The Professionals Circuit Archive - Wind in the Willows	Wind in
the Willows

 

by Jane

  
 Nobody in his right mind would have wanted to be in England this
particular April... Spring might have sprung, but the weather was enough
to send a marauding Viking home to the bosom of his family. Just a few
weeks earlier it had actually been snowing, and Cowley was having kittens
over the memo sent up from the mechanics; most of the cares in the motor
pool were showing their rust. Time to fix 'em or scrap 'em. The Scot in
Cowley would make him reject the latter, we all knew; but even so, the
cost of de-rusting a motor fleet as big as ours would be horrifying. It
was about time the job was done, though, and HMG would simply have to
understand... We may not qualify as James Bonds in CI5, but we're going to
look pretty bloody silly running about in cars that have great holes
gaping in 'em where the rust has eaten them away. 

As I drove home it was starting to drizzle and I was running the
demisters; I was in my favourite check-out, the silver Capri, and Ray's
gold twin of it was parked at the kerb outside our building, nose-to-tail
with the awful purple VW monstrosity owned by the anti-nuke protest group
who inhabited the flat below ours. Ray had beaten me home by an hour or
so; I'd been running errands, nothing special, and he had been wading his
way through the kind of routine paper work that's enough to bore you to
death. Contrary to popular opinion, most of the work in any of our
Security Services is mundane, repetitive and much less than racy. The
inclement weather seemed to have sent the criminal types scurrying home
too -- nothing really strenuous had happened since the Christmas bombing
spree, an old IRA tradition. 

It was lunch time on a Friday, and we had the whole weekend before us. If
the damned weather had been decent we'd planned to go horse riding in
Kent, but I knew Ray would make scornful noises about the proposition,
with the wind blasting off the North Sea and the weather men smilingly
promising rain and more rain. Well, there were always alternatives.
There's a lot to be said for a lazy weekend at home, eating too much and
spending most of your time in bed! That freezing, awful April, we'd been
lovers for just less than three and a half years. Is the 'novelty'
supposed to wear off and the love affair grow cool? Well, maybe loving Ray
was no longer a novelty by the spring of '84, but there was nothing 'cool'
about our relationship, if 'cool' is meant to mean indifferent,
complacent, or bored. I'd loved the beautiful, aggravating, mercurial
little bugger for years before I was allowed to touch and kiss, and
wanting him had become as natural as breathing. 

So it was raining and cold, and we wouldn't be heading out into the
country... So it was warm and cozy indoors, and we'd find plenty to do. No
doubt about it. I banged the door shut, juggling a bag of groceries -- the
kind of things I have to get in myself if I want them, because if I waited
for Ray to buy chocolates and salted peanuts and salami I'd have a bloody
long wait. Carob and sunflower seeds and nut cutlets are all very well,
but I'm not a hamster. He seems to thrive on that stuff, but it's not for
me. We've never been able to agree about food, but agreeing to disagree
keeps the water smooth. 

I'd made it home just in time; the rain was pelting down as I called out,
"home, Ray!" and headed for the lounge to drape my jacket over the back of
a chair and hold my hands to the gas heater. He was artfully draped all
over one end of the couch, a glass of wine in one hand, the cassette
recorder in his lap, a stack of tapes by his feet and a paperback on the
arm of the couch beside him. He held out his free hand, as he always does,
an invitation to come and kiss hello, and I bent to taste his mouth with
pleasure. "Mm, what is that, cheese and pickles and port wine?" 

"You must be clairvoyant," he said innocently, batting his eyelashes, then
chuckled. "Yours is in the kitchen under a tea towel. There's a fruit
cake, too, but I thought we'd save that and cut it with a cuppa later." 

I smacked my lips. "Nice... What's with the recorder, love? And the book."
I picked it up, recognising the cover from years and years before. Two
animals in a rowing boat, a water rat and a mole, both dressed like
British country gents circa 1900. "Wherever did you get this?" I demanded
with a smile. It was not new by a long shot -- battered and lovingly
repaired. It had been a favourite book of mine in childhood -- which I
guess just about everyone would say! 

