I miss him. Of course I do. But life, as they say, must go on for the rest of us so I don't talk about him much, and my friends don't either, not after the first few terrible months. I think about him though, and I'm pretty sure he thinks of me. I have no proof of this, of course, and I don't have any religious convictions, except one and that is I don't think there's a god - well, if there is, he isn't a loving, caring one who looks after the good and innocent and punishes the guilty. The world, and the state it's in, and the way people behave in it, is surely adequate proof of that.
But there is a part of me that thinks that surely Edward and all that he was hasn't completely disappeared. Is he just there solely in the memories of his relatives and his friends and his lover - me? I suppose you could say that his influences on others, what he did and said and wrote in the world lingers on. Perhaps he changed the lives of some people, certainly he did mine and so that is passed on through me or through anyone else he touched and that I, and they, will do the same. So no one ever completely disappears though they may be forgotten.
Can there be more?
I would have said no but . . .
Well, this is what happened. Judge for yourself.
A couple of months after Edward died, I got a phone call from his mother. Now I must tell you that Edward's parents seemed to have no problem with the fact that he was gay. Actually mine said they didn't either. The thing was they (that's MY parents) preferred not to be reminded of it, so we didn't really talk about my life, my gay life, that is. On the other hand Edward's Mum and Dad were apparently always ready to hear gay anecdotes, the stories, whether true or exaggerated, that gay people tell either against themselves or to boost their self-confidence as regards sexual conquests. Of course he didn't go into explicit details, but was quite prepared to talk of the gay life, its ups and downs.
"Hello, dear," she said (I'm back with the telephone call now), "Leonora here." And then, as I didn't immediately respond because she was the last person I expected to hear from, she added, "Edward's mother."
"Of course," I said, "it was just that I didn't expect you. How are you?"
"Bearing up," she said, and then in a lower, more caring tone, "and what about you, Mark. How are you coping?"
As always I didn't really want to talk about it, because thinking about Edward always made me tearful, but I had to say something. "It's difficult. I keep expecting him to appear, round the corner in the street, you know, sitting in his chair in the front room. And then when he isn't or it turns out to be someone else, I feel the loss more than ever." Strangely I felt better after that little outburst. From outside the window came the sound of traffic - life getting on, as normal.
Leonora said, "I rang, because I wondered if you'd like some of his things, things he left here, but perhaps it wouldn't be a good thing. . ." Her voice trailed away. "Perhaps it would remind you too much."
I've got things that were Edward's. Heaven knows the whole flat is full of things that were his, or his and mine, things we'd bought together. I didn't want any more. But then I thought that I hadn't got anything of his that he'd had before I knew him, things that were pre our life together.
"What sort of things?" I asked.
But Leonora suddenly became almost secretive, obviously considering that the idea had been a bad one. "No, Mark," she said. "It was stupid of me. It wouldn't help at all. It was just that Jack thought we should get rid of them, and I didn't like the idea of just throwing them out or taking them to the Sue Rider shop. Forget I asked."
But, if anything, her trying to back out of the offer, made me all the more determined to have them, or at least to look at them and see if there were any that I'd like to have.
"I'll come round," I said, "have a look. It's ages since we saw each other anyway."
Not since the funeral was the unspoken thought that I'm sure both of us had though neither of us said it.
"Come to dinner," she said. "Make an evening of it. Jack will be pleased to see you."
We compared diaries - mine was as good as empty but hers apparently was quite crowded. Eventually we decided on a date about two weeks in the future. She rang off and I was left alone with my thoughts.
Now you mustn't think that I'd been deserted by my (that is 'our') friends. After the funeral (to which so many of them had come) they'd come round and asked me out all the time, invited me to their houses for quiet meals, accompany them to clubs for more noisy entertainments, theatres, cinemas, trips to the country, holidays abroad but I'd excused myself from all of them and gradually the invitations had understandably dropped off. I don't blame them. It was all my fault and this dinner with Leonora and Jack would be the first time I had gone out since Edward died.
Work and home was my life and my activities at work weren't that successful. In fact I could have lost my job except that my boss was sympathetic but even he was beginning to get impatient. There were conversations which started, "Come on, Mark, you'll have to pull yourself together soon . . ." or "Don't you think you should put a bit of effort into . . ." etc. I couldn't cope though and didn't even try.
The fortnight passed slowly. I refused an invitation to drinks at a guy called Ross's place. He got quite edgy with me in fact. "You'll have to start getting out and about," he said. "This hermit-like existence isn't doing any good for you at all." Then he mentioned 'the' name. "I'm sure Edward wouldn't have wanted you to behave like this."
