Quaesitum

Searching.
There must be a release. If the only path into the future is the current one, insanity is the inevitable destination. I have to believe that something more congenial is over the horizon, because if I despair, all is lost.

Searching.
There must be somewhere better than this, somewhere that love lives, somewhere I can find a person to care about me, somewhere abuse isn't shouted at me by the hour, just for being myself. If I don't believe that's true, all is lost.


There was love, for a long time. Where did it go? Crushed into oblivion in the black hole of life, work, bills, parenthood, familiarity breeding contempt, too little in common. The children grew, as children do, the silences grew, as silences can. When I looked again, the common ground was gone. Adrift in an ocean of alone.

There was love, I suppose. But it evaporated like a teardrop in a heatwave on that day. Fall for the 'wrong' person, don't keep it a secret, the edifice of your life can collapse in a moment. Just try defying convention and expectation, and you'll see.


Time to go, I think. I've booked a cottage, miles from anywhere, for a long weekend. I've told her I want some time to think through the issues, on my own. She's calling it a trial separation. She's probably right. There's a point you reach when you can't justify it to yourself any more.

Time to go, but where? I've no idea. At least I've got a little bit of money saved, I'm not going to be on the street, not immediately, anyway. I'd rather stay at school, finish my education, go to uni, get a good job. But not at the cost of the torture I'm suffering, every day. There's a point you reach where you can't take that any more.


Driving away from the house, the instinct is to look back. I catch myself about to do it, and force myself to keep my eyes to the front. There may be reasons to stay, but sentiment alone shouldn't be one of them. If this is to be the start of a new chapter, no point in being tied to the old. My route is planned, for this journey at least, let's get to it.

Walking away from the house, I don't feel the slightest inclination to look back. There's nothing there for me except regrets and pain. It might have been my home for most of my life, but that all came to an end when he walked into my bedroom, and found us together. From that moment on, it was just a house. I've still got no route planned, either literally or figuratively, but wherever I go, it can't be worse than here.


I've been driving for nearly two hours, and it's started raining. Great. Time for a break, I reckon. There's a small town coming up, I'll turn off the dual carriageway and see if I can find a coffee shop, or something similar. It's about the halfway point of my journey, anyway.

The bus from the village was late, so I missed my connection in town. Two hours till the next departure to the 'big city'. And it's raining. Great. Oh well, I might as well spend some of the time out of the weather. I'll go over to 'Tea Tray' and have some toast and coffee. It's a bit of a dump, but there isn't anything else round here.


Small town was right! One main street, a handful of shops, only one eaterie as far as I can see - 'Tea Tray'. And that looks empty. Still at least it's close to the car park. Any port in a storm, I've no ambition to get drenched.

'Tea Tray' is empty, just for a change. I've no idea how they make enough money to keep going. Still, that's not my problem. At least it will be warm and dry - I don't want to get drenched waiting for the bus.


It's getting really wet now. Let's get into this place before it gets any worse. Quickly, now.

Ugh, it's really started throwing it down. I need to get into this place before it gets any worse.


Head down, chin tucked into my waterproof, here's the door....oops!

Hood up, but the rain's coming horizontally into my face, at last, here's the door....oops!


I've walked straight into a hooded figure - not the Grim Reaper, I hope! No, a teenage lad, with a rucksack. I mutter an apology, and then we engage in a clumsy dance, trying to disentangle ourselves and come to some sort of tacit consensus as to who is going through the door first. He's taken half a pace back towards the pavement, so I precede him, holding the door to allow him to follow me in.

Oh shit, I've walked straight into someone. A man, fortysomething by the look of it. He's apologising, but I'm sure it was my fault, I should've been looking where I was going instead of festering about the weather, and my life in general. I step back to let him go in first, I think about walking away in my embarrassment, but he's kindly holding the door open for me, so I go inside.


The young man looks a bit embarrassed as he's coming through the door, so I smile, encouragingly, I hope, and he smiles wanly in return. He's a pleasant enough looking lad, about 16 or 17, light brown hair, eyes to match, not skinny, but not overweight either, robust looking, I suppose - wait a minute, why am I noticing this sort of stuff about him? What difference does it make to me what colour his eyes are? Now I'm feeling embarrassed, he'll think I'm some kind of weirdo if I keep looking at him like this. I tear my gaze away, in the guise of looking around the room for a suitable table.