Ray leafed through a few pages; they were yellowed with age but the line
drawings were still crisp. "Borrowed it from Christine," he smiled. "Trust
her to still have it! I got it as a birthday present when I was about six,
treasured it and lost it... Got too interested in football and such as I
grew up. Never knew what happened to it -- never even gave it a thought
for years and years. Damn me, she had it all the time!" He closed the book
and smiled at the cover. "Funny, the things that take you back, isn't it?"


"Hilarious," I agreed, and kissed him soundly for the sentiment. Ray can
be such a tough, prickly little bastard -- and usually is with the rest of
the world; it's only with me that he softens up, lets that sentimental
center show; as if he knows he can relax with me, let the 'act' drop. God
knows, I've been bedding with him since he got out of hospital after the
shooting back in 1980, so he's right. If he couldn't relax and let the
tough guy act go with me, who could he relax with? And it's desperately
important to be able to kick your shoes off and be yourself some of the
time. I often wonder what Cowley does, who he has to relax with. No one,
as far as I know, and how he lives like that, so alone, is beyond me.
Loneliness had been snapping at my heels like a rabid terrier for ages
before Ray invited me into his life and his bed... Love is an absurd
emotion; you can get watery-eyed over the silliest things, like ancient
snapshots of your mate at the age of four, a skinny waif on the beach at
Bognor... Or your lover smiling nostalgically at the cover of a battered
old paperback which had been his sixth birthday present. 

I took myself off to the kitchen hastily, not wanting to admit how much he
can move me; he has no idea how much he has me 'in his power,' and if he
had, he'd be embarrassed as hell, I'm sure. He still sees an ex-merc,
ex-Paras sergeant, when he looks at me, and although he knows full well
how much of a softie I am at heart, he still has to learn how bloody
squishy I am when it comes to him. I'm not sure I want him to know, either
-- I still have my dignity, and all that! He'd cut a great plate full of
sandwiches, which was good, as I was starving, and 'met me half way.' Half
of them were on white bread, the other half on wholemeal. I ripped the cap
off a beer and returned to the lounge, balancing glass and plate on the
arm of a chair. "So, what's this with the tapes?" I asked through a mouth
full of cheese and pickles. 

"Oh, it's for Joey," he said absently, as if that explained everything. 

There are so many Doyles that even now I have to literally keep files, but
it didn't take long to track down the elusive infant. Joey was his brother
Frank's daughter, just on six, a gorgeous little kid with honey blonde
hair and big mauve eyes the same shape as Ray's. But Joey's blind, has
been since birth, and although she's learning to read with her fingers
it's still much nicer for a kid if someone reads to her... Companionship
or whatever. "You're going to read the book onto the tapes," I concluded,
and settled back into the chair. This was going to be a treat. 

He gave me a hard look. "You settlin' in for the afternoon?" 

"Going to listen," I said innocently. "Used to be my favourite, once,
about thirty years ago. "Oh, go on. Don't mind an audience, do you?" 

"Not unless you make a racket," he said sternly. "We can do without glib
remarks on the tapes. She's six, she takes this stuff seriously." 

"Glib remarks?" I demanded, highly affronted. "I resent that." 

"Do you?" He smiled, expression softening, and winked. "Okay, stay put and
belt up." 

"We're all sitting comfortably," I assured him, stuffing another sandwich
into my mouth and trying to drink the beer silently. 

That voice of Ray's is hypnotic. I've known that a long time, but Joey was
in for a treat. After being read to by this particular uncle, none of the
others would do, I guessed, and was wondering if she liked Treasure
Island. That's another of my childhood favourites, and I wouldn't say no
if she asked me to read that for her. I watched Ray put a cassette in the
machine, open the book and turn the recorder on. He was using the
directional mic, so I didn't have to be absolutely silent. 

*"...cleaning his little home. First with brooms, then with dusters; then
on ladders and steps and chairs, with a brush and a pail of whitewash;
till he had dust in his throat and eyes, and splashes of whitewash all
over his black fur, and an aching back and weary arms. Spring was moving
in the air above and in the earth below and around him, penetrating even
his dark and lowly little house with its spirit of divine discontent and
longing..."* 

