Johnny Come Home
by Rafael Henry
Chapter 18
Hillary had told Duncan to come to my office in the corner of one of the Art Rooms as soon as he could make it after the end-of-school bell sounded. He'd obviously had a games afternoon as he was still in white shorts and tee shirt under his blazer, a ruck sack on his back. They looked like new shorts. He'd lost the others as we know. A minor pang of guilt struck me as I knew where his other ones were. This was about to be our very first conversation, possibly the first of many hopefully. There's something about Duncan that interests me. Still wasters run deep, and all that? Any other reason? Well, you couldn't describe him as a pretty boy, therefore of that kind of interest. But there is something attractive about this little tacker. Perhaps a little self-awareness has crept in. The drawing he made of me was acute in its sensitivity. He was really looking as he should be looking. Exploring. Searching. Evaluating and thus altering, and getting nearer to the facts.
'How was games then?' I ask our fragile character as I look deep into his face. Now I want to examine him .
'Not bad thanks.' Duncan says, avoiding any eye contact. That's interesting. In this situation he really doesn't want to look at me.
'What was it? Athletics?'
'Yes. Did you like my drawing?' He says, changing tack.
Still no eye contact, but he clearly wants me to get to the point. His work matters to him. That's good.
'Yes I did. I think you've got potential but there are a few points worth making if you want to get on to a higher level? Do you?'
Eye contact made as he draws another breath through an open mouth. He nods his agreement. This is a good moment.
'How do I do that?'
So I give Duncan a 'crit', outlining all the good points about his work, and what in my opinion he needs to think about now, mainly structural issues. He needs to observe in more depth in order to understand how the skeleton influences the surfaces he sees. Like all boys, one needs to know what's underneath the surface. Down to the bone as it were.
'I have a book about human anatomy Duncan. It's for students. It'll help you understand what really is under the surface. Then you'll begin to know why the surface you see and draw looks like it does. You have to understand what is within controls what is without. Does that make any sense?'
He looks back at me again. At least he's willing to listen. Progress.
The school gave me a portable computer which was good of them. After all, I'm saving them a great deal of professional fees as I wander through the days fixing and advising all and sundry. It's easy work, and they have no idea how easy it is.
'How long will it take Alex?' One teacher asks me.
'A couple of hours; maybe. Leave it with me.'
It took all of ten minutes, about the same time as it took to show Duncan a fraction of my archive of drawings and small sculptures, mostly derived from John.
'Who is the boy?'
'Johnny. He was a school friend I managed to persuade to model for all this sculpture stuff I do.'
'Does he live in Truro?'
'No. He lives the other side of the country. I had to move down here because of my dad's job. The firm moved him here. You have to go where they tell you. A bit like the Army.'
'So you don't see him now?'
'Johnny? Yes I do, about once a year. His family come down to us on holiday. His mother brings him and his two brothers down to our seaside place at Endellion Cove.'
Now I'm getting a much more insightful impression of Duncan as he stares back at me, unblinking, his expressive grey-green eyes twinkling, just below his neatly cut light brown hair.
'Can I see him again please? How old is he?' He asks looking up at me again.
I took a series of photos of John standing against a white wall, naked apart from a pair of plain and simple briefs. There's nothing sexual about those unposed and candid shots as I explored yet more possibilities for my small sculptures. This situation with Duncan reminds me of those lunchtime sessions up in the school library I shared with John years ago now. Duncan leans against the table as I scroll through one of the labelled folders containing some of the images I made of John. I have six separate folders of him, entitled according to their content. It is a very personal and private archive, a record in a way, of the development of our affair. The later work becomes highly sexualized which rather sums up our relationship at the time. It was risky but I showed him one of John standing sideways on, erect, and smiling back at the camera, and me. I showed him a more recent folder labelled 'Beach holiday 1985' which contains some moving sequences.
'Who is the other boy?'
'That's John's brother Richard. The one changing the baby. He's Eustace; or Sis as we call him. We were on the beach at Endellion Cove last summer. They come down every year. What do you think?'
Duncan didn't answer but wanted to look through more images. I turned back to John, semi-nude, stopping at one image in particular. I want to see his reaction when he sees those images of John a second time. I remember that moment very well. John and I had been discussing our plans for the day. We'd laughed a little at my rather naughty ideas. John had touched himself, an adjustment shall we say, for a few seconds before I made that study of him leaning back against the white wall. Ten minutes later John and I were in bed.
John always arrived on his bicycle, suitably [and sexily] attired early each Saturday morning. We'd kiss and hug before making him a drink. And then it was work of some sort, perhaps a little drawing or preparation of materials, and talking about the week that had just passed us by. It was usually about an hour before one or other of us wanted something else to do. From the moment we woke in our separate places, we were waiting for this moment.
'Shall we?' I ask, putting my 6B pencil down. I had John on the bed in one of my favourite poses. He wouldn't have to move much.