Well, I've got inside without any more accidents. He smiled, a friendly looking smile, as he held the door for me. He looks OK, as far as I can tell - I'm rubbish at first impressions, usually - a bit younger than....him, that arsehole....but much more looked-after, not in perfect shape, but not bad for his age, just a few grey hairs amongst the full head of brown, dark eyes, a crinkle or two around the edges when he smiles. He's still looking at me, though, but turns away just as I start to think about why that might be. I hope he's not some kind of weirdo.


Now I've looked too long, I hesitate to ask the lad if he wants to join me, but, if I don't, he might think I'm being ignorant. Dilemma of the day. I ask, he hesitates in turn, but then smiles again and agrees. We take a table for four, close to a large radiator, and sit diagonally opposite each other. Might as well dry out while I'm here, I think.

The man's asking me if I'll join him. My first instinct is to say no, the years of 'stranger danger' being dinned into me coming to the surface, but I'm a big boy now, as big as him, anyway, and it's not as if he's going to jump my bones in the middle of a tea room. We have a free choice of tables, being the only customers, and sit near a nice, warm radiator. Just what I need to get the winter out of my body, if not my soul.


A lady comes out of the back room, takes our order. I bet she's thinking 'last of the big spenders', because my companion only asks for two rounds of toast and a cup of coffee, while I just want a pot of tea. The conversation between us stutters a little at first, but we introduce ourselves, he tells me he's missed his bus and has come here to kill a little time until the next one is due, while I tell him I'm en route to the moors for a weekend break, and fancied a stopover on my journey. He's 16, as I'd guessed, on his way to the 'big city', but not giving away any more than that. I wonder where he's off to on his own with a heavy rucksack on a schoolday, but it's none of my business, so I don't ask. Our food and drinks arrive, and the chitchat wanes for a few moments.

The lady who owns the place - I recognise her from a couple of previous visits - takes our order. I feel a bit awkward trying to talk to this man I've only just met, but he's amiable enough, we swap names, tell each other where we're going, but I don't say why I'm on my way to the city, and he doesn't ask. That's a relief. He's wearing what looks like a wedding ring, so I wonder why he's off for a weekend break on his own, but it's none of my business, so I don't ask.


Half an hour has gone by, our cups are empty, and, looking out of the window, the rain appears to be easing off. It should be time to make a move, but I'm enjoying the company and the inconsequential conversation, it's helping to take my mind off of why I'm here in the first place, which has to be a positive. I'm due to be heading the same way as my young acquaintance, but dilemma number two rears its head - if I ask him if he wants a lift, will he think I've got ulterior motives? My silence while I'm pondering my next move must be noticeable, because he looks up, and asks me if there's a problem.

I've finished my drink and my toast, and it's nearly stopped raining, by the look of it. It'll be time to go soon. That thought makes me a bit sad, because the man's company is nice, and chatting to him is taking my mind off of my problems, just what I need at the moment. All of a sudden, he's gone quiet, as if he's thinking about something. I ask him what's up.


What's up? Only what you might assume about me, I thought. Given that he'd divined that there might be a problem, I decide not to beat about the bush. I tell him that I'm going his way, and if he'd like a lift, at least to the outskirts of the city, I'd be happy to oblige him, but that if he'd rather not, that's absolutely fine as well and no cause for the slightest of hard feelings. I wait for his response with something akin to nervous anticipation, and somehow, and I can't work out why, I really want him to say yes.

What should I do? He's just offered me a lift to the city. It would save me a few pounds, and I haven't got that much money, but it would put me in a position that I've been told for years I shouldn't be in, riding with a stranger in his car. He doesn't look like an axe murderer, or even a molester, but then, what do those kind of people look like? Like everyone else, I'd guess. Like I said, I'm crap at judging people by appearances, but one thing makes me think he might be OK - he seems more nervous about asking me than I feel about answering. God, I've just walked out of my house this morning, intending to make my own way in the world, if I can't cope with the first person I meet I might just as well go back and let him carry on treating me like shit. Why not? Unless he's got an Uzi in his car, he doesn't look as though he could overpower me - why not assume he's genuine, rather than assuming the worst? I agree, and he smiles that friendly smile once again.


