Tristan

Tristan by Henry H. Hilliard

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Chapter 38

"Givez a hand wif these, mate."

"Sure," said Colton. He picked up the tall drum with the painted tribal decoration and placed it with its brother on the floor in the bay window, which gave onto Queens Gate. Then he went back for three more while Charles struggled with one.

"Phew!" said Charles, wiping his brow with a bandana, "I'm proper glad one of us has some muscles.

"He plays gridiron," said Emily who held a cluster of gourds and little bells. And then: "These are Kpanlogo drums from Ghana. They are played by the Ga people."

The explanation for all this was found in the peculiar nature of the Clivedon Hotel. It was a small establishment in South Kensington that did not enjoy a constellation of stars, but catered admirably for young travellers such as themselves. Behind the imposing brickwork of its late Victorian exterior was an imposing suite of front rooms, consisting of a huge hall with a chunky timber staircase that rose several floors and a large double drawing room that had the air of a gentlemen's club. The rest of the accommodation was not of this order and was strictly functional and budget conscious, although clean. It was basically a backpackers', with shared rooms and facilities. Some rooms, with triple-decker bunks, reminded Tristan of a slave ship or prison camp. However, Tristan had secured one of the private rooms with a tiny en-suite bathroom. The room was just big enough to walk around the double bed on two sides, but it enjoyed a view over the garden of the Bulgarian Embassy and was but a short distance from the Tube station on the Piccadilly Line that ran direct from Heathrow.

The guests made their own meals in the big kitchen and sat at a friendly communal table. Once a week they put on a concert and that night there would be African music, a poetry reading and a talk on coral bleaching on the Great Barrier Reef. Colton, jet lagged, didn't quite know what to think, but he knew when his help was needed and Emily, a student from Durham who had taken a gap year to volunteer in West Africa, was quite attractive.

The Clivedon had also been chosen for its convenience to the Darwin Centre and the museums. Also, Tristan could reach his mother's house from the Hammersmith Underground Station and the moderate cost would enable them to stay for ten days instead of just a week, Colton having paid his own airfare and Tristan paying for their shared accommodation.

Colton did not mention it, but the fact that he was sharing a room with another boy raised not the slightest eyebrow in London--at least not at the Clivedon--and Colton felt strangely liberated, and besides, no one else knew him here.

On their first night they did not eat with the others, but had a late (by Texas standards) meal at an inexpensive Italian trattoria in the Gloucester Road that was housed in a beautiful Venetian Gothic building. Several things struck Colton as exotic--as exotic as the Victorian architecture: they ate late, they had walked to the restaurant and the service was not chirpy and geared to securing tips--and the entrée was eaten first. Two men on a date (if it could be called that) passed without comment.

Tristan was pleased at the educational value of his choice and laughed to himself. Of course they argued about food, Tristan being soundly beaten on the horrors of English cuisine, but Colton failing to understand the crimes that American capitalism and advertising had wrought on the food in his country and beyond. "There are committees in giant corporations who sit down and smooth out anything remotely challenging for consumers," complained Tristan as his dipped his bread into the olive oil and balsamic vinegar. "They have been so risk averse since the 1920s and so preoccupied with marketing angles, which are usually based on ease and convenience--or some gimmick or giveaway which has nothing to do with actual food--that what the consumer is persuaded or forced to buy tastes like shit."

"Y'gotta make it easy to cook, Tris. There's no gain in having to prepare everything from scratch."

"You loose freshness, Colt. Then you have to have preservatives. Americans have lost the connection to the source of their food--`the product' they would say."

"Well, commercialized food has made it easier for moms--they can go out to work. They don't need no help in the home. They don't have to go to the store every day or bake the family's bread. You should write a paper on it for History."

"That's got possibilities."

"And what about steak at home? I love a prime steak!"

"Yeah, the meat is good--or rather it's cheap in Texas -- but feedlot cattle and everything feed on corn is crap. Lamb tastes terrible."