Staring into space, above his head, I wasn't listening anymore. My mind
was not miles but years away, here in this flat, another spring, with all
that divine discontent stirring outside, while inside my lover committed
himself to a paroxysm of spring- cleaning. Paint everywhere, snow in his
hair, his jeans spattered and, although he was innocent of it, lovingly
imprinted with my hand prints, one on each buttock. Dust trapped in the
hair on his chest, I remembered fondly, surrendering to the memory of him
sitting on the floor, rubbing his foot after he had fallen over the vacuum
cleaner. I'd left it in the middle of the room like a landmine while I
went to fetch a fortifying drink, and I heard the yell as disaster
struck... 'Kiss it better?' I offered, pushing a gin and tonic at him, and
he waved the foot under my nose to collect the offered kiss. So I kissed
it. And him. We drank the gin lying in a tangle with the vacuum cleaner...
Love's absurd, as I was saying. If the paint hadn't been drying in the
roller tray we'd have made love happily among the rumpled drip-sheets.
Well -- it was Spring, when a young man's fancy turns to the other thing,
and all that. I smiled at the memory, my eyes coming back into focus as I
tuned his voice back in. 

*"..Mole was meeting Ratty while I finished my lunch, and the two animals
packed the picnic and set out in the rowing boat... helped the still
awkward Mole safely ashore, and swung out the luncheon basket. The Mole
begged, as a favour to be allowed to unpack it all by himself; and the Rat
was very pleased to indulge him, and to sprawl at full length on the grass
and rest, while his excited friend shook out the tablecloth and spread it
out, took out all the mysterious packets one by one and arranged their
contents in due order..."* 

I was focused on midair again, and quite unable to hear the words,
although that husky voice was still present in my thinking mind... I was
miles away, literally. Last summer, the gorgeous summer of '83... Two men
have to be careful when they go out for the day; loving behind the closed
doors of home is quite legal in these enlightened times, but if you want
to revel in the unspeakable pleasures of open air and sunshine, you have
to think first and palpitate second. Palpitate? That's an understatement.
We'd found a wood -- beech trees and briar thickets, far away from the
road, with a little stream and deep, soft moss, sunlight filtered through
the green canopy. We had a picnic basket and a red checkered table cloth
to put down on the moss; we saw off the picnic in minutes. After a long
drive we were ravenous and thirsty. Then we bowled the refuse back into
the box and, like Ratty, sprawled out, full length in the grass, and --
unlike Ratty and Mole (I assume), made a meal of each other. While Ray was
reading, I was smiling dreamily; perhaps he thought I was reliving my
childhood, but I was reliving our afternoon. He belongs in a wood, pagan
and free; and *naked* in a wood he's even more at home. Soft and warm and
furry, writhing under me, laughing and panting, before he turned over and
made me the offer of his body. He's a ready lover, generous and giving,
and I never make the mistake of complacency. Raymond Doyle is a man,
sometimes violent, sometimes hard, often, with me, kittenish and
beguiling. I laughed with him, that afternoon, awash with pure delight and
loving him very much. It was very gentle, very affectionate, punctuated by
sighed endearments and laughter. 

The gorgeous daydream had to come to an end, like all good things, and as
I began to hear the words again, Ray was up to the end of Ratty's first
day out with Mole. Mole had met Otter, fallen in the river, made an ass of
himself and been taken home to the Rat's house. Ray was exploiting that
hypnotic voice without realising consciously what he was doing. Joey was
going to listen her little ears off, and I began to envy her the tape.
Wonder if I could keep a copy? I thought -- what was I saying about love
being a bloody absurdity? 

*"..When they got home, the Rat made a bright fire in the parlour, and
planted the Mole in an arm-chair in front of it, having fetched down a
dressing gown and slippers for him, and told him river stories till supper
time. Very thrilling stories they were too, to an earth- dwelling animal
like Mole..."* 

