quite a pretty young man, and didn't seem to have much truck with the girls.  Perhaps he was the shy sort.  Or perhaps he was…..’  For the women, giggles and gawaffs replaced words.  And so it went on, gossipy, but mainly benign.  The men of the town had also formed their own and harder opinions about the stranger, they too, in their ignorance, had speculated as to why a man should be employed in a woman’s job, and although they would never have considered the word effeminate in describing Seth, his seeming lack of interest in the fairer sex led not to giggles, but to darker suspicions, and they, out of earshot of their women, gave voice to the question, ‘was this pretty-boy-stranger a poof, a queer, a shirt lifter.’  But there was nothing the town’s folk could actually point their fingers at in Seth’s behaviour that would cause them to bring their grievances about Seth to the local authorities, thus allowing them to give voice to the smug, self-satisfying statement of, ‘There, I told you so.’ 

Seth was too embroiled in his own determination to finally lay to rest his broken heart and learn to live with his broken manhood to notice their side glances and hushed whispers as he passed them on the street, or the silence that would descend on other patrons of the shops he frequented, the hushed and hurried conversations only resuming as he left the premises.  Seth never made any attempt to engage in convivial conversation, a curt and brief ‘Good morning/afternoon/evening,’ was all he would proffer, and then only as a return to a pleasantry first given.  He shunned company, especially that of women, their presence a constant reminder of a life no longer attainable. Socialising with either sex could lead to friendships, and friendships sometimes required the explanations that he didn’t feel able to offer.  He believed that the completion of his healing lay not with people, but with the once forgotten ambition of his youth, his love of art.   Seth was an artist of some talent.  His maisonette had already been rearranged to accommodate the pursuance of his passion.  His living room was now a bed/sitting room, the former bedroom, with its large facing windows, was slowly being transformed into his studio. 

It took a few years of careful budgeting before he finally considered himself equipped sufficiently enough to place a note advertising his skills in the Newsagents/Tobacconists window.  (Everyone seemed to use the Newsagents, but paradoxically, few seemed to buy the local newspaper,  the expense of advertising in a more widely broadcast paper would, Seth hoped, be affordable when he was more established.)

                                        

            

This small scrap of paper, ripped from the fly leaf of a paper-back book was, Seth dared to believe, the first step to achieving his true ambition.   It did not describe the kind of artist he dreamed of being, and although knowing he would always have to take commissions, it was not what he wanted to be stuck with solely having to do.  The fabric of his dream was woven with his own, not rented, fully equipped studio, where he could devote the majority of his time painting his own creations, from his own imaginings….to be renown, famous, recognised.   But, in the here and now, he still had to eat, pay the rent, buy fairly expensive art supplies, and so besides taking commissions, he would continue in his employment as a Legal Secretary.

For the town’s folk of Landbury admitting to being an Artist was as good as Seth confirming their suspicions about his sexual interests.  For them Artists fell into the same ‘arty-farty’ category as writers and poets, and so ignoring the rampant male exploits of the Byron’s and Shelley’s they dwelt on the outrageous scandals of the Wilde’s and Coward’s.   The sad fact being that they knew not the names or lives of any leading painters that heralded themselves as fellow countrymen, not unless they had been prominent in the reporting’s of the gutter press.  And so they watched and whispered, but as Seth’s behaviour gave them no cause for alarm, no direct or violent action was taken against him.  There were even those, who could afford and admired his artwork, who would shrug off his supposed homosexuality as all part of the ‘artistic temperament.’  Seth Jollet was tolerated, and so long as he kept himself to himself, was, after a fashion and over the years, accepted……until the day he met fellow artist Reg Pewsley.

Chapter Two – A Good Girl Wronged

Reg Pewsley lived in one of the more run down and poorest local authority housing estates.  He had been the result of his mother, Annie Cawl, being ‘no better than she ought.’  The rumour had circulated that the child’s father was one of the Yankee soldiers that,  during the war, had been stationed at a nearby Barrack.  Not that this in itself would have been a necessary cause for scandal, many a girl during the war years had ‘put the cart before the horse’ on the understanding that marriage would be on the cards when her beau returned, for the saddest of reasons some did not, and the young mother and child were never subject to anything but the deepest pity.  Annie’s parents could well have used this excuse to explain their own daughter’s unwed state of motherhood, but it was already known that the Yankee soldier in question was black.  And so the whispers and insinuations were rife, ‘Not that anyone had anything against the black boy soldiers, hadn’t the men of the town championed their cause when the other white Yankee  soldiers had none too politely requested that the local landlord refuse them permission to drink in his pub?’  The big but would always follow, ‘BUT, you wouldn’t want a black boy messing with your daughter.  And for a girl to give herself willing to a man who, well let’s face it, didn’t quite look like us, was a downright disgrace and a perversion.’

The truth of these evil rumours was close to and far from the truth.  Annie and her handsome soldier boyfriend, Private Jethro Bolton, had been stepping out.  Jethro had been raised to understand that love and respect go together and had never asked more from her than the gentlest of kisses.  He was fully cognisant of the fact that because of his colour their love would have to remain a secret, Annie had difficulty with this; she wanted to shout their love from the rooftops.  Their noisy exchange on this subject was overheard one afternoon, from their private meeting place behind the church hall, by Annie’s uncle, Charlie Cawl; he stood swaying drunkenly, hidden from their sight, watching them, his anger and disgust overwhelming his senses.  Jethro eventually calmed the girl down and assured her that their love would not be hidden for ever, kissing her lovingly, he then departed. 

Leaning back against the hall wall Annie let the sweet dreams of marrying and having babies with her true love wash over her, he had promised that their life together would be in America, ‘New York, in the good old US of A,’ he had said, the way he had said it made her laugh.  Annie didn’t hear her uncle’s drunken approach, before she was aware, was able to make sense of anything; she had been roughly hauled forward by her blouse front and thrown to the ground.  Annie half turned and pulled herself up to rest on her elbows, unaware that her rough handling had ripped the buttons from her blouse, leaving her with just a flimsy chemise to maintain her modesty.  Stooping forward Charlie slapped her face and once more grabbed at her clothing,  his intention was to haul the girl to her feet and march her home to confront her father with her outrageous behaviour, talking to a blackie was one thing, but kissing, kissing.  The flimsy chemise gave in his hands, ripping open and exposing her tender young breasts.  The thought that the blackie might have recently pleasured himself with the sweetness before him inflamed Charlie in another way, anger now mixed with carnal desire, his drunken thoughts crossed the line of decency and became beyond his control. Dropping to his knees, he roughly, and with panting breath, pulled her skirt up. 

When he had finished with her he started to yell at her, no words had passed his lips until then, just the pants and grunts of unbridled lust.  He called her a wanton whore, a perverted Jezebel, his own words and yet more erroneous and imagined  thoughts of her couplings with the black once more rekindling his dreadful desire, back-handling her hard about the face he yet again tore her thighs apart to satisfy himself.  His first bestial grunt ended in an indignant yelp.  Someone was pulling him off her.  The someone then yelled,  “Charlie, for all that is holy, you’re a married man…..” The someone then looked down at the helpless girl.  “Annie!”  Annie’s mind, half-conscious with shock and pain, returned with the voice of her father Stan.  He stared in horror at his girl laying there, her blouse and chemise torn apart, her skirt pulled up to her waist with her thighs spread and giving her a helpless vulnerability that was heart rending, the crutch of her drawers was ripped open and bloody.  Confused and not wanting to believe what was before him Stan turned to stare at his brother.  Charlie, now standing and stinking of ale, had his trousers and underwear around his ankles, his thighs and genitals also bloodied, but not with any injury of his, not like Stan’s sweet little lass.  Fighting back the vomit, Stan raised his fist to strike his brother.

Charlie threw his hands up to ward off the blow, shouting, “No brother, no, not until you’ve heard me out, not until you hear the truth of it….that little whore of a witch lead me to it, her and her rutting’s with a blackie, out in the open, in broad daylight, for all to see,  she’s a perverted taste for it, she led me on in my drunkenness, do you really think I would have even thought to, to…that, with my own flesh and blood.  I saw her with my own eyes, wild with him she was, savages they were, tearing the clothes from each other, eager like animals to be at it, she was still wanting more after he had left her, and she turned her lusts on me and exposed herself when I tried to bring her home to you, God forgive me, if I have sinned before God, then I was led to that sin in my cups and against my nature.”  So convincing was Charlie that his brother stayed the blow and growled at his daughter, “And what say you girl?”  Annie had by then pulled her skirt down and covered her breasts with her tattered blouse, still shocked and in pain she mumbled her reply, ”No Dad, my Jethro would’ve never have used me, he never touched me in a rude way, not  ever. And would never have hurt me so, it was he, Uncle Charlie that…that…”  The poor girl could not even give voice, did not even know the words, to describe what Charlie had done to her…  Stan had lowered his fist, but then a memory crept into his mind.  Ripping off his jacket he threw it at his daughter saying, ‘’Get home to your Mother, run, and don’t stop to speak to anyone.’’  Annie pulled her father’s jacket on and wrapping it tight around her ran homewards.  As Stan watched her go and his heart broke at the sight of her, she looked like a small child again in his oversized jacket.  The memory spun in his head once more, the morning after his wedding night, there had been his new bride’s virgin blood on the  sheets, and a smear across his thigh….Virgins blood…..Charlie had just finished dressing himself, Stan turned toward him, and stepping forward he beat his once beloved brother to a pulp.