It almost didn't register for a second - he's said yes to my offer. I quickly pay the bill before he has a chance to change his mind, brushing aside his protestations that he should pay for his own order. I'm not thinking clearly, why am I so keen to keep this boy - because he is little more than a boy, after all, he's three years younger than my own son, and five years younger than my daughter - in my company? It's a question I don't even begin to have an answer to, because I've just never been in any comparable position before. I need to pull myself together - I'm only giving him a lift for twenty miles or so, then I'll be dropping him off, with no expectation of ever seeing him again. Why, then, do I have butterflies the size of pterodactyls in my stomach?

The man insists on paying my bill, he seems too keen, somehow. I'm starting to feel a bit uneasy again. Why is he so jittery? What have I let myself in for? I need to pull myself together - just because he's bought me a coffee, it doesn't make him a serial killer. Anyway, it's only twenty-odd miles to the city, half an hour, tops, then he'll drop me off, and I'll never see him again. 


We're walking to the car, no more than two minutes from the tea room, and I'm trying to calm myself down. He'll definitely think I'm out to take advantage of him if I carry on the way I'm going. I resort to that great stopgap of the tongue-tied Englishman, and start talking about the weather, how it's better now, and how I hope it stays that way for the rest of our journeys. It seems to be a case of talking so that I don't start thinking too much. Poor kid, he must think I'm losing the plot completely.

As we're walking to the car, he's rattling on about the weather. There must be something more interesting to say, surely? It suddenly occurs to me that he really is nervous about things, and that he's talking non-stop to try and cover that fact up. I don't quite understand, or maybe I don't want to understand what's going on. I hope he's calmer once he starts driving, or it could be a hairy trip.


Right, I've got to settle down now, we're in the car, the lad's rucksack is on the back seat, and I've got to concentrate on my driving. There's no way I want to end up killing us both because I'm not paying attention to what I'm doing. I make my way out of the town, and back to the main road. The traffic is light, and we make good progress. There isn't too much chat between us, compared to our time in the tea room, but as we get nearer to the city, it seems like a good idea to find out where he's heading for - it's a big place, and there are several exits from the main road we could use, no point in dumping him miles from where he needs to be. So I ask him. And then the totally unexpected happens.

Good, his driving is absolutely fine, as far as I can tell. He's concentrating, I guess, so he doesn't say too much for fifteen minutes or so. But then, as we get closer to the city, he asks me where I need to go, where would be the best place for him to drop me off. I've absolutely no idea, of course, and the hopelessness and helplessness of my situation suddenly floods into my mind, overwhelming any dams of self-control I might have had inside. For all that's happened to me over the last year, my mum leaving, him and his bullying, my friends, and most of all my special friend, deserting me after that day, I've always managed to hold it all inside. But now I can't, and before I know it, I've got tears streaming down my cheeks. I try to stop myself, but all I succeed in doing is to make it worse, to start whimpering like a baby. He's stopping the car, there's a layby.


I'm stunned. I ask him a simple question, on the face of it, and he's in floods of tears. These things don't happen for no reason, he's obviously in some kind of trouble. I can't give my full attention to driving with this going on, I need to stop. I see a sign for a layby ahead, so I pull in and stop the car. Instinct kicks in, the paternal impulse that I would have with my own children, I put an arm around his shoulders, try and comfort him somehow, say soothing words to him. He unclicks his seat belt, and buries his head against my chest and shoulder, sobbing his heart out.

Oh, I can't help it, I wish this wasn't happening, but I can't help it. He puts his arm around my shoulder, like a proper father would, he's talking to me, asking me what's wrong, sounding as though he really cares, and that makes it worse, somehow. My seat belt's undone, and I hide my face against him, like a little boy would, crying, crying, crying. 