"Well, aren't there battery hens and factory farms in Britain? And I notice Heinz Baked Beans is practic'ly a national dish here--and frozen fish fingers."

"Sadly true, Colt."

"Well, I like Hostess Twinkies."

"Yeah, we have shit like that here too; either so bland that no one would be challenged or horribly over-sweetened to market it to the widest possible range of consumers--especially kids. But we got all that shit from America--especially in the nineteen-sixties when anything American was considered glamorous and we were not long off wartime rationing."

"Well, that's democracy. People vote with their supermarket cart."

"How can a Hostess Twinkie be a result of democracy?"

"How can Trump?"

They both laughed and tucked into their pappardelle with spinach and pine nuts in a cream sauce--a first for Colton--and pushed the boat out with a whole bottle of an Italian pino at £22 --the same price as their meal.

"This is so rad," Colton kept repeating as he refilled their glasses. "Legal drinking!"

Back at the Clivedon they were in time for the entertainment. The residents were lounging about in the leather armchairs, laughing and joking one minute and the next they were earnestly listening to the African drums and quietly discussing whether they were guilty or not of appropriating the culture of an oppressed people. It was quite unlike anything at College, save for the GSA and perhaps the Film Society. Here all the young people seemed much more worldly.

Even before the lecture on coral bleaching was over, Colton and Tristan had slid away, tired and yawning. They were pulling off their clothes and Tristan was just noticing that Colton was commando under his `good' Wranglers.

"No room for shorts under them, Tris," he said when he noticed Tristan observing. "Will y'all come with me t'buy some pants that ain't jeans? I get the idea that I'm kinda in ethnic dress here."

"Sure, but let me tell you, there's nothing finer than your butt in a pair of cowboy pants."

"Thanks, dude. I'll remember that when I sit on your face." They climbed under the stiff sheets. "Tris, before you go down on me..."

"Who says I'm going down on you?"

"Shall we place a bet? Tris, tomorrow you should go to see your mom alone."

"I wasn't planning to put you through that ordeal. You'll go to the Darwin Centre?"

"Yeah, but I want you to know, whatever happens with your mom, I've got your back, dude. Y'all doin' exactly the right thang, Tris. You've come across the Atlantic to see her and to see y'baby sister. She's been in hospital. You didn't expect her to come n'see you and, even though she's been weird about stuff, she's still your mom. That's right, ain't it?"

"That's how I'm trying to think about it. I haven't been weird; she has."

"When are y'goin'?"

"She said to come for afternoon tea. Alice should be awake by then."

"I don't understand you Britishers. She's y'mom, for fuck's sake, and you've been away for ages, but you only get an invite for tea. Y'all a pack of cold fish."

"I suppose that's true. It's just how we are, I guess--or maybe how she is. She's very `proper'--I don't mean that she's a prude or anything, it's just that certain things are done in a certain way--especially by people of our class."

"`Our class'? How fucked is that?"

"Yeah, I'm not disagreeing with you, Colt, but that's the way a lot of English people still think. They don't expect everyone to behave in a certain way, but they do expect everyone on the same team to. And she is a lawyer, so she don't take shit..."

"She sounds kinda scary, Tris."

"Oh no, she's not scary. I haven't explained her properly. She's just a bit uptight and a bit sad really--tragic even. I feel sorry for Mum. If Dad hadn't pissed off, she might've been okay."

"Yeah, well her son's okay, no thanks to her. He pulled himself up by the bootstraps."

"Thanks, Colt. You helped."

"And y'dad."

"Dad? How do you figure that?"

"I just know."

"You mean with money and stuff."

"Not just that. Now git y'head down 'tween m'footabller's thighs and I might just let you clean out my sweaty butt crack."

"Okay."

They were both alarmed when they discovered it was ten o'clock when they awoke--such being jet lag. There were still some young people drinking coffee in the kitchen when the boys went down.