As her belly swelled Annie’s father was only too willing to let the town believe that his daughter had been ‘caught out’ by a black soldier.  Poor, but proud, the rest of the family agreed that it was better to allow the maligning of Annie’s virtue than to bring the awful truth into public knowledge.  Ostracized by his family Charlie Cawl left Landbury with his wife, his disgraceful crime forever hidden from the town’s folk.    Jethro Bolton never returned to Landbury, whether it was because he had been killed in action, or he had heard of Annie’s pregnancy and could not bear her supposed betrayal, Annie knew not, she could never have faced him again anyway, his purity would always be too much for her soiled and sullied soul to bear, her dreams had been brutally slain.

Chapter Three – Raising a Boy to a Man

Fortunately, it was said, the child when it arrived took after its mother’s side of the family, and although Annie loved her baby son, he would always be what she considered to be  her changeling, changeling because he was not Jethro’s sweet baby, the baby that she had dreamed of bearing.   Although the young mother may have had her reputation in tatters, her sweet, pretty looks, if having taken on a somewhat haunted air, remained.  A young bull of a man, Fenton Pewsley, who worked as a builder and part time Auxiliary Fireman, soon had his lusty eye on her, and readily agreed to take on her brat if she were to become his wife.  Pewsley tolerated Reg for the first few years of his life, after three years Pewsley figured that the reason for no child of his own making an appearance was the fault of his wife’s unnatural half black issue, his conception and birth had undoubtedly poisoned her insides, killing his honest white unborn before they could develop.  It never once occurred to him that the fault may lay with him.   His tolerance of Reg became ever more strained.

Reg’s first good hiding came when he was five years old.  Reaching clumsily across the supper table to take another slice of bread and butter his arm brushed against his glass of milk.  Before the child could grab it, it spilled into Pewsley’s lap.  Pushing himself back from the table, Pewsley reached over and grabbed the child by the hair.  He dragged the boy across the corner of the table, sending cutlery and crockery clattering to the floor.  Annie had sprung from her chair and now stood back from the scene, her hands covering her face in fear.  Hoisting Reg across his milk soaked lap he pulled the back of the boys shorts down, exposing his bare buttocks.  Bringing the flat of his hand down hard he produced the first high pitched scream of, ‘Mummy!’’ from the child.  This plea for help seemed to incense the man further, blow after blow were brought down on the child’s reddening backside.  Reg’s screams became whimpers, as the pain and fear drained him.  Finally Annie dared to defy her husband and say, ‘’Fenton, please, you’ll kill the child.’’   Finally Pewsley ceased and stood up, tumbling the disregarded child to the floor.  Before passing his wife, on his way out of the door, he stopped and grabbing her roughly by the throat he viciously jabbed her twice in the face, just under her eye, with his gnarled and work hardened index finger.  His words were spiteful and spit laden, “Keep your unnatural bastard out from under my feet, and teach him manners before he sits at my table again, or next time….”

There were to be many ‘next times.’  Reg’s first beating with his step-father’s belt came when he was ten.  It had been delivered in punishment when Reg had been brought home by the local policeman for ‘scrumping’ apples from a neighbour’s garden.  The policeman had told Pewsley, “Technically, it’s stealing; I’ll leave it to you then, Pewsley, to teach your son the error of his ways.”  It was possible that being caught at the childhood past time of scrumping would have been dealt with by the customary, and hard, clip to the back of the head, but the police man had called Reg ‘Pewsley’s son,’ and the old resentments had surfaced anew in Pewsley’s brain.  The beating took place in the back garden, neighbours watched, but none interfered.  It was a man’s right to discipline his son, except for feeling that he had been perhaps a little heavy handed, there was nothing but admiration for the man who appeared determined to raise this boy, not even his own, as a respectable member of society.

At the onset of puberty Pewsley’s treatment of the boy became even more abusive.  Reg had the usual household chores he was expected to attend to.  One of them was ensuring the coal scuttle by the living room fire was always fully laden, and that the fire was well tended before his step-father’s return from work.  Earlier that day at school Reg had discovered that if you carefully ripped out fly sheets from school reference books it would go completely unnoticed.  The teachers were more used to these books being defaced by scribbling’s and foul, if mis-spelt, words than they were by the odd blank pages going missing. 

His mother had reminded him about the scuttle and fire half an hour before Pewsley was due home, Reg had replied, “Yes Mum, I’m doing it, OK,” and had promptly gone upstairs to his room.  It only took ten minutes to attend to his chore, so he felt he had plenty of time.  Twenty-five minutes later Reg was still laid, stomach down, on his bed drawing on one of the pilfered fly sheets.  He had on occasion shown his drawings to his friends, and they had been full of praise and admiration, often requesting, if they could find something for him to draw on, usually an old sweet bag, portraits of themselves, which he was particularly good at.   At that moment what he was engrossed in was the depiction of a naked man.  He really wanted to do one of a lady, but even alone in his room, shyness had overcome him.  He thought that perhaps later, he could add and subtract certain attributes to make his drawing feminine.  The very idea of creating his own naked female beauty made his hand, seemingly of its own accord, reach inside his trousers, he had become acquainted with this private pleasure on a number of occasions just lately.  Before his revelries could rise to a more intense level, his bedroom door was flung open.  Pewsley strode purposefully into the room and delivering a hard clout to the back of Reg’s head, he shouted, “So, you’d rather play with yourself than help your mother with the chores eh?  The fire’s nearly out you lazy good for nothing …..”  Then his eyes alighted on Reg’s drawing.  His face suffused with blood, his eyes opened in shock and horror, in a breathless whisper he rasped, ”You filthy, dirty, little scum….you perverted…..”  The first punch rolled the embarrassed Reg over, on to his back.  Pewsley hadn’t finished with him, swearing to ‘knock the perversions  out of him,’ his fists battered the lad into unconsciousness.  Reg’s injuries prevented his attendance at school for a week, when he did return he brought with him a note of explanation from his step-father, it simply read, “He fell down the stairs, but he’s alright now.”  Reg’s mother said nothing.

Chapter Four – A Chance Meeting

No longer daring to practise his art at home, Reg took to evening sessions (after chores and tea) of drawing on the pavement of the local children’s playground.  He had filched the coloured chalks from school, the teachers were always misplacing them anyway, so he doubted if they were of any great value that they were so readily unmissed.  One day, in his fourteenth year, Reg was so preoccupied with his pavement art that he didn’t notice that sitting on a nearby bench, watching him, was Seth Jollet.  Seth decided to wait until the youngster had finished before wandering over to take a look, of course it might be nothing but crude and course graffiti, but there was something about the lad’s intensity that said differently.   Changing his mind about waiting, Seth walked over.  He couldn’t take his eyes from the chalk drawing.  In the bright primary colours of the chalk, and with deep and meaningful shadowing the picture leapt from the pavement along with its strong and violent theme.  It depicted a naked youth, triumphant with one fist raised to the heavens, standing with his foot pressing down on the throat of his foe.  The foe was a large, muscular man, in stark contrast to the youth who was slightly built, in fact built exactly like the youngster crouched before Seth.  Seth wondered if this drawing had come from the very depths of the youngster’s soul.  Reg’s voice made him jump, “It’s just a drawing mister.”  “No,” replied Seth quietly, “It’s not, and you bloody well know it’s not.”  Reg’s grin at this acknowledgement was accompanied by a wince of pain, his latest ‘punishment’ had left him with a split lip.  Seth had noticed the cuts and bruises on the youngsters face earlier, and so asked him, “What happened to you?”  Reg shrugged and turning his face toward his artwork again mumbled, “I’m clumsy is all.”  Seth didn’t pursue the matter, he too had things he’d rather not talk about, and he could respect that in others.  Leaving the youth to finish his work in peace, Seth returned to his former position on the bench.

After a while Reg joined him.  Sitting down he said, “Here, I know you, you’re that queer artist.”  “I’m that what?” Replied Seth, with a slight chuckle in his voice,  he was well aware that the rumours still persisted, even after his years as a resident in the town, but this was the first time anyone had voiced them to his face.  “You know,” Reg went on to explain, in case Seth should have doubts of what a queer was, “Queer, poofta, shirt lifter….”  “Yes alright,” Seth hurriedly interrupted him before the explanations became any cruder, “You at least got the artist bit right.”  “Look,” Reg continued, stuck on the theme, “It don’t matter to me, I don’t care what you are.”  “Glad to hear it,” replied Seth, “But, I am not a homosexual.”  Reg shrugged and gave another painful grin, believing that he could understand the man’s reluctance to make such an admission, and yet showing that he really wasn’t concerned by it.  Seth gave up trying to convince him, as the youngster had said, what did it matter anyway.  As Reg rose to leave, Seth said to him, nodding toward the pavement art, “Your work is excellent by the way; it puts me in mind of some of Siqueiros’s wall art.”  Reg’s blank expression led Seth to explain further, “David Alfaro Siqueiros, he’s a world famous artist from Mexico, he’s also renowned for painting huge works on walls, murals, I can loan you a reference book on him if you like.”  “No, no!” replied Reg hurriedly, taking a book on art home was unthinkable and just asking for trouble, but he really would like see it.  “I’ll meet you here tomorrow, same time, bring it then.”

Reg did no drawing that following evening; instead he let a dream blossom within the pages showing the artistry of David Alfaro Siqueiros.  At last, he knew who he was, why he was, what he wanted to become.   He once again prudently refused the proffered loan of the book and left Seth in the playground to make his way to the Common to join his friends.  His mind was buzzing and bursting with ideas and plans, and his new dream.