I had to smile, and was thinking back to odd long winter evenings as I
finished the last, flat drop of beer... Television and films were far, far
less fascinating than each other. How many evenings had we curled up on
the couch, telling stories? He had coaxed and wormed the stories out of
me, getting me to speak about things I once swore I would never tell. Good
times, bad times, Africa, Ireland. Mercenary stories, bloody and exotic,
hurting me as I recalled them, choking him up as he heard them. There are
times in my life I would rather forget, but I told the stories anyway,
duped or cajoled into telling them, and often Ray would cuddle me, kiss
me, afterward; trying to make up for the bad times? Maybe. Cuddles and
kisses never go to waste! He had his own stories to tell, too, and some of
them curled my hair. They must chuck the young coppers in at the deep end
to weed the men from the boys or something. They sent him out on cases of
child abuse; ugly scenes, seven year olds raped by their parents, three
year olds stuffed into bins. I wondered how the hell he had ever got
through it, but he had. Ray's tough -- he's had to be. He's done jobs I
wouldn't like to have tackled. A copper's lot is far, far from being a
walk in the park. One boy, a young London lad called Alan, still wrote to
him occasionally, twelve years after Ray had picked him up off the ground
in an alley in Limehouse, bleeding, raped within an inch of his life. Two
days later, Ray had been mauled by the 'pack brats,' Alan's peer group, a
bunch of little punk good-for-nothings who had gang banged the kid. Ray
came out of that with three arrests and twelve stitches in his head. That
was the encounter where he had collected the little scar about an inch
from his balls. Some bright young spark aimed a kick at him, and I shudder
to think what could have happened. Oh, very thrilling they were, too, and
I think we learned more about each other on those long winter evenings
than we had ever learned before. He made me open up and talk... It was a
little like being set free. 

I was listening to the words again a few minutes later and couldn't help a
guffaw as he read of the Duck's Ditty -- ducks. Rubber or otherwise,
Christ... 

*"...a-ddabbling, up tails all!"* As I guffawed he shut off the recorder
and gave me a stern look. "Silence, you twit. How's Joey supposed to get
the joke? Not," he reminded me, "that there is a joke!" 

"Sorry," I said in mock contrition. "Go on, go on. I'm enjoying this,
honest." 

I was, too. The next bit was about Toad of Toad Hall, and his encounter
with the gypsy cart, and the motor car... *"There was the silly creature,
sitting in the middle of the road murmuring 'Poop poop! after the
departing car...."* 

And my willful mind was wandering again. I've never cared much for vintage
cars, always considered them a bit off-putting, since they're open to the
elements and like to break down all the time. But in the autumn of '82 we
had a marvellous day out in Devon. There was a fair -- a traction engine
fair, of all things, and I ran into an old Army mate who was there, taking
part in a vintage car competition. His pride and joy was a Spiker -- God
alone knows why; and he was up to the elbows in oil and grease, trying to
get the bloody thing going. I should have known better than to let Ray
anywhere near the thing, knowing what he's like. He and Malone were like
long lost brothers ten minutes after they met, oily and rapt, heads under
the bonnet, tinkering. Ray and oil go together like bacon and eggs. I was
sick of looking at traction engines and bored to tears in an hour, and I
grabbed him under the covering noise of a passing 1908 Ford. 'How d'you
like me to bugger off and chat up the tea girl?' I threatened
vindictively. He blinked at me and for one awful minute I thought he was
going to kiss me and get us both arrested. Instead, he cleaned up, bought
me an icecream and shepherded me along to the amusement stalls, where he
used that ruddy master marksman's skill of his to win me a teddy bear. A
pink one. 'Ah, lovely bear,' I cooed, 'he looks just like you. Raymond
Bear. Hm. I like my Raymond bare, too...' For that he stood on my foot,
and I chased him behind the hot dog stand and into the lee of a hedge,
where I took my life in my hands and planted a smacking kiss right on his
mouth. I'd expected him to be outraged, but he kissed back. With gusto.
Don't know if he expected me to lug my huge pink Raymond about all day,
but if he did he was disappointed, because I took him back to the car and
left him there. 'Very fond of that bear,' I said solemnly that night; Ray
guffawed, playing the game until I wickedly stuck the silly stuffed animal
in bed between us... Then he yanked it out of bed and tossed it at the
dressing table, where, alas, poor pink Raymond Bear landed on his head...
My Raymond exacted all kinds of sweet, sweet revenge... One suffers with
good graces, I thought ruefully, half an hour later as I tried to get my
legs back together, sore and exhausted and happy, and all because a 1904
Spiker had broken down at the fair. Poop poop, indeed! 