Emily, the girl with the drums, was particularly nice and asked what Tristan was doing back in England. He gave a bald outline and Colton volunteered his love of biological science. She seemed genuinely interested and said that a few of the inmates were going to the pub that night and that they were welcome to join them.

Colton was particularly excited. "Never been to a pub n' at home we can only drink at bars if they don't check our IDs too closely."

The others--British, European and Latin American-- laughed good-naturedly at the uncivilized United States.

An hour later, Tristan found himself at a loose end without Colton who had gone off to pursue his biological interests and had indeed taken his laptop with him. Trying to put the meeting with his mother out of mind, he decided to hit the shops. His quest was for some underwear for Colton, of course, and so he took the number nine bus to Piccadilly Circus and walked up Regent Street.

Tristan had forgotten how good the shopping was in London and how poor it was in America--at least in Texas where men's fashion was not given the prominence that women's clothing was. He went as far as John Lewis and only succeeded in buying a couple of pairs of black trunks in Colton's size. He did however see some trousers that Colton might like and vowed to bring him back.

A tip from a gay sales assistant took him to Brewer Street--a long narrow thoroughfare off Regent Street-- and in a certain establishment he found what he was looking for. Tristan's mental image of the quarterback jock modelling the underwear on display sent the blood pumping to his penis and for a little while he quite forgot the rendezvous with his mother. He spent quite a long time looking a elegantly boxed items displayed on glass shelves or hung from clips on coat hangers like so many kippers in a smoke house. Tristan eschewed outlandish thongs and micro-briefs in lace and rubber and all sort of fetish materials. They were not Colton. Colton, he concluded, was very masculine and had a big form and bikini-like brevity and spaghetti straps were not his style. Instead, he found low-cut European trunks with discernable sides--even if only a coupe of inches deep-- and some other pairs that were tight but had pouches for big lads with ample cocks and balls. Then he came upon the backless ones he'd seen online--these may well have screamed `gay' but he had to have them--a pair each.

That done, Tristan felt like a coffee and so walked up past Oxford Street, pausing to look in the shop windows until he reached `Kaffeine' in Eastcastle Street. The coffee came and he sipped it with a sigh. Everything seemed suddenly familiar to him and he remembered coming to this place in happy times past. Suddenly he thought of Saskia, his former best friend whom he had shamefully cut when he was banished to the United States. He dialled her number before he could change his mind.

"Tristan!" she screamed. "This is a surprise! Are you in London?"

"Yeah, came over yesterday. Sas, I just want to say I'm so, so sorry. I was fucked up and I didn't even say goodbye. You must hate me."

"Of course I don't hate you. You didn't return my calls but Steve--big Steve--told me what happened. Are you okay now?"

"Yeah. I was a mess and on a lot of pills and stuff, but I'm clean now."

"Are you living with your father?"

"Not exactly. I was--he's got a new place in Dallas with his girlfriend--but now I'm at a university in Texas and I've bought a house there. And you?"

Saskia was at London University doing Politics as was their friend Steve. "I've got a job in a cool bar in Sardinia starting this week. It's Roxanne's cousin's--you remember Roxy who went out with Steve. Tristan did and he knew it was the other Steve she was now referring to, such was being able to take up the broken threads of a life he had thought was dead.

"Why are you here, Tris?"

"I've come to see Mum. She's been a bit...er...a bit unwell...pretty fucked up, actually. You know that she and Rodger have had baby?"

"Shit, no! You're now a brother!"

"Yeah, to a little girl. I haven't seen her yet. Mum and I have been kind of estranged."

"Oh Tris, I'm so sorry, darling. Why don't we catch up before I go? I'd love to see you."

"That would be great. Colton told me to not make myself a stranger and to call."

"And who is Colton, pray tell?"

"My friend. He came over with me."

"A boyfriend?"

"A friend, my best friend."

"Hey! I thought that was me."