Chapter Five – Childhood Friends

Reg looked round at his circle of friends and announced, “I’m going to be the next Siqueiros.”  With that he tossed his cigarette end into the long sun-scorched grass nearby.   He stared at the place hopefully, longing to see a wisp of smoke, or a flicker of flame.  How great would that be?  To start a wild fire, like you hear about on the wireless, in those hot, far off lands, but to start one right here, on the Common.  It would mean that his step-Dad, an Auxiliary Fire-fighter, might be called to put it out, and he might burn his hands, real bad, so bad that he could no longer form fists or wield the thick black leather strap, he would be helpless, and Reg would be free to chase his new born dream.

His friends’ silence drew his attention back to them.  He had been expecting at least one ‘wow’ brought about by his announcement, even if they didn’t know who Siqueiros was.  Their faces were indeed blank.  “You know, Siqueiros, he’s famous for painting on walls, muriels they’re called, his paintings sell for a fortune.”  He took delight in exposing their ignorance, but was still met with a wall of confused silence.  Then the youngest member of their gang, Peter, desperate to impress Reg, piped up, “My big brother once drew a big hard cock, with balls, on the school bog-house wall.”  That had drawn their attention, Siqueiros, for all his worth, was now a non-contender.  Giving a shriek of delighted laughter, Sharon, Reg’s girlfriend, said, “I remember that, it was real life-like too, didn’t half make me and Hazel laugh, didn’t it Haze?”  Hazel blushed and hid her face with her hands, embarrassed and amused by the memory.  Reg, completely unimpressed by Peter’s revelation made a mental note not to question Sharon on how she knew that the picture of the cock was life-like, some things were better not known, it did however, cause him some chagrin that so far he hadn’t ever been allowed access to the delights kept inside her blouse.  The others continued their debate on the merits of Peter’s big brother’s artwork, which, to Sharon’s noisy pleasure, had been nicknamed Muriel.  Reg ignored them and looked once more to where he had tossed his cigarette end, no smoke, no flame, and as per usual, no bloody luck.  He wished he had stayed longer with Mr Jollet at the playground and had asked the questions that now burnt his mind for want of answers.

“Here!” Sharon’s shrill voice cut through Reg’s self-contained misery.  “If this Sis…Siskus bloke paints on peoples’ walls, how come he gets to sell them for a fortune?  I know my Dad would have something to say if he painted on our wall and then carted it off to be sold.”  “The Council would be non-too pleased either, buggars’ would probably put the rent up,” said Harry, the groups eldest member by two weeks, he had a way of saying things more often said by the ‘olds,’ and not by fourteen year old kids.   Reg had gone past either wanting to explain or share his dream with them, but he needed to re-establish his leadership, and there was one activity assured to bring them back on side.  Springing to his feet he yelled, “Who’s for chips on the church wall?”  With ‘whoops’ and ‘yippees’ the rest of the gang leapt to their feet, being careful to avoid contact with Ian, the most vulnerable and nervous member of the group.  Ian couldn’t bear to be touched, and as far as the others could remember, had never spoken….but he always seemed to have money.  As Ian got to his feet, he wordlessly pressed a half crown into Reg’s hand.  It was more than enough to buy the chips with, and would leave Reg enough to buy some fags;  Reg never worried about spending Ian’s money on cigarettes for himself,  Ian loved the chip game best of all, and would always pay for the ‘ammunition’ and had never asked for change.

No one was sure how the ‘chip game’ came into being, perhaps it had been learned from an older sibling, but the rules were simple.  Each member of the gang would have a large bag of chips each, preferably soggy ones.  They sat opposite the chip shop, on the church wall facing the High Street, and taking turns they would then hurl said soggy chips at passing motorists.  The scoring system was pretty lack-a-daisical, but seemed to  be along the following lines:  One point for merely hitting the car;  Five points for hitting the  windscreen;  Ten points if the windscreen was hit hard enough for the chip to explode in a mush and thus warrant the driver to employ his wiper blades;  Twenty points if the chip flew  through an open car window;  But the outright winner, a feat that could be achieved in just the first throw, was the chip that hit the car diver, or any of his passengers, in the face.  None of the gang had to date scored an outright win, their game was usually rudely curtailed by the Chip Shop owner chasing them off,  but, as the ‘chip game’ was always made the last activity of the evening before they had to return home, it didn’t matter, the fun was in trying.

Reg had always been aware, since the formation of his little ‘gang,’ that like himself, the other members were always more than anxious to return home ‘on time.’  It wasn’t just the anxiety of ensuring good behaviour, but, also like him, it was born of a real fear of the consequences of being late.  This was just one of the anomalies that they shared that made them stand apart from other children at school.  Though it was true that the punishment of children at that time was harsh, a tanned back side or a clout around the ear, with either hand or whatever implement the clouter had in their hand at the time, being the normal mode of disciplining naughtiness.  At school too, misdemeanours were dealt with either by means of a bamboo cane across the buttocks for boys, hands for girls.  There was one master who would thrash the boys with a gym slipper, not ceasing until the word ‘DUNLOP’ was printed in reverse across their backsides, humiliation was added to the pain when the wretched miscreants were made to expose their buttocks to the rest of the class, this was a dire warning of what would happen if any child thought it ‘clever’ or ‘amusing’ to imitate the crime of the punished.  Very few children or young adolescents came before a magistrate, the police themselves, if they believed the parents were not ‘stepping up to the mark’ in teaching children the value of becoming future good and law abiding citizens, had a birch switch that would do just that.  All this was considered as an acceptable treatment of children, to build their characters and teach them the difference between right and wrong.  If a child were to be so foolish as to take their objections for such treatment home to their parents, then they could well receive another clout for ‘being a whiner, besides which, they had probably done something to deserve the walloping anyway.’   The line between abuse and punishment was a fuzzy one.  The children of Reg’s little gang were, each in different ways, abused.  Reg was the only one that showed the evidence of physical abuse, and like the others he never mentioned or complained about it, he just bore it.  As the others had no true idea of his home life, he had none of theirs.  It was that compliance of silence that held them together, for although they knew something was wrong, they would never ask for fear of being asked in return to reveal their own shameful secret, and shame and guilt was indeed what they were made to feel, being constantly told that they had ‘deserved everything they got, and had brought it upon themselves.’  And so they just accepted each other for who they were.

As the group of friends parted for their homes and private hells on that particular evening, Reg held Sharon back for a goodnight kiss.  When they had done she stepped away from him, and before running in the direction of whatever awaited her, she said, ”I like kissing you.”  And then she was gone, leaving Reg hoping that she would say no more.  He could make a guess of what she meant, he had overheard his mother telling a neighbour that Sharon’s mother had abandoned her husband and brood last year, Sharon, being the eldest, had stepped into her shoes in running the house and caring for her little brothers and sisters…..and her father.   He forced Sharon and her guessed at extra domestic duties out of his mind, and replaced it once more by the glorious, inspiring paintings of Siqueiros.  He had to talk to Mr Jollet, there was such a lot of information he needed, and the great big blaring gaps in his understanding of just how an artist became an artist needed filling in.  Determined to slip out later that night, he too hurried home.

Chapter Six – A Harsh Lesson

Taking his boots off at the back door Reg looked over to where his Mother sat in her customary place, at the kitchen table.  Annie gave him a wan smile and placed her index finger over her lips, she then nodded towards the stairs and pointed upwards.  Reg understood what she was signalling, he was to be silent and go directly to his bedroom.   This could only mean one thing, his step-father was home and for some reason that wasn’t yet apparent, he was in a rage at Reg.  Reg knew that for now he was safe, and might even get away with whatever it was and avoid a pasting.  Pewsley would be in the living room awaiting his favourite serialised play on the wireless to commence,  and all the while he’d be drinking ale.  Should Pewsley drink enough to make him sleepy, then after the play had finished he would stumble up the stairs to his bed, if Reg’s luck held, Pewsley would have forgotten just what he wanted to thrash Reg for.  Of course, there would always be something else, there was always something else, but Reg needed tonight free from Pewsley’s rage.

Fenton Pewsley glanced up at the mantle clock, there was a fair time to go before the start of the play.  He poured himself another tankard of ale and swigged it back with satisfied  gulps.  Refilling the tankard he leaned back in his chair to think things through.  He had heard Reg come in, the back door had quite an audible and unique ‘click’ when it was shut.  At some time he would confront Reg with his latest annoyance, well, more than an annoyance this time, this time it was serious, but first he really did have to get things clear in his head.  Pewsley was in the habit of stopping for a ‘quick half’ at the pub on his way home from work, conveniently the pub also had an Off Licence where he could purchase his evenings bevvys.  Mick Platt was one of his drinking chums, and what Mick had told him was worrying, worrying indeed.  Mick used the kiddies’ playground as a shortcut from his place of work to the pub, and that evening he had seen Fenton’s boy Reg there, sitting on a bench with that queer artist Jollet.  In a rare benign mood Pewsley had told him, “There ain't no crime sitting on a bench, and we can’t always choose who sits besides us, just as we can’t always choose who drinks with us.”  Ignoring the last pointed remark, Mick continued in malicious glee, “Ah but, there’s sitting, and there’s sitting…..Now, your Reg and that Jollet bloke were really cosy close, reading a book….together.”

