Buying a Globe-Wernicke

All The Wild Summer Through

Because he could talk to nobody about Jim, Norman - who did not usually obsess about things or people - spent a lot of time brooding and thinking of ways to gain Jim's company. On his side, Jim seemed equally keen but from time to time 'business commitments' made him tantalisingly absent, sometimes out of the country, unavailable and uncontactable for days on end. (Fuck, fuck, fuck!!) It did not help that a ridge of high pressure had settled over the British Isles, delivering one of the hottest summers on record; the kind of weather that Norman hated if he was obliged to work during it. He was, that year, because he had arranged to take his main annual holiday in September. Meanwhile, thanks to the unusual weather, scarce and wonderful wildlife that had not been seen in England for years started to turn up from distant shores. The list included such rarities as the Monarch butterfly, normally resident in America.

Big deal! thought Norman sourly, when he read about it in his newspaper.

Samantha, who did not currently have a job, although she sometimes helped as a volunteer in an Oxfam shop, took to visiting her sister. The sister in question, a rich divorcee, lived on the coast near Frinton. The attraction was obvious; if there was any breeze to be enjoyed, it would be there. As Norman mischievously reminded her, one of the best fish-and-chip shops in England was also in Frinton. Samantha, who was on a diet, made a face at him. In her absence Norman would have to feed himself; Samantha had thoughtfully laid in a stock of microwave meals, mainly Chinese or Indian.

Early one evening, just as Norman was looking without enthusiasm at one of these in its gaudy carton, the landline 'phone rang. When he answered it, there was a chuckle; it was Jim.

“Jim, you're taking a risk! I thought we'd agreed that you were never to call me at home, especially not on the landline?”

“No risk at all, lover-boy. Boss-lady is away, is she not? There's only you and the cat!”

“How the blazes do you know that?”

“About Boss-lady or the cat?”

“Boss-lady, of course!”

“Elementary, my dear Watson! You once told me that she helped in your local Oxfam shop. So I rang the Oxfam shop, pretending to be a chum working in another Oxfam shop, and asked for 'Sam'. A woman volunteer kindly explained that she was away for two weeks at the seaside, so I knew it was safe to ring you. And you aren't ex-Directory! So now you know. What I want to know is: are you free this evening?”

“The answer is 'yes', but I'm working tomorrow so, even to see you, I'm not going to drive up to Norfolk just for this evening.”

“You don't have to. Let's meet halfway, still in Suffolk. How about Gadsby's Drove End? You don't know it? You'll find it on the Ordinance Survey map. [He supplied the reference.] It is – or it was – a village, but a lot of it has disappeared; swallowed by the sea. Even though most of the village has gone, there is still an ancient gastro-pub, called The Old Dower House, which serves goodish seafood, and a quiet cove where we could swim before dinner. I want to swim in salt water for a change.”

Jim paused for a moment, then went on, in a spooky, sepulchral tone: “It's a full moon tonight and the moon has marvellous psychical influences; anything could happen!”

Norman thought carefully about this; it was just-about do-able. He made a non-committal grunting sound: “Uh-huh...”

Finally, Jim added, briskly, “Gadsby's Drove End is only about an hour from where you are, if you drive fast. Let's meet literally at the drove-end; where the road ends, because the sea has taken everything beyond that point. You can't miss it. If you do, you'll end up in the sea! You can park there; we'll swim first and eat afterwards. How about that?”

“You're on!” Norman's morale had improved exponentially. The evening suddenly looked a lot brighter.

Singing along to his car's stereo, Norman made good time but Jim was at Gadsby's Drove End before him: Jim possessed a fast sports car. This supercharged, silver monster, which Norman had nicknamed 'the horizontal thermos-flask', was already parked at the drove-end. Jim was alone. It was high tide; the rays of the setting sun gilded everything, including both the car and Jim's nearly-naked body, which sprawled luxuriously across the bonnet, over which he had draped a large beach-towel. Jim was wearing aviator sunglasses and one of his microscopic bathing suits, which looked even smaller on his big frame. This one was light blue.