"My best boy friend"

"See! A little twinky friend from your History class or Chess Club maybe?"

"Bitch! I've never played chess." He laughed. "Actually he's a Biology major."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah and he's the quarterback for the football team."

"You're shitting me!" she shrieked and then couldn't talk for laughing.

"See for yourself. What about tomorrow night at The Harp? Is that still cool?"

It was and when Tristan hung up he felt that he had mended a nagging wrong

Tristan crunched over the gravel in the forecourt of the house his mother shared with Rodger Trefusis, her second husband. It was all terribly familiar, of course; it had only been two years. One of the cars was new--a Bentley, Tristan thought, but he did not pause to check. The stern-looking door was in an arched recess of heavy architectural pretentions. He pressed the brass bell.

It was Rodger who answered. His manner was ostensibly cheerful, but it seemed strained. Tristan felt sorry for him and tried to return a good humour he did not feel.

"...You think so? Well, I've been running and doing some weights, but I'm not very dedicated...Yes, I'm quite well..."

Without being ushered like a complete stranger, he opened the door to the drawing room (as his mother referred to it) whose bay window looked out onto the shrubbery and to the passing traffic in Castelnau Road beyond.

"Oh you've come, have you?"

Tristan's stomach tightened; his mother's tone did not bode well. She was sitting in her usual armchair and did not rise. Tristan noted that she was wearing a dress of expensive plainness. It was perhaps `taupe', if Tristan understood the colour, and was augmented by a gunmetal-coloured metallic jacket that was short and did not button but had long sleeves. Her shoes matched. It was very much his mother's style, perhaps her armour.

"Hello, Mum," said Tristan brightly. "You look like a million dollars."

"Thank you, Tristan, but that is a vulgar American expression."

"I suppose it is, Mum. I have probably become completely vulgar." He leant down and planted a kiss on her cheek. He fought back tears.

"I am so looking forward to seeing Alice," he managed to say. "Is she sleeping?"

"Yes, but Rodger will see if she's awake. She'll want her bottle."

"Yes, of course. They're always hungry," said Tristan, although he knew little of babies.

"She's taking a bottle now. I was feeding her, but my medications..."

"Yes, of course. You can't risk that."

"That is just another disappointment. I should be able to feed my own daughter and I'm sure Rodger thinks it is a failing."

"Mum! I'm sure Rodger thinks no such thing. He's full of admiration for a women over forty having a baby," he asserted, although he had no such knowledge.

His mother did not reply to that, but seemed to withdraw slightly.

"Rodger said you're taking a little work at home now."

"Just a few jobs--contract cases mostly. I can usually get a little done when Alice is down and then Rodger comes home most nights by 5:00, so I can work then."

"Well, that's great. It keeps that brain of yours sharp," he said, although he privately thought that his mother was not sharp at all, perhaps the affects of her medication.

There was an awkward silence. Tristan had been standing and then sat down. "I'm sorry we had words at Gran's funeral, Mum. I guess I was pretty upset and I'm sure you were too--inside," he added and hoped his mother didn't notice the barb.

"I won't say I can forgive you for how you behaved in font of all those people. What they thought of me I shudder to think, but I'm sure you were upset. You were very close--she loved you more than me."

"Don't say that, Mum."

"Why? It's the truth."

"I don't think so. She loved you and Aunt Jean. She told me often--even when I was sent away."

"You chose to go, Tristan. I never sent you." This was a complete lie, thought Tristan. "It's just that you are so much like your father."

"How do you mean?"

"You get set on one idea and you don't think how it will affect others--how it will affect even your own mother."

Tristan didn't think this was true at all but said, "A friend suggested that Dad might have Asperger's. He finds it hard to read other people's emotions, although he is really caring underneath." Perhaps if his father was made the common enemy...

"There you are! And who is this friend?"

"My roommate, Colton. I told you about him."

"Did you?"