Taking another gulp of beer Pewsley glanced again at the clock, no time to speak to Reg now, it could wait.  Switching the wireless on to catch the news broadcast before the play Pewsley fully understood what was implied by Mick, on the other hand Mick Platt had a tongue more vicious and gossipy than a fish-wife.  But the implication still hung there, and was heard by others in the pub.  The shame that would come if those words were to be true burned in Pewsley’s chest.  Men raised men, not queers, if, if, Reg had ‘turned’ then the blame and shame would lie with him, Reg may not be his natural son, but the responsibility for seeing he turned out ‘right’ was still his.  It was a hard responsibility, he had to battle against so many factors that had gone into the boy’s making.  His black father for one.  Not that Pewsley felt he had anything against the negro race, the ones he had met during the war seemed harmless, almost soft, almost likeable.  But surely different kinds going together, black with white, was fundamentally wrong, which meant that any issue could never be right.   And then there was that business of Annie’s uncle, suddenly being made the ‘black sheep’ of the family, after receiving what looked like a good old fashioned pasting he was forced to move away, chased out of town, and no-one knew for what,  in such a close knit family the reason must have been very serious indeed…..’Bad blood will out,’ a favourite saying of Pewsley’s aunt,  never rang truer than when applied to his step-son.  Well, tomorrow being his monthly work free Saturday, Pewsley decided he would get to the truth of Reg’s ‘cosy close’ reading session with Jollet, even if he had to beat the truth out of him.

Reg lay awake until, as he had rightly predicted, his step-father stumbled his way to bed.  Waiting until he could hear Pewsley’s loud and regular snores, Reg slipped out of bed, he was still fully clothed.  He stole down the stairs, careful to avoid stair number seven, which had a nerve jangling creak.   Downstairs in the kitchen Reg pulled on his boots and tightly laced them up, he carefully opened the back door, and just as carefully closed it behind him.

Not carefully enough.   Fenton Pewsley had been born and raised in this house.  Every sound it made was as familiar to him as the lines on his face.  The click of the backdoor was particularly ingrained into his brain, into the heart of him.  It had been the last sound his widowed mother, Mae, would make as she slipped out of the house one night, he had heard it, but at five years old was too young to dare to investigate an adult’s comings and goings.  That night was followed by the dreadful  morning they found Mae Pewsley’s murdered body in the river.  A distant uncle and his wife, who were childless, had moved into the house and had taken up the responsibility of raising him and his sisters.  His uncle had been a hard but fair man, and young Fenton grew to respect and admire him, learning the discipline and moral understandings that he was later to employ on Reg.  It had been his aunt who, when she deemed them old enough, had sat the orphans down at the kitchen table and had explained to Fenton and his two older sisters why their mother was of the habit of slipping out at night when her children were in bed, and thus why it was her children never went hungry, and they had shoes and half decent clothing to wear.  Strangely enough, although this was a town of quick judgement and misplaced moral standing and would have, under other circumstances, hounded the woman out, little was said on the matter of Mae Pewsley’s prostitution either before or after her death, Mae Pewsley, an orphan herself, with no immediate family to turn to,  had taken to what she believed to be her only course of action to provide for and keep her little family together and out of the workhouse.  Ever since his aunt’s revelation about his mother, Fenton, even as an adult, would startle awake if he was snoozing in a chair, or even fast asleep in his bed after a belly full of ale, at the click of the back door shutting.

Pewsley was in no great rush as he pulled on his trousers and then went downstairs to get booted before leaving the house.  If Reg was headed over to Jollet’s place, he knew where that was, and would gain more in the way of strong evidence of the boy’s fall from grace by biding his time.  He also needed time to think.  Pewsley was more than happy for Jollet to go to prison for his crime of being a sodomite, but somehow he had to protect his own name, keep the name Pewsley, which Reg had adopted, free from the dirt.  Of course, it was entirely possible that Reg hadn’t gone to Jollet’s, in which case he would find out just where he had gone on the morrow.

Reg stood outside Jollet’s front door trying to get the words straight in his mind.  It was late, Jollet might not appreciate a visitor at this hour.  He knew Jollet was still up because he had seen the chinks of light coming from small worn patches in what his mother described as black-out curtains.  He didn’t feel at all comfortable being here, in what he knew was a more affluent part of town, right out of his usual patch, here people could afford to rent privately.  Although not being quite certain what that entailed, he had a feeling that it was many steps up from ‘renting Council.’  Taking a deep breath he pressed the little button that had ‘Ring for Attention’ scrawled on a note taped under it.   Nothing happened, taking another breath he knocked on the door.  In the dark and empty street the ‘rat-tat’ seemed overly loud and Reg nervously looked around him before raising his fist to once more knock at the door.  The street proved not to be empty.  A figure was striding toward him, silhouetted by the street lamps Reg was unable at first to discern the features, but the walk was horribly familiar.  Now Reg was pulling panicked breath into his lungs as this time he hammered on the door, yelling, “Mr Jollet, Mr Jollet, let me in, please, it’s Reg Pewsley.”

Seth Jollet had already been on his way to answer the front door, the doorbell, silent to its ringer, was audible in his studio, Reg’s panicked cries made him rush.  Yanking open the door he found Reg Pewsley being held roughly by his shirt collar by a large, if not particularly tall, man who strongly resembled the ‘vanquished’ in Reg’s pavement art.  The large man was clubbing the youngster about the head with his hand, shouting, “….explanation have you, you miserable little worm, for being here on your arty-farty boyfriends doorstep in the middle of the night.”  Pewsley raised his hand to deliver another clout when he found it being stayed by an incredibly strong grip.  Releasing Reg’s shirt collar he bunched his other hand into a fist and was about to give a roundhouse swing at the owner of the hand who would be so audacious as to prevent him questioning his boy.  The fist never reached its mark.  Seth Jollet’s words alone stopped Pewsley mid swing, without raising his voice; he had simply said, “That’s enough.”  The authoritative tones were that of an officer.  Four long years of being issued orders in the most dire of circumstances had conditioned Pewsley to obey without question.  But that didn’t mean he had to like being given an order any more now than he did then.  Pewsley glowered darkly at Jollet who was asking him, “And just who are you?’’

Before Pewsley could answer Seth had turned to Reg and said, “Go home boy, now.”  As Reg ran off into the night Pewsley had gathered his senses together enough to attempt verbally squaring up to Jollet.  Snarling in what he felt was justifiable outrage he turned his ire fully in Jollet’s direction, “You foul and filthy pervert, you had designs on my step-son, the good Lord knows what you would have done with him had I not been here to stop you…..I’ll be going to the police now, you’ll be locked away for what you are, and I hope they throw away the key, your kind make me sick to my st…..”  With the same calm authority he had shown earlier Jollet held his hand up and stopped the man’s words as surely as if he had applied a gag to him.  “Mr Pewsley, I have not, and have never had, any designs on your son.  I can only guess what he was doing here; he was certainly not here at my invitation.  The only perversion here is your sick mind and imaginings, contrary to your twisted beliefs I am not a homosexual.  Go to the police if you will, the only thing that will be found and proven is your foolishness.   Now, get off my doorstep and go about your own business.”  With that Jollet slammed the door in Pewsley’s face.

 

Seth didn’t return immediately to his studio, he leaned against the door, trembling.  Barely two inches of wood separated him from the enraged bull of a man on the other side, he could hear Pewsley still panting with frustration, then as Seth heard the heavy, course work-boots move away he sunk to the floor and sobbed.  Not from fear or relief, but from the knowledge that his dream of making his ambitions of becoming a renowned artist had been, and could possibly still be, endangered.  He had been a fool to befriend the boy, to encourage him.  Raising himself to his feet he wiped his hands over his face, he was determined to have nothing more to do with Reg, the wretched boy could find his own way in the world, build on his own dreams, after all, that is what Seth had had to do.

Fenton Pewsley all but ran home.  All was now clear in his mind, he was at least now assured that Reg had not ‘turned,’ and that Jollet had tried to seduce the boy.  A hiding would soon make sure that Reg stayed on a right and wholesome course, and enforce the message that he was no longer to go anywhere near Jollet.  As for Jollet, there was nothing to be gained by going to the police and accusing him of being a sodomite, he had insufficient proof without involving Reg’s stupidity.  But what Pewsley could do was make Jollet’s life very uncomfortable indeed, so uncomfortable that taking his filth away from this God fearing town would be his only option.