The next chapter was my favourite -- 'The Wild Wood.' The first time I
read the book I found it scarey -- and the way Ray read it, playing it for
everything that could be got out of it. I expect it impressed the six year
old Doyle in much the same way. Mole wanted so badly to meet the elusive,
mysterious Badger, who lived in the very middle of the Wild Wood. But
Ratty wouldn't be persuaded to take him visiting... It was winter and the
water rat was sleeping a lot. So Mole decided to go by himself... *"It was
a cold still afternoon with a hard steely sky overhead when he slipped out
of the warm parlour into the open air. The country lay bare and entirely
leafless around him..."* Ray was speaking huskily, a little low, a little
menacing. Joey would buy it hook, line and stinker, and I decided to try
to be there when she listened to this, to see the look in those blind
eyes. Doyle-shaped, huge and misty mauve... Mole enters the wood... Ray
dropped his tone again... *"..stumps resembled caricatures, and startled
him for the moment by their likenesses to something familiar and far away;
but it was all familiar and exciting. It led him on, and he penetrated to
where the light was less, and trees crouched nearer and nearer, and the
holes made ugly mouths at him on either side. Everything was very still
now. The dusk advanced on him steadily, gathering in behind and before;
and the light seemed to be draining away like flood-water. Then the faces
began. It was over his shoulder, and indistinctly, that he saw the first
face; a little evil wedge-shaped face --"* 

Joey would be on the edge of her seat; I was miles away again. Cowley had
sent us up to Scotland, and it was early winter, just the year before.
There was an illegal arms market up there, and we were looking for the
helicopter pad, or air strip, or whatever way the weapons were getting
shipped out of the country. We knew there were guards in the woods, and we
knew we had precious little daylight left, and we knew we were out of R/T
range. We were quite literally on our own. But we'd stumbled across the
snippet of info we needed, and if we didn't grab the head man, a hard boy
called Hanlon, that night -- then he'd be away out of England and we'd
never get him. So we took a chance, went out into the dusk and the cold,
armed to the teeth... Ray took a fall, snagged his foot in a root mass and
went down hard, knocking his knee up. That left me two marvellous choices.
Stay with him and let Hanlon escape; or leave him to his own devices and
go after the arms dealer. Ray told me to get moving, that he'd be all
right, and since he was well armed and backed up into the bole of a tree,
out of the wind, I decided to do as he said. Dusk fell fast -- it does, in
the north; and God, was it dark. I was lost in half a second, didn't
reckon much to my chances of finding the air strip, and couldn't find my
way back to Ray. I stumbled about in the black out for about an hour --
and, oh yes, you see faces. Not the weasles Mole was seeing, but the kind
of maniacal faces that have haunted my dreams since I got out of Angola.
Except that these were real. I was shooting at shadows, and they got up
behind me, it me with something -- rifle butt, maybe. I came to about
midnight, stiff and sore and cold, except for the warm patch where someone
was holding me... They'd caught him too, after he ran himself out of 9mm
ammo; they'd had his wrists wired together, but he had managed to untwist
it, and by the time I came to he had learned to live with a swollen knee
and had a plan. Some plan. Wait for them to feed us and jump them. Beat
their brains to a pulp, and make a dive for the shortwave set he had seen
when they brought him in... Fair enough; it was the best we could do, and
we had the advantage of surprise, since they thought he were tied up, and
in fact we were not. It was a freezing night; we kept each other warm,
locked in what seemed to be a shed, pressed together and talking in
whispers. They would come to sort us out early, we guessed, and there was
every chance we'd buy it... If it hadn't been so bloody cold I'd have made
love to him, quickly but thoroughly, a warrior's farewell. As it was, it
was too cold to even consider it, and we just kissed instead, long and
deeply, stubbly chins and all, and told each other how much love we're
hiding under these brash exteriors. 

******

We got out of there -- obviously, or I wouldn't have been sitting there
that inclement April day, listening to him reading the book for Joey. They
came for us just before dawn and we flattened them; the shortwave was a
big, powerful set, and we got a patch to CI5 Central, to Cowley, with the
data. Mission completed. Ray got a fortnight on the sick out of it, and it
became one more shared experience, the kind that weld us closer together.
Neither of us have ever forgotten the words we whispered in the shed that
morning. We said it all, and never regretted it, and sometimes we remember
that morning, safe in bed with the world locked out and a cocoon of
security spun about us. It's a fragile security, not much more than an
illusion, but we've got luck on our side... 