“For fuck's sake, Jim! That fig-leaf is barely decent. You could get arrested!”

Jim laughed: “Most unlikely. Who's around to object? And fuck is what happens later, Norman. As for my trunks, since they offend you, I'll take them off this minute. (He did so, rolled them into a ball and tossed them into the back of the car.) There's no-one here. Now, get your own kit off, then we'll be equally naked and indecent! I'll race you to the water. No-one is going to see us on this deserted stretch of coast!”

Jim was fit and fast, but Norman had the edge on him; he seemed likely to reach the water first. Jim was so annoyed at being outpaced that he executed a rugby-tackle and brought Norman down on the soft sand. They both started laughing; next thing, they were struggling and rolling about amorously on the beach; then they dashed into the water to cool off and wash off the sand. Waist-deep in the water, they hugged and kissed. It being evening, their faces were slightly rough; Norman like the feeling. (That's what a six-o'clock shadow feels and tastes like!) They both got boners as a result, and had to wait in the sea until they had subsided.

Back at the cars, they dried themselves and dressed rapidly; Jim, in his usual jeans and immaculate white T-shirt.

At dinner in The old Dower House Norman beheld Jim transformed. He wore a dark-blue blazer and pale fawn flannels, which had clearly been cut for him by a good tailor. The blazer emphasized his slim waist and broad shoulders. The trousers closely followed the lines of his muscular weight-trainer's legs and fitted snugly round the ass and crotch. Jim's shirt was as dazzlingly white as his T-shirts and he wore a dark-blue tie with a thin stripe. Norman looked curiously at the gilded blazer buttons, but they provided him with no clues as to Jim's past; just a stylised anchor motif. Jim's smile suggested that he had deduced exactly why Norman was so interested. Jim's sun-tan, his white-toothed smile, his neat crew-cut and his faultless blazer and trousers, made a dazzling combination.

“Blimey! You'd think that you had just stepped off the Duke of Dumpshire's yacht at Cowes!” said Norman. You look great, but you might have warned me that the dinner would be posh; I have not brought a tie!”

“Tut! Tut! Don't worry; The Old Dower House keep a supply of odd ties, which they lend to people like you!” laughed Jim.

This proved to be true; the ties were very odd indeed. The Receptionist supplied Norman with a tie of ghastly design to wear in the dining-room; probably as an implicit reproof for his being too casually dressed. While most of the hotel staff smiled and nodded at Jim, whom they had met before, some drinkers in the bar, who plainly had not, stared at him openly, as though he were a celebrity; he did look like an action-hero film star. Jim noticed this and nudged Norman knowingly.

“I'm sure I know that man's face,” murmured another guest to his wife in the bar. “Isn't it Lewis Collins?”

She whispered: “It can't be; he's dead!”

Jim smirked and winked at Norman, who managed to keep a straight face.

The buffet, which was nostalgically named “The Buttery”, as though The Old Dower House had been an Oxford college, was busy, as was the public bar downstairs. Upstairs, it being a weeknight, the main dining room was not crowded. A silver-haired old man played Cole Porter and Noel Coward tunes on the piano. Jim clapped appreciatively, sent him a brandy to encourage him, and requested Begin the Beguine. The pianist immediately obliged.

“You notice anything about the other diners?” asked Jim.

Norman had not; he looked around. Most of them were men, apparently having very serious conversations.

“Looks like they might be hosting a small conference?”

“Nope. A lot of them are queer. This is a gay-friendly place, although that might not be immediately apparent, because it is definitely not camp; someone like Julian Clary would not feel at home here and you will not find any chi-chi piss-elegant décor. As a matter of fact, I supplied some of the antique furniture. That grandmother's clock for instance, and the two Second Empire bronze statuettes over there; l'Agriculture and le Jardinage. The owners are a gay couple, although that is far from obvious if you meet them.”