"Yes, his parents have a vineyard and he pays football and the guitar and he sings. He is majoring in Biology."

"Well, even so, I don't see how he is qualified to make such a judgement about your father."

"He's met Dad heaps of times and he volunteers at the Students' Clinic where lots of kids have medical and emotional problems. He's good at his job."

"But he's not a qualified doctor?" she said sharply.

"No, Ms Tilson-Beck," said Tristan as if his mother was cross-examining a hostile witness.

She smiled slightly, for this was an old game. "When I was at the Clinic," she began, referring to the Nunnery in North London, "they said that having the baby, after all I had been through, has been detrimental to my wellbeing. "

"That must make it hard to look after a baby and to take on work."

"Yes, but Rodger has been marvellous. He is not taking as much work and brings very little home. The stress that you and your father--not to mention my own sister and mother--has caused me, has ruined my life."

"The doctors said that?" asked Tristan who did not believe the half of it.

"It is the best clinic in Britain," she said almost proudly and deftly sidestepping the question. She would not have done so well in the witness box herself, Tristan silently noted. "All the best people were there...." And she went on to name names.

"Well, I hope that the doctors can make you better, Mum."

"They're trying and so am I."

"You know, Mum, having a baby often causes problems--with your body and...er...equilibrium," he said, fishing for a non-controversial word.

"I am not mental, Tristan, don't you dare suggest that!"

"No, no, I was thinking of post-natal depression or something," he said in a panic.

"I am not depressed. I am stressed and that has been caused by the cruel and thoughtless actions of others."

"Well," said Tristan, quickly getting fed up, "I am out of your hair and I can't cause you any more grief."

"You don't understand, Tristan, the grief of it is always with me and I can't see a way out. I can't expunge that part of my life and the blight has followed me into my marriage to Rodger."

Tristan fumed inside at being referred to, even obliquely, as `a blight'. His mother went on, almost rambling and this worried Tristan even more. "I thought our life was good. We were a little family of three. I loved your father--he was my rock-- and I loved you. I thought we were secure and respected in the community. We had so much to be grateful for. All that was an illusion. Everything fell apart."

"Tristan noted `loved', but thought that perhaps she didn't mean it. There was no use in picking trouble with someone who was clearly troubled herself. "You're right, Mum. In was pretty good up until the end, but nothing's perfect, even the love between parents and their kids. There are lots of families that suffer divorce and having a gay son."

"I never said that you being gay caused me grief."

"No, you didn't say it."

"Your behaviour for the last few years did. I hope that is all behind you now--for your own sake, I mean."

Tristan wasn't sure if it was just for his own sake but said, "Yeah. I'm pretty happy."

"Good, that will help me. And here's Rodger with Baby!"

"She was awake in her bassinet and just laying there looking up at her mobile. She's such a good girl!" he said affectionately.

"May I?" asked Tristan after a moment.

There were no objection and he took Alice and tried not to hold her too stiffly. He thought he should think something, but found he could not. She was a nice little baby and looked rather like Rodger. Tristan wondered if he would have more connection when she was older.

"I'll get the tea," said Rodger and ducked out of the room.

"She's lovely," said Tristan, for want of anything else. He attempted a little jig and she squirmed.

"She wants a feed. Give her to me when you're ready."

Tristan handed the bundle over. Rodger came back in with the tea tray and a bottle. His mother fed Alice while Rodger poured.

"How's university treating you, Tris?"

Tristan realised that his mother had not asked a single question about him. "It's pretty good, Rodger. I got some good results and have been taking some second year classes. I received distinctions. Of course, Dad wasn't too happy with a couple of Bs I got for subjects that I took only as fillers."

"Still, that's really good, Tris."

"I've had an interesting holiday job," he added and went on to explain about his work for Iain Macpherson. Even his mother knew who he was and had seen a television series he had made. Tristan hoped that she was impressed.

"What are you planning on doing here?" Rodger asked.