Upon reaching his home Pewsley went straight to Reg’s room, taking his thick black belt off as he climbed the stairs.  Tearing the covers from off the boy, who was quivering in fear, Pewsley grabbed a handful of his hair and dragged him from his bed.  He then threw the boy face down on the bed and holding him down by the back of his neck delivered the first blow, with every blow after that came a word from Pewsley’s embittered mouth, “You – will – never – go – near – that – man – again, he – is – evil – and – perverse – and – will – corrupt – you – from – a – true – and – honest – course – of – life.  Do – you – understand?”  Finally releasing the lad from his torment Pewsley started to thread his belt back through his trouser loops.  Reg had drawn himself up and lay curled like a kitten as far away from Pewsley as was humanly possible.  Pewsley stopped re-looping his belt and shouted, “Well, do you understand, or would you like me to explain it all again?’’   Choking back a sob of pain Reg managed to answer, “Yes Dad, I understand, I promise I won’t go near him no more.’’  Satisfied Pewsley grunted, and in a calmer voice said, “You’re old enough to understand what kind of man he is, if you weren’t so stupid you would have told him where to get off instead of accepting his invitations to call, well, you’ve learnt a good lesson this night, and if only for your poor mothers sake, I’m glad to say no harm has come to you.’’  Pewsley barely heard Reg as he mumbled, “Didn’t get no invite, wanted him to teach me to be an artist.”  Pewsley couldn’t believe his ears, “You wanted him to teach you what?” he bellowed.  Now that his secret ambition was out Reg began to plead his case, “An artist Dad, I’m really good, he could have taught me to be the best, it’s what I….’’  Pewsley over-shouted him, shutting him up, “I have never, never heard anything so ridiculous or downright stupid in all my life….. An artist?’’ He paused, regaining his breath, before continuing in a quieter voice.  “I’m tired and for my bed boy, so I’ll tell you this just the once and not explain it in the only way you seem to take any notice of.  Next year you’ll be fifteen and old enough to leave school and earn a living, to make contributions to this household, which is only right and proper…just how much of a contribution do you think you can make by drawing pretty pictures?…I’ll tell you, none, what were you thinking?  That your mother and I would continue to keep you, pay for your food and clothing, put a roof over your head, all the while you’re scribbling on bits of paper?  Next year you’ll be a man, and you will bloody well go and earn your living like a man should.   I hear one more word about any of this nonsense then, so help me boy, you won’t live to see next year.”

Reg remained in a curled position long after Pewsley had left for his own bed.  His back stung, but his heart stung harder.  Seth Jollet had betrayed him, he could have spoken up for him, told his step-father how good he was at art, could have said something to back him up, but he hadn’t, he had sent him away, like he didn’t matter, like he wasn’t worth a jot.  Well, damn him, damn him, damn him.  He hoped Seth Jollet would burn in hell, hoped he’d have wished he’d burned in hell after his step-father had finished with him, Fenton Pewsley wasn’t a man it was wise to cross, and Seth Jollet had crossed him.  In Reg’s mind Queer Boy Seth Jollet would get everything he deserved, and he wouldn’t say one word to warn him.

Chapter Seven - The Reckoning

The next morning Seth Jollet received a letter, the letter was from his mother.  Although it held the usual motherly concern of not having seen him for far too long, it also removed the sole reason for his not having visited her in quite a number of years.  Since leaving his home town Seth and his mother had been in regular correspondence.  Although not meaning any hurtful intent, Mrs Jollet had outlined Seth’s former sweetheart’s progress through the years, from getting over her heartbreak of their separation, to once more being courted, to her marriage, and finally to the beautiful baby boy she had given birth to several months ago.  It was something Seth knew he could never go home and face, to observe first hand all that should have been his were it not for the cruel vagaries of war.  But in this latest letter his mother was informing him that his former love’s husband had taken her and their baby son to Scotland to live with his family.  It was an easy decision to make, he was owed several days holiday by his employers, and hoped they would be understanding if he were to take them immediately.  A quick phone call to his boss, Dorian Wilmot, and last remaining partner of the law firm where Seth was employed, confirmed that it was permissible to take an unscheduled break, so long as he left a forwarding address in case his services were urgently needed.   In fact Wilmot seemed almost too eager to accede.  Hurriedly packing to catch the only available train of the day heading in his desired direction, Seth realised he desperately needed a break, away from this narrow minded, bigoted town, away from what had happened the previous night…..just away.  And as it turned out, going away could possibly have saved his life.

The afternoon of Seth Jollet’s departure for a much needed break at his mother’s home saw Fenton Pewsley propping up the bar in his local pub.  He had the full attention of a number of his cronies, and as their conversation became ever more conspiratorial they moved to a more private part of the bar room.  Sat around a table they put together a plan that would drive Seth Jollet and his un-natural aberrations from their midst.  The plan was simple enough, and they would meet outside Pewsley’s house that evening, before the pub had closed and after dusk, thus ensuring the streets would be moderately empty,  then they would make their way to Jollet’s to carry out the plan’s execution, retribution, unlike revenge, is a dish most assuredly served hot, the hotter the better.

Beneath the poor light of the street lamp Pewsley looked round at his fellow conspirators.  They all had scarves, of one sort or another, wrapped around their lower faces, and with hats pulled low on their heads Pewsley hoped that no witnesses could readily identify them.  One or two of the men, Pewsley included, carried long thick wooden staves.  One of their number carried, in each of the two  deep, deep pockets of his overcoat, glass bottles, half full of petroleum with a long scrap of woollen fabric protruding out of the neck of the bottle…Molotov cocktails.

As they walked through the street toward their goal they didn’t speak, the grating scrape and thud from their heavy work-boots the only sound in the deserted streets.  Occasionally a door would slam shut and its bolt would be slid to tighten the barrier against the impending threat of violence signalled by the men’s boots, a frantic mother was heard to call her errant teenager in from the street, for word had got around, as it always does in such a small close town, there was to be a reckoning this night, a cleansing of the unacceptable by the man for whom the affront had become beyond ignoring.

Upon reaching their destination they took in the fact that the maisonette was in darkness.  If Jollet had taken to his bed early, then all the better, a rude awakening would add to the misery the men had in store for him.  They had heard tell of Jollet’s reorganisation of his home, and had decided that his studio would be the target of their first assault.  How fitting they thought, to torch the queer occupation of a queer man.   They huddled around the man who held the first Molotov, before he applied his lighter to the woollen rag Pewsley asked for the reassurance, “Got those stoppers in tight Alf?  Don’t want the bloody thing going up in my hand.”  Alf grunted his reassurance, somewhat insulted, he had learned his incendiary skills during the Spanish Civil War as a soldier of fortune, and Pewsley had a nerve asking.  As the rag started to smoulder and then glow bright alight, Pewsley took the bottle from Alf, and as one of the others broke the window with his stave, Pewsley,  using an overarm and powerful lob sent the bottle crashing through the  already broken window and into the studio of Seth Jollet.

The first crash was shortly followed by  another, the men on the other side of the building at the studios second window, having completed their task, ran to join Pewsley at the front of the building where the only door to the maisonette was.  The  bottles were thrown with such force that when they did  shatter they sent their lethal liquid,  ignited by the wick,  to form a ball of fire.  The balls of fire now broke into a multitude of fire droplets, falling on canvass, and oil paint, and brush cleansing fluid, causing the rapid  conflagration of the entire room.   

Pewsley stood for a moment in stunned and shocked silence.  He had been told what the effects of a Molotov Cocktail could be, but he had never imagined this.  Collecting his wits about him he yelled to his friends, “Right lads, be ready, when the bastard runs out, LET HIM HAVE IT.”  And with a heart that was pounding uncomfortably in his chest, he raised his cudgel and waited to teach Seth Jollet a lesson he would never forget.  But Seth Jollet never ran out of the burning building.  The horror of the possibility that the man may well have perished in the fire, a fire of their making, was forcing the men to rethink their position.  First they looked at one another and then at Pewsley, this was his fight, his grievance, not theirs, and deciding that they had no wish to hang for another’s cause, as a man they turned and fled.

Pewsley stood for a while longer, watching the flames journey through the maisonette.  Anger seethed in him.   Either the bastard had escaped punishment by dying or hadn’t been at home.  In the distance he could hear the clang of a fire-tender’s bell, he couldn’t be caught here.  Giving the  maisonette’s front  door  a last malevolent glare he too turned and ran.

Stumbling through his back door Pewsley tore the suffocating scarf from his mouth and  collapsed, breathless and sweating, on a chair at the kitchen table.  Removing his hat and unbuttoning his  shirt collar with trembling hands his breathing became more laboured, his heart felt as though it was throbbing in his throat now, every breathe was becoming an effort, causing him to give short pants, like hiccups in reverse.  Grunting he put both hands on the table and attempted to push himself to his feet.  His confusion turned to fear as his strength appeared to have deserted him  as he once again tried this simplest of movements, he had no means of drawing breath into his lungs now, not even to yell for Annie.  A fire, as fierce as the one he had started at the studio, exploded in his chest.  Giving a last strangled inward wheeze, Fenton Pewsley fell forward,  his upper body resting on the table, his head on his arms, his angry heart still and silent.

Chapter Eight – Free to Follow a Dream  

Early the next morning Annie, coming down the stairs and into the kitchen, saw Pewsley at the table.  With a sigh she went back upstairs and took a blanket out of her linen box.  She did think of slipping a pillow under his head, but thought better of it, waking him before he came out of his boozy slumber and into a full blown hang over before he was ready would lead to  verbal abuse unleashed on her, and the leather belt would be employed on the back of her son.

As she draped the blanket around Pewsley she noticed how cold he was, then feeling a draft, she looked towards the back door, it was wide open, little wonder he was cold.  He must have been well plastered last night when he came in, he always locked and bolted the door before retiring.  Not wanting to add to his ire by being freezing cold when he awoke, Annie first shut the kitchen door and then opened the gas cooker door and lit the burners, it wouldn’t take but a minute or two to warm the kitchen up.  As she filled the kettle at the sink she kept glancing at her husband, hoping she could get a pot of tea on the brew before he awoke.  She stopped her  ‘just glancing’ and half turned to look directly at him,  something didn’t look right, didn’t feel right, about the way he was just slumped there over the table.  The water overflowed the kettle…something was horribly wrong about the way he didn’t appear to be breathing.  Putting the kettle down in the sink she crossed to the table.  She put her hand on Pewsley’s cold shoulder and gave him a shake.  A frightful memory filled her mind.  When she was a child her little dog had gone missing, she had found him later in the day laying in a ditch where the impact of a car had thrown him,  when she picked him up his body had been so stiff that it had been like picking up a board.  The way Pewsley’s body had moved as she had shaken him felt very much like that, like a stiff board.  Taking a step back her hands covered her mouth, after a few short stifled sobs she turned to the stairs, and supporting herself on the banister shouted, “Reg, Reg, quickly, there’s something wrong with your Dad, go get Doctor Adams, Reg, Hurry.”