He's starting to settle down now, the storm appears to be blowing itself out. He pulls away from me, looking ashamed, still sniffling audibly. What was that all about? Should I ask, and even if I do, would he answer? I've got to find out, I think, because if I drop him off in this state, anything could happen. I'd never forgive myself if he went and jumped off a bridge, or something crazy like that. How can I get to the bottom of this, without making matters worse?

Oh God, this is so embarrassing. He must think I'm so stupid, I only met him an hour ago, and now I've drenched his shoulder with tears. I pull back, I feel like getting out of the car and running away, but what would that achieve? He's been kind to me, and he shouldn't have to put up with me having a meltdown. There's a silence between us, I don't know where things are going to go now, what the hell is he going to say?


OK, I'm going to ask. Gently but insistently. I can't make him talk to me, but I might be able to nudge him that way. He could very easily tell me to piss off and mind my own business, and if he does, I'll have to accept that. The tears, the bulging rucksack, I'm getting the feeling that he's running away from something, home, foster care, who knows? More importantly for his immediate well being, where is he running to?

He's looking at me thoughtfully, and he's glanced at my rucksack behind us, too. Looks like he's putting the pieces of the jigsaw together. If he asks, I could tell him to mind his own business. But do I want to, or could he be someone to talk to? I feel the emotions welling up inside me again, and do my best to fight them down. I'm supposed to be growing up, not acting like a five year old.


I ask him if he's feeling any better now. He nods mutely, evidently not trusting himself to speak yet. The next question, is there anything he wants to talk about, because if there is, I'm quite happy to listen. His choice, of course. His eyes are downcast, his head moves a little and I think he's going to come up with a negative response. But then he says, very quietly, that maybe it would help to talk. He draws in a sighing breath, and looks towards me.

He's still being so nice and thoughtful and understanding to me, he asks me how I'm feeling. Then the biggie - he asks me if I want to talk about anything. I can't look at him, I still feel too ashamed of myself. I almost shake my head, but then a little voice inside of me seems to say it would be good to talk, you need to talk. There's so much inside, and here's your opportunity to get it out into the open. He might hate me afterwards, but what does it matter, he's a stranger, I'll never see him again after today, and, anyway, he can't hate me any more than him. I find it hard to speak, but eventually I manage to whisper that maybe it would help to talk. I look up at him, and take a deep breath.


I stay silent and wait for him to speak - I don't want him to think I'm pressurising him. He apologises for his outburst, I tell him that there's nothing to worry about. Another pause, as though he's screwing up his courage - and then, it all floods out of him. By the time he's finished, I've got tears in my eyes.

He's being patient, I guess, waiting for me to say something. I tell him I'm sorry about cracking up, he tells me it's no problem. I hesitate, but then like I've been prodded with a sharp stick, I start to talk. And talk. I tell him everything, as far as I understand it myself. How we used to have a happy family life, but then, when my grandad died when I was 11, how he changed almost overnight, started being horrible to my mum and to me, said he was doing what God wanted, how he wasn't going to go to hell like Grandad had, none of it seemed to make any sense, Grandad was a good man, even if hell existed, which I didn't believe anyway, there's no way he'd have gone there. Things just got worse and worse, it got to the stage when even speaking in the house would have him shouting and cursing, telling us we were damned and that Satan would have us, very soon. Then one day, I got back from school a bit early and found my mum in the kitchen, crying. I'd never seen her cry, ever. As I got closer, I could see bruises on her face, a big black eye, her eye was almost shut. I tried to ask her what had happened, but then she was shouting at me as well, telling me to mind my own business. I went to my room, then a bit later, heard the front door slam. I haven't seen my mum since that day. I know she's still alive, she sent me a birthday card, but I've heard nothing else from her, I've no idea where she is. The only person I felt I could turn to my was best friend, he listened and tried to help, then, one day last summer, when I was really upset, he hugged me - he'd never done that before. It felt so nice, I hugged him back, and one thing led to another - neither of us planned it, but in no time, we were naked in bed together, it was really exciting. After that, we had sex whenever we could, always at my house - his mum didn't work, and he had a couple of sisters, so there was never any privacy at his place - but then, in half term last autumn, he came home from work at lunchtime, ill or something, and just walked into my room while....we were doing it. All hell broke loose, there was shouting and swearing, he tried to attack us, but I was too strong, and got him out of the room. My friend quickly got dressed and left. Later that day, I tried to ring him, but he wouldn't speak to me. The next day, I went round to his house, early, but his mum said he'd gone out. It took three days before I got to see him, I caught up with him on the playing field in the village. He looked at me like he hated me, told me I was a 'queer' and that I'd tricked him into doing it, and said he didn't want anything else to do with me. I was devastated. Anything we did, it was because we both wanted it - he just felt guilty because we'd been caught, as far as I could see. That was awful. but home was worse - he spent all day, every day, whenever we were in the house together, calling me names, telling me I was a pervert, that I was going to burn n hell. There was never another attempt at violence - I guess he realised I'd fight back, and probably win, but the verbals just went on and on, all the time. I just got sick of it, and decided to leave. And that, I told the man, is how I come to be here. Well, he knows it all now. I wait, shaking, to see how he reacts.