'Yes please.' Says a smiling John, in a husky whisper.
Duncan has a long look at the image of John.
'What do you think of him Duncan? Do you like him?'
Again there's no response to my question as he looks up at me.
'Well? Do you?'
Quintus had put up the white sheet on the hooks screwed into the wall. I'm to stand in front of it in the clothing he has chosen for me for this session. He's in his pale-yellow shorts, nothing else because it pretty warm in his studio. He doesn't like underpants on himself; he says that men and boys should 'show off if they can'. Can? Oddly he likes me be-knickered, as he put it, at least to start with. It's the usual routine for me this Saturday morning; strip off completely and stand there like a lemon waiting for further instructions. He likes me when there's nothing to do but just stand or sit around his studio. He thinks I look interesting when I'm bored. I read a book on the sculptor Rodin recently. He would wander about the house and observe his models doing perfectly mundane things and sketch them.
He hands me a pair of very brief white pants that look more suitable for a girl rather than me.
'Are these for a girl Quintus?'
'No, for boys. Put them on please .' He says briskly and unconvincingly.
When I check, there's no label in the back of the waistband. It's been cut out.
'Can I have these when we've finished?'
'No. You're not the only one. You're a cocky little brat aren't you.'
I wasn't sure how to take that remark. I pulled the pants up my legs and arranged myself inside them. A nice snug fit with my penis vertical and by now, a little swollen. The idea of donning girls' knickers has always intrigued me. This is how I want to look for Quintus. Interesting. Maybe this is the day he'll crack.
'That's great Alex. You look terrific this morning. They suit you perfectly.'
I'm feeling good about today. I love being studied by Quintus. I'm not the little boy I was any more and I'm on a sexual knife-edge most of the time, reacting to the slightest stimulus. As soon as I see the lens of his camera, things start to happen and he knows it will, with me, the bastard. Quintus's shorts look a trifle odd and I know why. This could be good news for me. When I look back at him, expecting some more unreasonable demand like standing on my head, I can see he's aroused already. I've seen him before emerging from the shower, half up, and scarily large in that department. Like me he's circumcised. I had no idea people shaved themselves down there but I'm assuming he does. His pubic hair would have been blond like his hair, all swept back like you see in those magazines of young men and their boyfriends on a beach somewhere. He has a beautiful long back that runs down to his bottom. It looks muscular and rounded. The handsome devil. He should have a pair of horns on that lovely head of his, or either side of his penis!
I'm lying on my back, knees up and wide apart showing everything hopefully. I must be. I've looked at myself there in a mirror at home wondering what it looks like. I know what it feels like. It's what your other hand is for isn't it?
Quintus worked on for a half hour and then tore up the sheet in temper. I knew not to say anything when he did that. Any ideas I had of him coming with me on the bed instantly disappeared into thin air. He boiled the kettle to make himself a mug of tea while I lay on my side feeling miserable. I have my back to him but I can hear exactly what he's doing. Sometimes he sends me home early.
And then I can feel a hand moving gently over my shoulder.
'I'm sorry Alex. You know me, I get frustrated when I can't express how I'm feeling. Would you like to go home now? Probably best if you did.'
I got dressed feeling a deep sense of abandonment and failure to be what he wants me to be, and privately in tears. Again I have failed to fully satisfy Quintus. He must know by now that I love him deeply. He sees me upset and walks over to me. I can feel his body hard against my thigh as he kisses my head, both of his hands holding me. Why won't he let me help him? I know what he needs and wants. If he'd just let me help him he would feel better then, I know he would.
On my way home there's a field of grass off to the right of the narrow lane not far from Quintus's cottage. By midday the dew has gone and it's a warm and cosy place to lie down for a while. I took my bike through the open field gate and laid it down beside me. I can see the white clouds moving slowly by as I lie on my back. He does show me affection; sometimes. As I think of him, the tears are coming back again. I know he wants me. Why won't he then? Why do I have to dream things still? Like now. I'm ready for him now as I lie here, playing………..and dreaming……….
Am I hurting you darling? No. Go on, please. Like this? Yes like that. Go on. You know I love you don't you? Yes. I love you too. You're not hurting me. Go on please. I don't want you to stop. Why have you stopped? Are you ok Quintus? What's happened? He stopped when I stopped, for a good reason. The same reason why I've stopped rubbing myself. I put a finger-tip in the tiny puddle on my tummy. Just now, just before I did, I saw Quintus do it.
At four years and twenty, he's twice my age and that's what big boys get just like Quintus gets. But more. A lot more. Up in the air like a fountain, all over everything. Me. Oh yes please!
Hillary told me to be careful with regard to Duncan. She knows what I am and she instantly and accurately assessed my reaction to Duncan, the sweet thing that he is.
