Adam Mars-Jones - Cedilla

By this time he had started swirling his coffee mug, gently at first and then more decisively, so that the brown liquid in it began to rise up in a slurring tongue, coming just to the lip of the mug. Theatrical tour de force . If his control of his movements lapsed, even for a moment, then coffee would slop onto the table and perhaps the floor. We were all spellbound, host Tony’s hand tightening anxiously on a dishcloth.

In trousers and also in tears

‘And then the doorbell rang. I shouted out “I’ll get that,” and started across the floor of my bedroom. But exactly at that moment I was laid low by a violent access of diarrhœa. Imperative diarrhœa — the runs at their most runny. I’m not exaggerating when I say that if I’d gone to answer the door I would have shat myself, and that is really not how you want to start an intense family conversation.

‘So I had an ignominious session on the lav, where all the tension I’d been forcing myself not to feel expressed itself in the most rudimentary terms. And then I stumbled into the kitchen, where Mum was frowning as she took a piece of paper out of its envelope…

‘What I’d planned to send her was the baldest possible statement. Fifteen words. IF YOU’RE READING THIS THEN YOUR SON IS A COWARD AS WELL AS A BUGGER. But then I thought that was a little crude, really. Dear Noël would have winced a bit, wouldn’t he? It wouldn’t do any harm if I took a little trouble over expressing myself elegantly, though the whole idea was that she would never have to read it. It wouldn’t make any difference, but it would be good for my self-respect. The plan was that I’d speak out like a man before the letter was delivered, and sign for the recorded-delivery packet with a virile and unshaking hand while Mother screamed the place down in the middle distance. I would exchange a glance with the postman, that glance that all men use to mean Women … how can we hope to understand them when they don’t understand themselves?

‘So what Mother was reading was just a teeny bit less direct. I swear her lips were moving as she read out loud,

MY FIRST IS IN QUEST BUT NOT IN GRAIL,

MY SECOND IS IN DUGONG BUT ISN’T IN WHALE,

MY THIRD IS IN ERIC AND ALSO IN ERNIE,

MY FOURTH IS IN VOYAGE AND ALSO IN JOURNEY,

MY LAST IS IN TROUSERS AND ALSO IN TEARS …’

He looked around expectantly, raising his eyebrows, but his audience didn’t catch on quickly enough for his liking. ‘I’ll give you another ten seconds, shall I? Oh, for God’s sake — Queer ! I was giving her the clues for Queer. MY WHOLE MEANS YOUR SON IS ONE OF THOSE QUEERS.’ His eyes went back to the contents of the mug. ‘As I say, I’d been drinking rather a lot … I’m not sure there was alcohol of any description left in the house by this time.

‘So I finally open my mouth and hear myself coming out with the words I’ve longed to say (and dreaded to hear) for so long: “ Mother, there’s something I have to tell you … ” Only she says, “Shhh! dear, I’m concentrating.” She doesn’t take her eyes off the piece of paper in her hand. “Can’t it wait? Someone’s sent me a word puzzle and there must be a prize for it — why else would they go to the trouble of sending it registered? I wonder what the prize is! Don’t just stare, darling, give me a hand …”’

At this point he looked up from the swirling coffee in his mug and winked at me, with such precision that it was like watching the interior workings of a camera, the shutter flashing down and back. The wink seemed to be saying, ‘That’s the way to do it. That’s how you do a telling-your-parents story.’ As if the proper delivery of the anecdote was all that concerned him.

This time there were follow-up questions: ‘So what did she say? Did she work out the riddle? Or did you manage to tell her first?’ But he seemed to have lost interest in his life history now that the performance aspect was over. He said matter-of-factly, ‘Oh, I told her myself. It turned out she was relieved if anything. From the way I’d demolished the drinks cupboard she was afraid I was going to tell her I was a dipso …’

This wasn’t remotely how I had visualised my first gay meeting, but really I shouldn’t have been surprised. I should have anticipated something of the sort. What I’d expected was somewhere between an orgy and a prayer meeting (with readings from Oscar Wilde). But if I’d used my common sense I would have realised that in a university town there was likely to be an element of performance in people’s testimony, a certain amount of showing off. The bantam displays of the ego weren’t going to be suspended just because people were exploring a taboo identity. Rather the reverse. In some people it went into overdrive. Sexual self-disclosure was something of a competitive event.

‘What do you make of that?’ George whispered.

‘Dunno,’ I said. ‘I’m just going to keep very quiet and hope nobody asks me any questions.’

‘Same here.’

In fact testimony hour seemed to be over. Our host Tony stood up again. ‘Apologies for repeating myself, but not everyone was here when I did the welcome.’ This was for our benefit, for George and me. ‘So here goes again: Welcome to CHAPs. This is an independent forum where issues of sexual and political liberation can be freely discussed and worked through. We’re not affiliated with CHE or with GLF. I can’t emphasise enough that this is not a university organisation. Gay people in all Cambridge are invited to attend and challenge our prejudices if they feel excluded in any way. Of course Tony and I met when we were students — my lifemate is also called Tony, which is handy because he’s not very good with names — but if we wanted to stay in our own little world we would never have founded CHAPs. I’m the Co-ordinator, by the way, and Tony is the Secretary. This is our house, and I hope you feel welcome. Tony, are the snacks ready?’

The Tonys were home-makers, and their kitchen turned out wonders. Grisly wonders, on this occasion, laced with blood — pâtés and terrines. I nibbled awkwardly at some crisp curling sheets of Melba toast, to show willing.

George and I made small talk for half an hour. He worked for Eaden Lilley, Cambridge’s less glamorous department store, in China and Glass. If Joshua Taylor was the Harrods of Cambridge, Eaden Lilley was its Bourne and Hollingsworth. He thought everyone at the meeting was a bit young. There only seemed to be one person in his own age group, mid-thirties.

Music Lovers man and Recorded Delivery man held court at opposite ends of the kitchen space. No one came to talk to us. There was no welcome apart from the statement of welcome. Welcome was a policy rather than a fact at that address — or perhaps the snacks were supposed to do most of the work. One or other Tony kept offering us snacks until George got tired of eating them (and flicking the crumbs from his white suit) and I got tired of waving them away.

George lived in Chesterton, and would have driven to the meeting if he hadn’t been so nervous he was sure he would crash. He had walked instead. ‘Will you be coming back?’ I asked.

‘Will you ?’

‘I will if you will.’

So it was agreed. I’d give him a lift to the bus station, but in the future he would pick me up from Downing. In the Mini George said, ‘Meetings like that are all right for a student like you, you’re a brainbox. I’m different. I don’t want to talk about issues of sexual and political liberation. I want to find a nice boyfriend, someone calm and sensible and nicely dressed, and I want my mother to ask us to dinner after the first few years, when she’s got over the shock.’