My God, I think, what am I supposed to say to that. He's just totally opened his heart to me, and, from my experiences as a parent, in fact, just from common humanity, I know I've got to say the right thing next, or risk deeply upsetting him all over again. It's my turn to take a deep breath. I thank him for sharing his story with me, and that I can understand why he's been so upset. I hope desperately what I'm saying doesn't sound completely patronising to him. Another pause, because there's another question I feel I have to ask. I see his eyes, looking straight at me, he's expecting a question, it seems, but I don't know if it's the one in my mind. Slowly, as calmly as I can, I ask it - has he got anywhere to go?

He looks as though he doesn't know what to say - I can hardly blame him for that, what I've just told him is probably pretty hard to believe. Finally, he answers, thanks me for being honest with him and says he can understand why I'm upset. He doesn't seem to hate me, or anything, I'm relieved about that. He's going to ask me something else, I reckon - I bet he's going to ask me if I'm gay. But, when the question comes, it convinces me as much as anything that's happened in the last couple of hours that he really is a caring guy - he asks me if I've got anywhere to go. I'm welling up again, oh no!


He doesn't answer, but the tears that trickle out of his eyes are a clear enough response - he's just heading for the city as a random place to go, there's nothing there for him. That also explains why he lost it when I asked him where he needed to be dropped off - it made him realise there wasn't anywhere he needed to be dropped off. So, what to do now? If I leave him by the roadside, I know he'll be on his own, and for all that teenagers often think they know it all and can cope with anything the world can throw at them, that's not, in my opinion, a good place for him to be. What else can I offer him, though? The way things are going, I'm not going to have a home myself for much longer - my own troubles suddenly spring back into sharp relief with that realisation, darkening my mood abruptly. I don't know how - maybe just simple empathy - he seems to know immediately that I'm struggling and reaches out to put his hand on my shoulder. Maybe we've got more in common than we think.

He seems really down, all of a sudden. I don't know whether it's because of what I've told him, or whether he's got problems of his own. I'd normally feel really awkward about doing something like this, but maybe because I appreciate how kind he's been, it comes naturally - I reach across to him, and put my hand on his shoulder. If I can give him something back, I want to.


I smile, rather weakly, at the boy. We've both got some issues, I tell him - and as he's been honest with me, I decide to respond in kind. I tell him that I'm on my own this weekend because my marriage is on its last legs, and I'm going to a secluded cottage not so much to decide what to do, but to decide how to do what needs to be done, namely splitting up with my wife, as painlessly as possible for both of us. Apart from my wife herself, no-one else knows anything about this - my daughter is working overseas, and my son is at university, neither of them know as yet that they're likely to be 'children of a broken home' before long. At least they're both grown up, I tell myself by way of some sort of consolation. Consolation, I think - maybe that's what I can give, what we can give each other. In almost any other circumstances, I'd never be able to say what's in my mind to say next, but exceptional times can bring forth exceptional responses. I ask him, as he's evidently got nowhere to go, whether he wants to come to the cottage with me. I rather blurt it out, without thinking too much about the consequences, but now it's said, I can't unsay it - if he thinks I'm a potential rapist, then that's what he thinks.