'Don't encourage him Alex. Do you understand me? I can see it in your eyes……and Duncan's. He's looking for something and he might think you've got what he wants from you. I'm not saying he's not in need, he is. But keep it strictly professional please. Got it?'
Got it in one. I like Hillary. She's in her early thirties at a guess but a wise owl. The boys like her too. No one messes her about because they know that beneath that strict exterior there lies the milk of human kindness. I'm sure she loves those boys, and why not? We want more love in the world, not less.
I would love to spend a night with Duncan, all tucked up and warm, and close. We would enjoy sexual contact of course. That goes without saying. Two or three messy orgasms each, and another in the morning after we woke in each other's arms, hard as nails. He would smile, squeeze my hand as we parted later in the morning, bless him. But I shall take Hillary's advice. I have to.
I hadn't asked him to, but Duncan came to my office this morning to show me some more sketches he had done at home.
'I enjoy drawing the human figure more than anything Alex.' He says, pulling another from the plastic folder. I love his voice, every syllable enunciated clearly in a soft unbroken tone. I could listen to him talking all day. As for his work, it was very telling. I had suggested he use a mirror and try a couple of self-portraits, or even a head and shoulders, maybe with no shirt on?
He'd gone further. Much further.
'Has your granny seen these Duncan?' I ask as I pick up another sheet.
'No. Just you.'
'Right. I think you're coming on well.'
The boy looks back at me with those soft eyes and just the hint of a smile. I'm melting. It's happening all over again, just like it did with Johnny. But I was fifteen then and John was thirteen. I'm not far off eighteen now and this boy must be thirteen, or soon will be, but still very immature judging by the way he's portrayed himself with alarming frankness. But that doesn't alter how and what I'm thinking; and feeling.
'Look Duncan. What can I say other than I do like them. I like them very much.'
'Which one do you like best?'
Shall I be honest?
'This one shows how you're learning more each time. This one I think.'
'Can I give it to you then?'
Indeed you can my boy.
My father came into my bedroom and saw Duncan's drawing up on the wall beyond the foot of the bed.
'Who is that Alex?'
'He's called Duncan. He's in the class I've been modelling for. He wanted to show me what he's done at home. He gave this one to me.'
'Nothing else I hope? Not another Johnny come home?'
' No Dad. I gave him a few tips about his work. So he showed me how he's progressing and insisted I accept one of his drawings. That's all; really . I'm not stupid.'
'By the way I think I've found your car. Six hundred quid. It's a blue mini. For its age it's in quite good nick.'
I'd passed my driving test, miraculously at the first attempt. Dad and Garth treated me to an Indian dinner that night at the Taj Mahal just behind the cathedral in Truro. As we passed by the grey walls of that Victorian copy of a French church, I heard singing and thought of Perry Merciful. It's the one vivid memory I have of him at the bottom of the School Field baring his bottom for us, his little winkle pointing skywards. John never actually said he was disappointed in Perry as a mate, but he was.
'Did you ever succeed with Perry?' I asked John one afternoon down at Endellion Cove.
'Succeed?'
'Yes. You know; did you ever do it with him? Properly?'
'Once. He let me have a go once Alex. Just the one time up in his bedroom. It wasn't a success. I pretty much gave up on the whole thing after that. There didn't seem to be a lot of point really.'
'Flogging a dead horse then?'
He laughed.
'Have you ever had that experience Alex?'
'Not with you I haven't.'
It was great to see little baby Eustace walking now, or Sis as we call him. And, thank goodness he's out of nappies now, more or less, but not yet reliable by any stretch of the imagination. Every now and then he treats us to peeing spectacular hooking out his winkle and spraying the grass. Hopefully that tiny winkle of his will come to something eventually. Meanwhile he looks just perfect. All that will come to pass in good time, and what will be his preference I wonder?
'He has your eyes Alex.' John says, winking at me. It's true, he has.
'And that thing between his legs.'
'So what's wrong with it?'
'Nothing. It was the best thing since sliced bread as far as I was concerned.'
'Thank you. Now go and play with your brother.'
John is in another relationship now, one that he won't talk about. He's sixteen so it's his business. I can still touch him but the old days have gone. I know he's still angry that I left him, just as I was angry when I was insulted by Quintus, the bastard. But in my head, that kind of love is very reluctant to wither and die.
I told Hillary that I was going to see Duncan out of school hours at a weekend.
'Is that wise Alex. I'm thinking not.'
'I have a car now. He needs to see a bit of a life for goodness sake. Get away from Granny for a while. I thought I could take him to Endellion Cove where our hut is? You know, go for a long walk?'
'You had better explain to him Alex. What this is about? Please don't let him misunderstand the situation. That would be cruel, amongst other things.'
'Other things?'
'Yes, and you know perfectly well what I'm referring to. You told me how you first met John, and how all that went. He's not going to be another John.'
Isn't he?
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