Reg had never heard his mother raise her voice before, and to hear her now, panic stricken and sounding desperate catapulted him out of his bed.  Pulling his trousers on over his pyjamas he all but fell down the stairs.  “Mum, Mum, what’s wrong, what’s happened?” he gasped as he reached the bottom of the stairs.  He went to take a step toward his step-father, slumped uncharacteristically at the table, but his mother shot out her arm and held him back.  “No boy, just do as I said.”  She whispered.  Without daring to even look at his step-father Reg went to the back door and pulled on his boots, “Oh Reg, please hurry up,” his mother’s voice was sounding urgent, desperate again.  Reg left his boots unlaced and ran for Dr Adams.

Dr Adams confirmed that Fenton Pewsley was dead, possibly of a heart attack.  He turned the ‘possibly’ into a definite when, on questioning Annie, discovered that Pewsley had been at the pub  mid-afternoon the previous day, opening till closing times, and then had once more gone out with his friends later that evening, presumably drinking again.  The smell of stale beer was very strong on Pewsley’s body, but there was another smell …….. petroleum?  The reason for that could be quite innocent so he did not question the grieving widow further.  Before he left he arranged for neighbours to help move the body to the front parlour room and lay it on the highly polished surface of the ‘best’ table.  Later that morning several women from the neighbourhood came in to help Annie wash Pewsley’s body and dress it in his best nightshirt, which would serve adequately as a shroud.  Reg was sent to the Undertakers, Pewsley and his wife had taken out a small insurance for a couple of shillings a month to pay for funeral expenses, the alternative of meeting one’s maker from a pauper’s grave was unthinkable.

Fenton Pewsley was laid to rest on the Thursday, four days after his death.  Annie had a couple of plates of sandwiches and a cake, donated by her neighbour, laid on for the wake afterwards, depleting her meagre housekeeping money further, she also bought a bottle of cheap sherry.  Reg didn’t stay for the wake, taking an opportunity when his mother was busy accepting polite, but not always genuine, condolences from the wake guests, he slipped away and headed for the Common, where he knew his friends would be waiting.

Reg and his little gang of friends sat in silence.  There wasn’t much that could be said.  To have offered  commiserations at the loss of his step-father would have been a hypocrisy, they all knew what a brute Pewsley had been toward Reg.  On the other hand, saying anything disrespectful toward the dead would have been a cowardly thing to do, as not one of them had raised a voice in complaint against Pewsley, or offered a word of support for Reg, during Pewsley’s lifetime.  So they just sat in silence.  Ian didn’t know how, or why, but he just knew that this would be the last time they would ever sit on the Common all together, next year would see the end of childhood and the start of their working lives as young adults.  But he had taken note of the determination and hope in Reg’s voice that day, not so very long ago, when he had spoken of becoming the next Siqueiros.   Ian was the only one of Reg’s friends who had known who Siqueiros was, and for the very first and last time he spoke in front of them, looking at Reg he said, “You’re free to follow your dream now.”  Looking directly back at Ian, Reg gave a grim little smile and a nod, then without answering he rose to his feet and left them, he never looked back, not even for one last time, not even for his childhood girlfriend.   It was time, he decided, to tell his mother that nothing now was going to prevent him from becoming an artist.

After the last of the wake guests had left, Annie refreshed the tea pot and sat at the kitchen table, carefully avoiding sitting where she had last seen her husband.  Pouring herself a cup she sat and stared into the steaming brown liquid.  She had guessed that Reg had slipped off to meet his friends, and she could not blame him, wakes were no place for the young, they were no place for anyone come to think of it.   Looking up at the wall clock she knew Reg would be home soon, he had eaten nothing since breakfast, he must be hungry.  Annie ran through her mind how she  was going to tell him that he would not be able to finish his last year of schooling, he had to get a job straight away.  Annie would not qualify for a widow’s pension as the government deemed Reg capable of earning a wage and therefore not a dependant, and she was many years off a state pension, not that that would be a little more than a pittance.  She half stood and reached up to the shelf above the table and drew down her house keeping jar.  It contained a collection of coppers, several thruppenny bits, but very little in the way of silver.  Her purse was empty of notes.  With both hands wrapped around the jar and its meagre contents Annie started to cry, not loud sobs, just the silent  tears of despair .  She never heard the back door open.  

As he slipped inside the back door Reg opened his mouth to ask his mother if she was alright, but closed it again when he saw what she was holding.  All his life he had never questioned how the necessities of life had appeared.  He had never gone hungry for long, and certainly never gone to bed hungry.  His clothes, even though most had been bought at the ‘Thrift Shop,’ were always clean and respectable.  He had a bed, and blankets enough to keep him warm in winter.  The responsibility of earning the money to supply all of this had been Fenton Pewsley’s, and he had never withheld any of them.  Oh yes, he had been an over enthusiastic disciplinarian, but Reg could never remember him going on about how hard he had to work to keep his mother and himself,  he had certainly heard other fathers chiding their offspring when thought ungrateful or over demanding.  He knew the jar his mother was grasping so tightly was the ‘Housekeeping Jar,’ he had often dipped into it when his parents were not around, taking a copper or two to buy sweets when he was younger, and when he was older,  Black Cat cigarettes which could be bought singly at the tobacconists.   The jar didn’t have very much in it at the moment, but it would be pay day on Friday, and the jar would be full again …… but not at the moment…..and not on Friday…..pay day comes after a week’s work, and his stepfather…..  The thought nearly knocked Reg back out of the door, its impact in his mind so strong.  Without Pewsley, the jar would stay empty.  Perhaps his mother could get a job whilst he worked on becoming an artist, then when he had made a name for himself……. “….. what were you thinking?  That your mother and I would continue to keep you, pay for your food and clothing, put a roof over your head, all the while you’re scribbling on bits of paper?”  His step-fathers words, some of the last he would ever say to Reg, resounded in his brain, taking his breath away.  He stumbled back out of the door, shocked and fearful, the realities of adulthood making  an all too premature assault on his young mind.

Between his home and the building site where his step-father had been employed Reg Pewsley grew up.  Casting away the uncertainties of a boy, the young man demanded to see the foreman.  Because his step father had been a good worker, one of the best, albeit short on temper and quick with his fists,  the site manager agreed to take Reg on, but he would have to first prove to be his father’s son, when it came to hard work at least.  The foreman put him on a test by setting him to load and carry bricks on a hod, and was impressed at Reg’s willingness and strength at coping with this arduous task.  When Reg had done an envelope was pressed into his aching, scuffed hands, the work mates of Fenton Pewsley had had a ‘whip round’ for his widow, there would prove to be enough money in the envelope to see Reg and his mother through for a good couple of weeks.   Reg left the building site to return home with mixed feelings, he did feel proud at impressing the boss enough to be offered employment there and then, to start next Monday morning on the proviso he obtained a school release from his headmaster by the end of that week, but somewhere deep inside of him he mourned the death of his dream.

No, dear reader, I have not forgotten Seth Jollet.  I have left the completion of his part in this story until last, I started with him, so I feel it is only fitting that with him I should finish.

Chapter Nine – The Vicim’s Return

The Monday after it had occurred Seth Jollet came to hear of the devastation wrought upon his maisonette via a telegram, sent by his employer Dorian Wilmot.  Going to the nearby phone box, Seth phoned Wilmot and informed him he was returning  immediately.  Boarding the next available train back to Landbury, Seth seethed with thoughts of going straight to the police and denouncing Pewsley for his act of mindless vandalism, oh yes, he knew who was responsible for torching his studio.  (As things were to turn out, Seth would not hear of Pewsley’s death for several months.)  However, the rhythmic rocking of the train on its journey gave Seth a chance to think things through in a more logical perspective.   Going to the police would give rise to Pewsley once more accusing him of homosexuality and having made improper advances toward his young son.  Of course it would be easy enough to medically prove that he was not queer, but to do so would be to reveal that not only would it be impossible for him to harbour inclinations toward those of his own gender, but to any gender…. In short it would become public knowledge that he was totally emasculated.  His condition disgusted him, filled him with shame ….. He was a no-man, a eunuch, peeing through a man-made piece of plastic.   The soft rubbery spherical implants, with stretched skin sewn over left ugly scars, just to give the impression on the outside of swimming trunks that he had a ‘full package’ inside,  this was supposed to give him ‘quality of life.’  It failed miserably to do so.  He would rather pack up and move on then face the pity and the curiosity that his ‘war wounds’ would provoke.   He knew that behind any kind of pity would be the ever present and unsaid, “Thank God that didn’t happen to me.”  And this would even be thought by men who had lost limbs, been blinded, horribly scarred and marked, they would not trade their injuries for his, they would just be eternally grateful that they hadn’t ended up like poor old Seth Jollet, peeing through a straw, living the empty life of a monk.