"Oh, we're going to do some sightseeing and I'm catching up with Saskia."

"Oh yes, a very bright spark," she replied with some asperity. "You said `we' are you here with someone?"

"Yes, I came with my roommate, Colton. He's my best friend."

"Why didn't you bring him here?" asked his mother surprisingly.

Tristan wanted to state the bleeding obvious, but kept his cool and said, "Oh, he's at the Natural History Museum today. He'd really interested in biology, evolution an that sot of thing."

"Must be smart," said Rodger.

"Oh, he is. He was invited here earlier in the year and spoke at the Linnaean Society. Met David Attenborough."

"Well," said his mother. "Perhaps he could come to dinner one night."

"Yes, said Rodger, "Is he the sportsman--the footballer?"

"Yes," said Tristan frantically trying to find a way of this mess.

"We'd like to meet your American friend," said his mother, "The boys will be here on Thursday, would that suit? Or are you going out clubbing with that Saskia Hipwell?"

"I'm meeting Sas for a drink tomorrow, so Thursday should be good. I'm not sure if Colt has made any plans though.

"Send me a text," said Rodger in a friendly fashion.

Baby Alice was burped and, as was inevitable, some missed the towel and his mother had to hand the baby over while she left to sponge the shoulder of her expensive outfit.

Tristan took the opportunity of her absence to speak his mind to Rodger. "Mum still appears weird, Rodger, kinda out of it even."

"She's on some pretty heavy stuff an she's been tensed up about your visit."

"Then why did she invite me and Colton here again?"

"I don't know. She does things like that. She's actually a lot better than when she was at The Nunnery--today just might not be a good one." Rodger jigged the baby and made some silly noises.

"If she's like this, how does she cope with work?"

"No problem at all. Her work is seemingly unaffected. She withdraws into it."

"Goes to her happy place?"

"Yes, if contract law could be thought so."

"How is Jago?" he asked, naming Rodger's elder son.

"He's pretty shaken after the drug thing. He's actually out doing community service today. He's with a community group helping seniors on the Old Oak Estate in Hammersmith--so it's pretty easy. He got off lightly, Tris, but it might affect his getting into University. We'll just have to see."

"Rodger, do you blame me for Jay's trouble?"

"You? Of course not. Did you introduce him to methamphetamines?"

"No, I never even knew."

"Look, I know you had your problems, but his were centred on a clique at his school. I suppose every parent says this, but he was caught up in the wrong crowd."

"Mum blames me."

"No she doesn't. She blames herself, but it's not her fault either. If anything, it is my fault. I chose the school, I didn't help him enough when his mother died."

"I'm sure he'll come good."

"That's what I'm hoping. You'll see for yourself on Thursday."

"Ahh, about that..."

"Don't worry, your mother will be on her best behaviour for guests. It will be a bravura courtroom performance. I'd like you to come, Tris."

"Thanks, Rodger. I guess we all have our problems and they have to work out in their own way."

"You're a mature boy--young man I mean, Tris. I think you've become an adult since you went away."

"It's only in the last year," said Tristan with a laugh. "I put that down to Colt."

"We'll, he must be a remarkable bloke. I look forward to meeting him, although American football is a complete mystery to me."

"It is to me too."

"What are you two talking about?" said his mother as she re-entered the room. She took Alice.

"Football," said Rodger. "The tea will be getting cold."

Tristan couldn't wait until he got back to The Clivedon. He needed to draw comfort from Colton. "How was it?' he asked.

"Bloody."

"What does that mean?"

"Fucking awful. She was a bitch. You know, Colt, I think she's mentally ill."

"Well, she was in that clinic. Tell me what happened."

Tristan tried to give a faithful account. Colton listened with a professional air and Tristan obtained a sense of how he dealt with troubled students at the Clinic.

"Sounds like it could be clinical depression or bipolar or something. More than just post-natal depression."