Mole got out of his stew, too. Stumbled his way to Badger's in the snow
and had a rare old time, especially when Ratty showed up there too. Full
of lunch and lulled by his voice I was becoming drowsy; he'd been reading
for an hour and a half and was getting a little husky, even by his
standards. He was up to the chapter where, on their way back from
Badger's, the two companions stumble on Mole's old home. Dulce Domum. On
the point of drowsing, I had to smile... Going home, for me was always a
terrible experience. I never had a family to speak of, which is one of the
reasons I ran for it, as a kid. The prospects of enduring a two up and two
down rat hole for the rest of my life were too much to take. If I'd known
what I was letting myself in for, I might not have run away to sea, but
when you've grown up in a port city like Liverpool, bumming your way onto
a ship is the first thing that leaps into your mind. I was moderately
mauled on the ship -- the *Sarah Dee* out of Glasgow; but I also got a
wealth of experience. They taught me what it meant to be afraid, really,
mortally terrified; they taught me what submission was all about, and how
good gentleness could be. Later, in the bush and in prison, I needed all
that education; it kept me alive, and I had cause more than once to thank
the shipmates who had, candidly, used me. I was a pretty kid, ripe for
picking. At home again, in England, I forgot all about it, never even
looked at another man that way -- 

Till I met him. Then I looked. And looked. And that was all I was allowed
to do, because Ray was never bent... Technically, I wouldn't say he's bent
now, because he never so much as looks at another bloke -- still collects
photos of actresses from years ago, but not actors. Bent? Ray? If he
didn't sleep with me and love me half to death, the idea would be
laughable. But he does, so judgement will have to be suspended. As he puts
it, he loves me. End of story. 

Somewhere along the line, I dropped off to sleep, and he let me sleep
until half past three. I woke to the smell of port and the feel of a kiss
on my forehead, and blinked up at him. He was waving a wine glass under my
nose and smiling, sitting on the arm of the chair. "Ullo, love," I
muttered, trying to wake up. "Damn, I must have missed chapters!" 

"Only one," Ray chuckled. "I read up to the part where 'Toad, gay and
irresponsible' --" he paused to let loose a wicked guffaw "-- got locked
up 'in the remotest dungeon of the best guarded keep of the stoutest
castle in all the length and breadth of Merry England." He stooped to kiss
me. "Gay and irresponsible, you understand." 

"In which case they probably did right to lock him up," I said solemnly.
"Can't have gay toads wandering around the place... Feel a bit
irresponsible myself, though." 

"Do you?" His eyes darkened while I watched, something I love to see.
Pupils expand. Go velvety and soft, means he's definitely turn-onable. I
took the wine glass from him and put my hand on his thigh. "How
irresponsible?" He asked throatily as I slid my hand up to his groin, felt
him give an answering throb. 

"Oh, how irresponsible d'you fancy?" I asked solicitously. 

"Wouldn't like to chuck me on the hearth rug, and, um..." 

"And, um," I echoed, finishing the wine and putting the glass down. "You
read half the book; you must be bone dry." 

"I made a cuppa ages ago." He stretched and scratched his ribs, taking off
his tee shirt. "Tell you what, I'll chuck myself on the hearth rug, and
you can start from there." 

"Randy twerp," I said accusingly, but the lure of his bare chest was more
than enough to make me equally as randy. Soft pelt of fur just waiting for
your fingers -- mine always itch to comb through it, can't resist it. I
remember going to see him in hospital after the shooting and having a mild
heart attack; they'd shaved his chest until it was as smooth as mine.
Smoother. Nice, so soft, but -- not Ray. Ray's -- well, Ray. I followed
him down onto the rug and made short work of the rest of his clothes; then
I actually remembered to knock the phone off the hook and shut down the
R/Ts before I cast my own clothes on the floor on the floor like so much
confetti. We weren't supposed to disconnect ourselves, but there is
nothing in this life even half as frustrating as getting half way through
a session of heavy breathing only to be called away to the job -- and it
can be bloody dangerous. Going out to a shooting match with your balls in
knots could get you killed. I rendered up this argument as a
rationalisation for doing away with the phone and R/T a long time ago, and
after a minute's serious deliberation Ray agreed whole heartedly. It
wouldn't do anyone any good to get us shot for sheer frustration, so,
unless we've been officially put on standby, the ruddy phone gets
accidentally-on-purpose seen to... 