When he arrived at Landbury Seth went directly to his maisonette.  The door was open and the stench of water quelled fire damage was like a wall, making Seth gag and cough.  Once he had gained control of his nausea and wiped the tears caused by the acrid smell from his eyes, Seth opened the door to his bed-sit part of the maisonette and found his landlord packing  his clothes from the chest of drawers into a cardboard box.  Not giving the man a chance to speak Seth opened the door on the other side of the small hallway that led to his studio.  Inside, squatting amongst the blackened devastation were two men.  Looking up, one of the men said, “I’m sorry sir, you can’t come in here, we are conducting an investigation.”  Seth’s eyes travelled around the room, letting it sink in, there was nothing left that he could readily recognise, nothing at all.  As he took a step forward he heard a crunch of glass beneath his feet.  He looked down, it didn’t register, the shock was too extreme, his mind was numbed by it.  All he had so carefully and lovingly built up was gone.  He suddenly spun round to look in the far corner of the room, where several of his own special, non-commissioned creations had been propped against the wall.  He had an appointment on…what day was it now?  Monday……He had an appointment on Thursday at a gallery in the city to have his worked viewed and approved for display.   The room’s corner reflected the rest of studio, a blackened, sodden charcoal mass of debris.  Nothing, nothing left.

Seth felt a hand on his elbow.  The man who had questioned his being there was trying to propel him out of the room, Seth became aware that the man was speaking,  “….and I really must insist that you leave, a press statement along with official photographs will be released later today, and you will just have to wait till then.”  Seth frowned, what was this man, this stranger in his home, his studio, saying?  Then it dawned on him.  Stopping dead in his tracks he awkwardly turned to face the man, “No, no, I’m not press, I… er… I, this is my…what in God’s name happened?”  Seth felt the hand drop away from his elbow, the man’s voice changed from one of insistent impatience to a more sympathetic tone,  “Ah, you must be Mr Jollet, the tenant.  I am so sorry Mr Jollet but, as you can see, nothing was salvageable in this room.  The other room is smoke damaged, and you might not be able to get the stench out of any fabrics.  We are doing our best to piece together what happened, our initial findings suggest that it might have been a deliberate act of vandalism, started by some kind of incendiary device.  Tell me, do you know of anyone who might have borne you any ill will, enough that is, to go this far?”  Seth opened his mouth, Pewsley’s name on the tip of his tongue, but shut it again,  he hung his head and finally answered, “No, I can think of no one.”

Back in his foul smelling bed-sit Seth’s landlord assured him that he would put his ‘things’ in storage, adding quickly that he would receive the bill for same when he collected them.  The man then mumbled on about insurance, and loss of income, and hoping Seth would understand that it was impossible for him to return his deposit on the maisonette…..Seth wasn’t listening, his heart felt as though a heavy stone was pressing it down, he knew that feeling, heart-ache, heart-break, despair.  His landlord was handing him a note, looking down, with little interest, he recognised Dorian Wilmot’s handwriting, the note’s message was simple enough, “Come to my office upon your arrival.   D.W.”  Seth knew he couldn’t stay where he was, and there was a comfort of sorts of having somewhere to go, even if it was his place of employment.

Chapter Ten – Advice and Instructions from a Man of Courage

When Seth entered Damian Wilmot’s office he was taken aback at how pale and ill Wilmot was looking as he sat behind his over large mahogany desk.  Wilmot was not a tall man, nor was he well built, and although he was elegant in his dress and moved with a certain grace, he had a fragility about him.  But seeing him sat there dwarfed by his desk, Seth couldn’t help but think that he now looked almost translucent.

As Seth walked over the carpeted floor Wilmot smiled and nodded at a chair placed in front of his desk, indicating that Seth should sit.  As he sat down Seth’s attention was drawn to Wilmot’s heavily blue veined hands, and the way he had them placed flat on the desk, with the thumbs tucked over the edge, gripping it, almost as though should he relinquish his hold the slightest of breezes would waft him away.

“Quite a shock to come back to I should imagine Jollet, such a shame, your studio, your work, gone,” said Wilmot, even his voice was frail, tremulous.  Seth was unsure how to answer this all too obvious statement, so he just said, “Yes sir.”  “Yes,” Wilmot echoed back, almost vaguely.  Then giving himself a little mental shake, Wilmot collected his thoughts and continued, “I, er, took the liberty Jollet, of having a few of your possessions removed from your hallway and bought them here.  The front door was wide open, police, fire investigators, in and out, anyone could have come in off the street, and well, you know.”  Seth couldn’t think why anyone would want to steal a pair of muddy wellingtons, a raincoat, and an umbrella, but he thanked Wilmot for his kind thought anyway.

“Why do you think?”  Wilmot asked.  Seth, assuming he meant why anyone should wish to burn down his studio, once more bit back Pewsley’s name, instead, deciding to be candid, he replied, “You must have heard the rumours sir, it’s widely believed I’m a homosexual, I hasten to add, I’m not!”  “Oh, I know that,” answered Wilmot.  It was the way he said it that made Seth jerk his head up and look directly at Wilmot.  After several seconds Seth quietly dared to ask, “You?”  Wilmot gave a small nod of acquiescence.  Seth felt a mixture of both embarrassment and curiosity.  Wilmot smiled knowingly and simply said, “I sense your curiosity, ask.”  Taking a deep breath and looking down at his hands to hide the feeling of awkwardness Seth did ask, “How, living in this small minded town, did you get away with it?  Were you never persecuted?  Did no one suspect, guess, that you, you, were a, a …”  “Queer,” Wilmot finished for him, and went on, “No, they never did, not in the slightest.”  Seth felt a rising anger at the unfair irony of it, he had been wrongly and criminally victimised for being a homosexual,  and yet, Wilmot, queer to his bones, was a well-respected and accepted pillar of the community, never once having been suspected of his true nature.

Wilmot chuckled at the looked of anger that Seth was unable to disguise, and then said,     “Doesn’t seem fair, does it?   But Mr Jollet, therein lies the difference between us, or should I say the   difference in the way we handle the dreadful type of, how can I put this without resorting to crudities, oh dear I fear I cannot, the dreadful loss of manhood that we both seem to be inflicted              with.”  Seth’s head snapped up, and without intention he barked out, “What!  How could you possibly know about my,…….me?”  Wilmot sighed and calmly replied, “You really are the most self-centred and self-pitying fool I have ever met Jollet,  references Mr Jollet, references from your Army Service Records.”  Seth was taken aback by the derogatory character assessment, but realised that of course Wilmot would have access to all of his Army Records, including the medical ones, some of the legal cases they worked on here were highly sensitive, and on behalf of some fairly high profile clients.  But what was that Wilmot had just inferred?  That they both shared the same miserable infliction?  Feeling he had to say something, if only to prove that he wasn’t ‘self-centred’, he said, “I’m sorry sir, I’d no idea you had been, er, injured too.”  Wilmot bowed his head as if in thought, when he raised it again he looked, if such was possible, paler, with a pinched expression about his mouth.  Giving a small shrug, which made him wince, Wilmot said, “ We have a little time, so I will tell you, about me, and a few home truths about yourself, something I believe will, might, stand you in good stead for the future.  But first, if you would be so kind, please fetch me a glass of water, and help yourself to a cup of coffee.”  He nodded toward a sideboard upon which stood a carafe of water and an upturned glass.  Further along the sideboard stood an ornate coffee percolator with its matching cup and saucer.

Seth placed the glass of water in front of Wilmot and then returned to his chair with his cup of hot black coffee.  Wilmot reluctantly released his grip on the edge of the desk, and with a hand that shook alarmingly, reached inside his jacket and took out a small, and beautifully carved, pill box.  He placed the little box in front of him next to the glass of water, never taking his eyes off the box he asked, “Mr Jollet, I wonder if you would show me a further kindness and, …. Er … yes.”  Seth, guessing correctly, had already reached across the desk and flipped open the box’s lid.  To his embarrassment Wilmot opened his mouth and stuck out his tongue.  Leaving his seat to walk around the desk and stand beside Wilmot, Seth took a pill from the box and placed it on Wilmot’s proffered tongue.  Being mindful of how badly Wilmot’s hands were shaking, he then helped the man take a sip of water to swallow the pill.  Seth closed the pill box’s lid and returned it to Wilmot’s inside jacket pocket.  Wilmot patiently allowed Seth to administer him, and when done he nodded by way of thanks and waved Seth back to his chair.  As Seth sat down he understood that Wilmot was ill enough to require some sort of medication, but was far too polite to ask directly what it might be for.