"Well, looking back, she was getting like this after Dad left and well before having Alice. Of course giving birth may have exasserpated it." Colton nodded as he put his laptop into its case. "And there's worse."

"Worse?"

"Yeah. I've promised that you will meet Saskia at a pub tomorrow night."

"How's that bad?"

"She's got a tongue on her--a bit like Alexinia. She'll give you a hard time."

"I can handle women, Tris."

"And..."

"And?"

"Mum and Rodger have asked us both to dinner on Thursday."

"Shit! Will she hate me?"

"Rodger said that she will be on her best behaviour. I think he's right."

"But she'll be posh an' everythang and I'm just a hick."

"Don't you believe it. I let drop about David Attenborough and I could tell she was impressed. It will be informal and Rodger's boys, Jago and Huw, will be there."

Tristan spent some time giving Colton a pep talk. Colton had agreed to support Tristan and now, he realised, he had to make good. Then Tristan introduced him to Indian food and he hoped that he had not been pushed too far in one afternoon. However, Colton did not require hospitalization--in fact he saw chilli as a challenge and Indian food was a moderate success.

Colton then came to see the difference between an English pub and an American bar. They met up with the crew from The Clivedon at the Queen's Arms in Queens Gate Mews. It was a good example of a modern London pub. The building was old and located on a corner down what Colton described as a posh alleyway'. The food was basic, but Colton was impressed by the beer served in large pint glasses-- beer rather than hard liquor' being the currency of Britain. The lively group had booked a pair of tables and the noise level was high. The backgrounds of the individuals in the party were much more varied than the students Colton knew back home. Not withstanding his recent experience with the Dutch, there were girls from Colombia, Germany, Taiwan and France and Colton was exposed to young people who thought differently about things and who had seen something of the world.

Colton thought it was wonderful to be able to walk home full of beer and fall into bed. The need to sleep weighed more heavily than the need to jack off on this occasion and Tristan had to be content.

The next day Tristan persuaded Colton to forgo the Natural History Museum in the morning for a shopping expedition. They took a red bus to Regent Street and Tristan repeated his journey of the previous day. Colton was decked out with to pairs of skinny-legged jeans--one black an one beige-- and some better tee-shirts and an expensive suede jacket with a lambs' wool collar. Then he spotted some boots--not cowboy ones, but the sort of half-boot that was fashionable at the time. Money was running low, so Tristan insisted on buying these for him.

In search of a vibrator, in which they decided to go halves, they left Regent Street and wound their way east past Golden Square in a maze of narrow streets. In one they stopped.

"Well, I ain't been to one."

"I don't think you'll like it, Colt. It's pretty heavy, not just gay."

"Such as?"

"Well, you know, leather and whips. You don't want to end up in a sling with a fist up your butt, do you?"

They were outside a bar in a yard in the vicinity of Old Compton Street--the nominally gay centre of the Metropolis. It was early, well before lunch, and Tristan wasn't even sure that it would be open for customers.

"Might be educational."

Tristan shrugged and he followed Colton down the stairs from the street into the darkness.

Tackle' was not unlike hundreds of other small clubs in London. The tiny, stuffy foyer gave onto a large dimly lit space with a long bar down one side. There was a dance floor and the decoration wavered somewhat unsuccessfully between 1970s discotheque and motor repair garage, with oil drums, stacks of tyres and that sort of thing. An archway, curtained with chains, obviously connected to a back room'.

The place was empty at this hour, save for one man sitting at a table drinking alone. He was either a telephone repairman or had dressed as one for some fetishist reason. The barman was a good-looking boy about their age. He was topless and wore football shorts with boots.

Tristan asked for two Stellas and turned back to Colton. "Satisfied? It doesn't look so exciting in the daytime, does it?"

"I guess not. I wonder what the john's like?"

"Don't go there!" laughed Tristan."

"Our facilities are scrupulously cleaned once a month-- whether they need it or not, young sir," said a voice.