At which I lost my temper. "How the fuck would YOU know what Edward would or wouldn't have wanted me to do?" I blazed and slammed down the receiver. Well, that was one friend I guess I wouldn't be hearing from again.
After a while I realised that I'd behaved like an hysterical queen and rang him up to apologise. He wasn't in, or at least he didn't answer the phone so I left a message on his answer phone, hoping I sounded suitably contrite, but he didn't ring back.
Leonora and Jack welcomed me with open arms. I knew we'd be talking about Edward so had prepared myself for it. Even so, at the first mention I felt a jolt go through me like a dose of adrenaline.
"Do you want to look at Edward's things first or have some drinks and the food?" Leonora asked.
I mumbled that I'd take a look and they took me up to his old bedroom. I'd been there before, of course. In fact it was in that room that we'd first made love - no, to be accurate, had sex because he'd trolled me back from a club while his parents were on holiday in the Algarve or somewhere.
It wasn't until a good bit later that I realised I was in love with him - and he with me.
The room was smaller than I remembered it. All the pictures (copies of Cocteau ink drawings) had been taken down, the walls repainted a sort of eau de nil though if the Nile is really that viscous green, I'd be very wary of eating anything that had been caught out of it, and the bed was unmade - just a bare mattress with, I noticed, some rather dubious stains on it which I and the parents studiously ignored.
"We're clearing it out completely," said Jack, "and turning it into an office for me. I work from home now, you know."
I didn't but I nodded anyway.
It crossed my mind that they had 'got over' their only son's death much more than I had. In a way I felt slightly offended but then wondered if they weren't doing the right thing. Getting on with their lives.
Edward's belongings were in a large cardboard box in a corner of the room.
"We'll leave you alone to sort through them," said Leonora. "Take what you like. Everything that's left will be got rid of."
"Don't you want anything?" I asked.
"We've taken everything we want," said Leonora. "Some photos of Edward as a kid, and one of both of you at that barbecue." I remembered the one - in fact I had a copy of it myself. Edward and I were standing side by side, one of his arms round my shoulder and mine round his waist. He, tall, blond and slim, me slightly shorter and darker. We were both wreathed in smiles and looked overpoweringly happy. So happy, indeed, that I'd shut my copy up in a drawer as I couldn't bear to look at it.
They left and I started to look through the things. There were the Cocteau prints all drawn with that characteristic economy of line and, more often than not, an over large penis. I remember being slightly shocked when I'd first seen them and realised that presumably Edward's mother must also have seen them when she dusted the room or whatever she did. Edward had laughed. "Take more than that to shock Mum," he'd said.
Why he hadn't brought them with him when he'd moved into the flat we shared, I'm not sure. Perhaps it was because we had wanted to get things that we'd chosen together.
Anyway I took them out in their narrow black frames and put them on the bed. Six of them there were - a reminder of that first time we'd fucked. Actually, come to think of it, I don't think we did fuck. We'd both been a little nervous and the sex was very vanilla, a bit of sucking and finishing off, me with my prick between his legs and his in my hand. Then we'd cuddled and fallen asleep until we sort of repeated the process in the morning.
There were some clothes, obviously from his mid teens because they'd never have fitted him or me at any recent time. I'd like to have seen him as a gawky adolescent dressed in a bomber jacket and jeans. I'd have been one too and, if we'd met then, perhaps we could have had a longer time spent together. On the other hand, at that age, I was terrified that I was queer and was making every effort to pretend to be straight, boasting about the girls I'd been out with and what I'd done with them. So I'd probably have never even dared to speak to Edward if I had met him in those far-off days.
There were some books, kids stuff really, annuals. I'd never realised Edward had once been interested in football and yet there they were, the Arsenal year books for 1986, 1987 and 1988. Some comics, the Beano and the Dandy, not the sort of lurid horrors you buy in today's 'comics' but innocent adventures of Dennis the Menace, Desperate Dan and Biffo the Bear. Get a good price for those now, I thought but left them.
I thought that was the lot but then noticed that there was a bit of a bump on one side of the pile of comics, hoisted them up and found a bear. Obviously it had been much loved. One of its ears was loose, a glass eye missing and the fur was rubbed almost bare on its stomach. It had a sad, hangdog appearance, as the ear drooped over and the missing eye looked as if it was winking. In my mind's eye I could see the young Edward walking around, dragging it by the loose ear but refusing to be parted from it. It smelled a little musty but not unpleasantly so and I knew that was one thing I'd certainly take.