The two men sat in silence for a while, Seth took the opportunity to drink his much needed coffee, cogitating whether he ought to find digs for the night or catch the next train back to his mother’s house. Then Wilmot cleared his throat and spoke, “Well, let me see, ah yes, I was about to tell you a few home truths wasn’t I?   Now please don’t take offence at my words Jollet, I only say these things with your future well being in mind. “  Here Wilmot  paused, expecting Seth to object, but Seth had decided to let him speak on. Giving Seth a little frown Wilmot continued, “Your singularly worst mistake was not integrating with the community of this town, of course it led to speculation about why a handsome young man should seek none but his own company.  When I first came to Landbury after the war I was thought of as a little odd at first, but, I went out of my way to make myself personable.   I accepted dinner invitations,  went to the pub, became a regular church goer….I have been told that my Tombola stand goes down a bomb with the locals at the Church Fete…..In short, I made friends, and made them across the social classes.  When eventually the inevitable topic came around as to why I had never married, why, I simply told them the truth, or as much of it as I felt they ought to know.”  Wilmot paused again, then noticing the look of puzzlement on Seth’s face allowed a smile to come to his lips, the smile was accompanied by a mischievous twinkle in his eyes, he continued, “I told them that my one true love was killed during the war.”  Seth was still puzzled, and felt compelled to ask, “But you’re a…….how can you say you told them the truth and then say that?”  The mischievous smile and twinkle left Wilmot’s face, bowing his head and keeping his stare firmly fixed on the table in front of him, he replied, “Because Mr Jollet, you were assuming, as they had assumed, that my one true love had to be a woman, and that she was possibly killed during an air raid, as so many were.  The fact of the matter, and what I chose not to enlighten them on, was my love was a young officer who died of his wounds during the African campaign, and he was without a shadow of a doubt, male.”  Before Seth could stop himself his words blurted out, “But surely you are stretching the truth very thin by calling your male sexual cohort ‘your one true love.’”  Wilmot’s eyes held a hard glint of anger at Seth’s words, looking directly at him he, somewhat coldly, said, “What!  Do you think that we homosexuals are incapable of loving so deeply, so abidingly, that the loss of a beloved partner can prove so devastating that we can never love again?”  Seth shook his head and argued, “No sir, but how can you possibly compare it to the love a man has for a woman?  The pain of giving up my sweetheart, and all those dreams I had woven for our lives together, was so extreme that I found it impossible to bear having people around me, I couldn’t bear the thought of the questions they may ask, making me relive the past again and again.  I chose to live my life to the exclusion of others, it was difficult, but I….”  Seth had run out of steam, and words to try to explain.  Wilmot gave a small grunt as he shifted his weight on the chair and said, “More difficult than having your studio burnt down?  That young man is the consequence of allowing people to make their own minds up about you.”  Wilmot could see the anger once more on Seth’s face, he shook his head and raised a tremulous hand to forestall any more words.  Quickly catching hold of the edge of desk once more he said,  “Enough Mr Jollet, perhaps you may think over my words, perhaps not, but time is running short so I will quickly continue, and please, no interruptions.”

“Just after the war I was arrested for the crime of homosexuality, a number of us were, we had served our country at Bletchley and our work having been done, we became expendable.  I wasn’t taken to trial because I pleaded guilty…….I was also given what is called ‘The Alternative Sentence.’  That is to say I could choose, prison or chemical castration, I chose the latter.  One of the ignominious  results of this punishment, due to the use of female hormones, are the development of breasts.”  Seth couldn’t help himself, he turned his stare from the desk top to Wilmot’s chest.  Wilmot gave a terse little smile at this and continued.  “No Mr Jollet, nothing to see, that is because one of the other draw backs of using female hormones to castrate a man is a higher propensity to develop breast cancer……my aberrations were surgically removed when it was found that I had indeed developed the loathsome condition.”  Seth shook his head and offered a mumbled, “I’m so sorry to hear that.”   Wilmot drew in another painful breath and said,  “Oh do shut up man, and listen carefully, what I tell you next is of the utmost importance.”

“The cancer has spread throughout my body, and my physician informs me that I can expect to shuffle off my mortal coil by the end of the week.  The law firm of Wilmot and Capston will be no more, I have no wish to pass on the proprietary name so it will cease altogether.  You will of course be given a month’s wages in lieu, in fact that should already have been cleared by your bank.  At the completion of the tasks I will require of you, you will receive a rather handsome severance award.”  Wilmot once more held up his unsteady hand to stave off the questions he could see Seth was about to ask.  “A list of law firms willing to take on our premier client list is in the top left hand drawer of this desk, you will see to it that the files are in order before the courier arrives on Thursday.  In the safe are other, more sensitive and important files.  These pertain to certain government lobbyists who are willing to put forward the argument that homosexuality between consenting adults should  be  decriminalised.  These files you will personally deliver to a name and  address in London this Friday, this information is also in the safe.  Once you have personally handed them over to the named person, you will then be given your generous severance pay, enough, I believe, for you to set yourself up in whatever career you wish to choose.   That is all Mr Jollet, except I have arranged, and paid for, lodgings for you till the end of this week.”  

Almost as though it was on cue a soft knock came at the door which was then pushed wide open by a male attendant allowing a uniformed nurse pushing a wheelchair to enter.  Seth’s head was ablaze with the information he had just received that he barely heard the pleasantries that passed between the nurse and Wilmot as he was aided into the wheelchair.  As he was wheeled level to where Seth sat, Wilmot raised a hand to signal that the nurse should stop.  Seth held out his hand as a parting gesture, words would have been empty, meaningless to this man who was going to meet his end with such courage, Wilmot however still had words to say to Seth.  As the men shook hands Wilmot smiled and said, “Farewell Mr Jollet, I hope you can in future find a resolution to the pain you bear within, the answer could lie with your art, let your pain inspire you, you will never be a great artist until you manage this, you will always remain what you are…..a man who has a talent for art.”  The nurse wheeled  Wilmot on toward the door, Wilmot’s final words to Seth trailed behind him, “Be inspired Mr Jollet, then inspire others, like the chap in that book.”

Chapter Eleven – Making Amends

Just what Wilmot had meant by ‘the chap in that book’ Seth was to discover on Thursday.  He had readied the files for collection by the special courier and thought to add a covering letter of thanks to the recipient.  Searching the desk for writing paper he found the reference book of David Alfonso Sisqueiros.  Of course, he had left it on his hallstand shelf after showing it to that boy, Wilmot must have had it picked  up along with his other possessions.  After handing over the files and covering letter to the courier, Seth had little more to do.  Early tomorrow he would return and pick up the ‘special’ files from the safe and take the train to London, after that he would be free to follow whatever course life led him, probably returning to his Mother’s home to think things through.  All he had to do today was wait for the Royal Mail postman to collect a few mundane letters to lesser clients giving them a list of recommended solicitors.  As he waited he flicked through the Sisqueiros book.  The last time he had looked at it had been with that boy…just what was his name?  Thinking of the boy brought back Wilmot’s final words to him, about letting his pain inspire him, and in turn inspiring others.  Seth felt a wash of shame, he could have inspired that boy, but didn’t.  He had been too wrapped up in his own interests and concerns to even speak up for the boy against his brute of a father, he needed to make amends.  Taking his fountain pen from his top pocket Seth flicked back to the fly page and scrawled a note.  He then searched for, and found, some brown wrapping paper and parcel string, with which he wrapped the book up in.   Now he was stumped, he knew the boy’s last name was Pewsley, but what on earth was his first name?  It was something short, abbreviated, like Doug  or Don, perhaps Ron…..It was Reg!!!  With a flourish he wrote ‘To Reg Pewsley’ on the parcel.  When the postman arrived and picked up the mail, Seth pushed the parcel toward him asking, “Do you know where this person lives?”  The postman looked down at the parcel and then looked directly into Seth’s eyes for a moment before answering, “Yes sir, I do.”  Mistaking the impudent look. Seth reached into his inside pocket and took out his wallet, withdrawing a pound note he said, “Then could you please be sure that he receives it.”  The postman took the pound note, picked up the parcel and with a wry smile replied, “Aye sir, I will see that your parcel gets to the right place sure enough.”  Grunting approval Seth dismissed the postman.   

A couple of miles outside of Landbury Alf pulled his Royal Mail Van over into a field entrance.  He took a moment to think, and reaching a decision he looked down at the brown paper wrapped parcel on the seat beside him.  There was no way he was going to deliver the parcel.  How could he, it would be a betrayal of his friendship with Fenton, whose funeral he had attended  earlier  that day.  His blood boiled with anger, had Jollet not one ounce of decency, to try and approach the boy again on the day of his father’s funeral, it was sick, perverted, everything that Fenton had accused the man of was true.   Alf tore the paper from the parcel and looked at the book.  A book on art, he should have guessed, an expensive book too by the looks of it.  Alf gritted and ground his teeth at the thought of Jollet trying to seduce the boy with expensive gifts……….and what was this?  A message on one of the blank pages at the start of the book,  “Be inspired to dream, dream to achieve. – SJ”  A code no doubt Alf supposed, meaning who knew what, but for sure nothing decent.  Alf suddenly knew exactly what he was going to do with the book, slamming the van into reverse he backed down the road for a couple of hundred yards to Abe Somerton’s paddock.  Abe had been burning rubbish there and the bonfire was still going.  Retrieving his small can of lighter fuel from the dashboard shelf, Alf clambered out of the van.   He doused the fly leaf on which the message was written with the fuel and tossed the book over the barbed wire fencing and on to the bonfire.  Alf watched a while until he was sure the book was well alight, not that it would matter if the whole book wasn’t destroyed, just so that wretched message was obliterated.  He then clambered back into his van, satisfied that he had done the right thing, made some sort of amends for the death of his friend.  He had been to a good man’s funeral today, he would watch that man’s son grow into a good man too….. free from the evil influences that outsiders brought into their town.    As the book burnt, at that precise moment,  was when Reg Pewsley mourned the death of his dream.





Author's notes:

The 'chips on the wall' game is real, I should know, I was one of the obnoxious children who played it, the bane of all passing motorists!

The thrashing by a master until the reverse printing of 'DUNLOP' appeared on the recipients buttocks is also a true story, as, if they could be traced, my late husbands class mates would confirm.

The barbaric 'Alternative Punishment' for homosexuality was a fact.

Homosexuality between consenting adults (a full 21 years of age) was decriminalised in 1967 in the UK.