“Fascinating. Why are you telling me all this?”

“Well, apart from having the pleasure of your company at dinner, I thought we might spend the night here; we can, without any embarrassment, because of what I have just told you. No-one will raise their eyebrows or say anything. You can leave early tomorrow morning, as must I. I've booked a double room, so say 'yes'!”

“Wow! Let me think about that!”

“Not for long! Here comes our whitebait.”

In the event Norman stayed the night. Afterwards, it seemed to have a dreamlike quality, partly because of the amount of wine that they drank. And although he had talked and joked with Jim all evening, he still knew remarkably little about him. Jim preferred to talk about events and things, including the local wildlife; not about people, including himself.

Who was he really? It seemed odd for a vigorous young man like Jim - in his early thirties at most - to bury himself at Little Kansas. Logically, he should have been pursuing some demanding career, probably in London. Was he keeping a low profile because of some disgrace or even danger? He never seemed to be short of cash and he owned a powerful and expensive sports-car, but did he really earn a decent income from his antiques business, or was it a front for something else?

The only fact that Norman had so far gleaned from him was this: Jim mentioned briefly that “My father was a Yank, but I can't remember him; I was very young when...” his voice had trailed off and he changed the subject. So was Jim illegitimate? Had his American father deserted his British mother? Or had he died or been killed? Somehow Norman had sensed intuitively, without anything definite being said, that he might have been military. In which case, Little Kansas must surely re-awaken some painful memories? Yet Jim chose to live there.

Once or twice in his life, Norman had had an attack of what his boyhood friend, Jamie, had called “the second sight”; visions concerning other people that bore no relationship to anything that he knew about them; they came out of the blue. Now - possibly due to the moon's "marvellous psychic influences" - he had two of them, about Jim. As Jim went on speaking, Norman suddenly seemed to see a much younger Jim standing in someone's study; possibly his Headmaster's, pale with shock, as some unspeakable news was broken to him. That picture faded; then he saw Jim again, several years older and wearing a dark suit, standing in Court; he could not say whether in the dock or the witness box, looking angrily at a hard-faced woman judge, who was saying something that Jim did not like at all. Then that picture faded, too. Norman rubbed his eyes. When he came back to earth, he became aware that Jim was still talking about the wildlife that lived in the area.

Finally, after a nocturnal walk by the sea to clear their heads, they turned in. The owners, who were evidently Jim's friends, had allotted them the equivalent of a bridal suite; a huge room in the oldest part of the Old Dower House, with very thick walls; a gigantic fireplace, in which a log-fire was flickering despite the summer weather; a four-poster bed with a canopy like the baldaquin over the high altar of a cathedral and a sea view. It wasn't Jim's usual style – he thought it was hilarious – and it certainly was not Norman's.

Once they were alone there, Jim kissed Norman and said, quietly but mockingly:

“Well, lover-boy, here we are! Let's make the most of it!” Something tells me that you're not gonna get much sleep tonight!”

Norman watched as Jim stripped. He was as toughly handsome, macho and muscular as he remembered. When he was naked, he came over and told Norman:

“Get your kit off, lover-boy!”

And he proceeded personally to pull most of it off. He tossed Norman's clothes on top of his own, on a chair. Pulling off Norman's briefs, he said:

“You've got to wear something sexier than these!”

He then took Norman's cock in his mouth. Norman did not in the event get much sleep; Jim, being extremely fit, was indefatigable, like a speeded-up film: now rough, now subtle and tender, but always on the attack. No part of Norman was left untouched; often more than just touched: probed, bitten, penetrated...

Sometimes he would murmur: “Come on! Give yourself! Arch your back against my stomach. When I thrust, push back! Now!”

Finally they fell asleep, exhausted. All too soon the dawn chorus started up and breakfast was being placed on the table outside their door. This encounter set the pattern for what Norman would remember as “my wild summer”.