Love on a hearthrug is hard on your knees, but if you're on the bottom it
makes it easier to respond -- in bed, or on it, you tend to get sunk into
the mattress and just about squashed -- still nice, but much more passive
than doing it on the floor. Ray was anything but passive, even though he
wanted to be on the bottom this time, and my poor knees took a pasting.
Half way through, I grabbed him in a bearhug around the hips and let him
writhe away to his heart's content since he was so energetic. Poetry in
motion... Somehow I managed to hold back long enough, till he filled my
right fist with wet heat, and I streamed into him in response. Then I
conceded defeat and collapsed, flat out on the floor. I appealed to the
ceiling for advice... "What I'm still trying to figure out is how the hell
you manage to maul me, and I'm the one on top!" 

"Talent," he said glibly, still panting for breath. "Was terrific, love.
Your knees okay?" 

"What knees?" I demanded. "I haven't got any knees left! It was a bit
hard, wasn't it? You're not too sore, are you?" 

"Just a bit." He yawned and cuddled up, the gas heater roasting his rump.
"Got a cake to cut, if you want a cup of tea." 

"Only if you go'n put the kettle on, mate. I'm too near knackered yet." 

"Makes two of us," he admitted, pillowing his head on my chest and
bringing to my lips fingertips that were sticky with his seed. I licked...
He tastes wonderful. A yawn blasted across my chest and he wriggled,
getting comfortable. 

"You going to sleep?" 

"Thought had occurred to me," he chuckled. "You slept your way through the
afternoon while I was reading the bloody book, remember." 

"Half the bloody book," I corrected. "And incidentally, I enjoyed it." 

A hand cupped about my groin and squeezed affectionately. "So did I." 

"The book, you randy animal! Mole and Ratty and Badger and Otter..." I
chuckled. "Takes me back to when I was a kid." 

"Me too," Ray admitted. "Sometimes I think adults get more out of
children's books than the kids do, because you can escape for a little
while, get away from the horrors of being an adult." 

"Being an adult's got its good points, though," I argued. "I mean, at six
I used to go to bed and cuddle a teddy bear and read, right? So now I get
to cuddle you, and who the hell cares about reading for Christ's sake --" 

"When you can be getting laid silly," he finished. 

"Crudely put, Raymond, but accurately," I sighed, and kissed the top of
his head. "Feel like a shower before we cut the fruit cake and put the
kettle on?" 

"Mm, sounds nice," he yawned, and I watched him get to his feet, lithe as
a big tawny cat. He gave me his hands and pulled me up after him, hugging
me tightly, the kind of display of affection I've come to crave. "Love
you," he whispered, then drew away to gather his clothes, which I'd
chucked in all directions. 

I smiled after him; being a kid was all very well -- if you've still got
enough of your innocence left to take Toad and Badger and Ratty seriously,
you're one of the luckier souls on this planet! But growing up isn't all
bad. It has its little compensations. I rubbed at my knees, which were
cherry-red with the abuse, imprinted with the pattern of the rug, and
indulged in a chuckle as I heard the water begin to run in the bathroom.
Each to his own, I suppose. For Joey, a bunch of cassettes with The Wind
In The Willows rendered up by a husky baritone... For me, the husky
baritone himself, maneuvered onto a riverbank beneath some wind-blown
willow, wriggling and giggling in the sun. Joey would grow up, sad to say,
and forget the book for years and years; then, one day I hope she'll
stumble over the cassettes in a box of discarded childish junk, and care
enough to play them again. And stare into space, daydreaming about her
lover, while Uncle Ray tell her all about a bunch of animals whose
exploits are utterly wasted on kids. 

Perhaps I envy Joey the future; certainly I hope she's even half as
fortunate as I've been. She has it all to do; all the mistakes to make,
the broken dreams and loves gone wrong, the despair, and I as I gathered
my clothes and headed for the bathroom I hoped the kid would find her way
'home' without the fear and pain that seem to beset the rest of us. 'Home'
isn't a place, it's an attitude of mind, an opening-up of the heart, a
love that can't and won't be denied. I stood at the bathroom door, smiling
at Ray as he basked under the hot water, pink and glowing, and he winked
at me, perhaps guessing that I was in one of my more sentimental moods. I
stepped under the water and grabbed him... Oh yes, kid stuff if terrific,
but we grown ups have a few things going for us too. 

-- THE END --

*1986 *

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