I'm pretty shocked. Whatever else I might have expected the man to say, it wasn't what's just come out of his mouth. He's splitting up with his wife, and he's invited me to his weekend cottage. Never mind what I might think of him, he doesn't know that I'm not some kind of psycho. My head is screaming 'No, no, no!', but my heart is whispering 'Yes, why not?'. I tell him I need to think about it, but, really, what is there to think about? I haven't got anywhere else to go, apart from spending most, if not all of my money staying in a hotel. Or on the streets? It's a no-brainer, isn't it?


Not surprisingly, he tells me he needs time to think about my proposition. I'm glad, it shows he's got a bit more about him than the stereotypical heedless teenager, if nothing else. There's an almost palpable silence in the car, and I really can't divine what his answer will be. Whatever it is, I'll have to accept it, in spite of my misgivings about what might happen to him if he's alone.

I've never been in this position before, making a serious decision all on my own, with only my own knowledge and life experience, such as it is, to guide me. Walking out of my house was almost a reflex in comparison. It gives me a preview, in a way, of what it's like to be independent, adult. And it's not easy. Like I said before I got in his car, what seems like eons ago, he's no bigger than me, it's not as if he can force me to do anything I don't want to, I'm not a child, even if I'm not 100% fully grown. And he's shown no signs of being anything other than a genuine, caring person, anyway. Like him, maybe what I need is time to think about what to do next. I'll go with him, why not? I tell him what I've decided, he smiles and looks relieved.


We're driving again, but there's no need now to stop off in the 'big city'. We stay on the bypass road, and head for the moorland area where the cottage is. I feel at home around here, I lived in this area for more than a decade, either side of my marriage, before we had to move with my job, spent many of my weekends walking on the hills and visiting the country pubs round about. One of my favourites is not far from where we are now, and I ask the boy whether he fancies lunch. Asking a teenager if he wants to eat, daft question! We decide that if anyone asks, he's my nephew, and we're here for a weekend's hiking. Not that we're likely to see anyone either of us knows, but at least we're singing from the same hymn sheet.

I haven't been in many pubs, but this is a really good one. Great food, a big open fire, views across the moors and right down to the estuary where the city is. We're chatting away like old friends now, getting to know each other properly. I haven't felt as happy as this for months, if not years. Just think, if the village bus had been on time this morning, I'd have been mooching about the city on my own, feeling sorry for myself. 


I collect the key to the cottage, as arranged, from the shop in the nearest village, but that's a good two miles from where we'll be staying. This really is getting away from it all, in spades - which is why I chose it, of course. We pick up a substantial load of groceries, as well - there's a growing lad to cater for, now! The pictures of the cottage on the internet gave the impression of the place being basic, but comfortable enough, and that proves to be the case, two bedrooms, a double and a single, upstairs, a kitchen, lounge and shower room downstairs. Electric heating and cooking facilities. All working, no undue worries. A place to chill out, to think....to talk?

Wow, this place really is in the middle of nowhere! Nothing in sight except hills and sheep, and the lane heading down the valley. It'll be dark soon, and then it'll feel as though we've really left the world, and all its hassles, behind.


We chat, we eat, we chat again. There's a definite feeling that we're on the same wavelength, at least from my point of view. I hope he feels the same.

It's nice to just relax and be in the company of someone who's pleasant and doesn't want to rant at me. I'm enjoying being with him, I hope he feels the same.


It's late, bedtime looms, but I'm finding it hard to say goodnight. The butterflies are back, and I still can't really work out why.

I'm weary, but somehow it's been such a good day, compared to most I've had lately, that I don't want it to end. I look across at him, and get the feeling he's thinking along the same lines.


We move simultaneously, one thought in two minds, or so it seems. We come together, melt into a warm embrace, no words are necessary. What happens next, neither of us knows yet, but could it be that we've found the object of our search, the solution to our problem? Anything's possible.


****


Love & best wishes to all
Sammy B