They turned around to find two men behind them. The older one who had spoken with a slight lisp was middle aged. He had a full head of dark hair streaked with silver that was swept back to disclose a small sapphire in his right ear lobe. He was probably once powerfully built but had run slightly to fat under a quietly expensive suit that was teamed, somewhat anomalously, with shoes made from alligator leather. His cuff links, when Tristan observed him light a small cigar, were miniature cocks and balls.

The other man was younger and more ruggedly handsome, with a short ginger beard. He was dressed in casual clothes with boots like the barman. "Mr Brooke is making a joke," he said.

"Yes, we never clean them," said Mr Brooke, pleased with his own wit.

Tristan gave a nervous laugh. They were rather intimidating and he was glad Colton was nearby.

"Were tourists," explained Colton baldly, extending his hand in a typically Texan gesture. "Colt Stone."

Mr Brooke regarded it coolly, then held his cigar in his teeth and shook the proffered limb.

"Morris Brooke, Mr Stone. I am the owner of this club. This gentleman here is Louis Delgano who manages it." Colton introduced Tristan and there was more handshaking.

Their beers appeared on the bar and Tristan collected them and handed one to Colton who was still talking to the two men in the practically empty room.

"Is that Ronnie Kray?" asked Tristan boldly, indicating the signed black-and-white photo over the bar.

"Yes it is," said Mr Brooke. "I never met him personally, but my father knew him and Reggie quite well in the old days." He sounded almost wistful. "My gran was good friends with their mum, Violet, when they lived in Bethnal Green. The punters who come in here expect that sort of thing--nostalgia-- so that's why it's there."

Then Mr Delgano spoke. "Colt Stone? What's your real name?"

"That is my real name."

Delgano looked at Mr Brooke who said, "It sounds like a stage name. You know, Rock Hardon', Max Steele'. Are you looking for a job?"

"No, I'm only in London for a few days. Anyway, I don't a have a work permit."

"That could be arranged," said Delgano. "He's a fine lookin' lad, Morris, don't you think?"

"Yes, indeed," said Mr Brooke, appraising him while puffing on the cigar.

"You're from Texas, son?"

"Yeah, is it that obvious?"

Both men laughed and so did Tristan. "Pretty much. Are you a cowboy?"

"Nope, a farmer's son. I'm at college and play football."

"How'd he look in overalls or in all that football armour?" asked Mr Brooke, rhetorically.

"Fucking hot!" volunteered Tristan who had said little up to this point.

"You have a fan cub, Colt Stone," said Mr Brooke evenly, "but I'm inclined to agree."

"Well, I just wanted to see a gay club. I'm not looking for a job."

"We could have you behind the bar like Billy over there or maybe dancing with the other boys. £200 a night--more if you work the back room."

"What happens there?"

"What do you think, lad? Suckin' n' fuckin' and hardcore sling. Piss, but I don't allow no scat." Colton nodded in apparent understanding.

"Take your shirt of," said Mr Brooke suddenly.

Colton looked at Tristan sitting on his stool and who merely shrugged again and took a sip of his beer. The quarterback took off his jacket and handed it to Tristan then pulled his tee-shirt over his head in that jock manner previously described.

"Very nice, Mr Delgano." said Mr Brooke. "We could make it a little more. You shave down?"

"Yeah, some. M'pubes n'balls."

"Do you mind, Colt Stone?" asked Mr Brooke who didn't exactly wait for an answer and ran his hand over his muscular chest and gave a tug at the nipple ring.

"Nice smooth body Mr Delgano and look at the tits on the lad."

"The punters would chew them fair off in the back room."

"I'm afraid he's right, Mr Stone. Even working this room, a lad has to be able to withstand a certain amount manhandling, although I don't allow no real rough stuff here, but he customers expect you to be available."

"Like I said, Mr Brooke, I ain't looking for a job."

"Humour me and take off your pants."

"Right here?"

"Of course right here, my dear, this is a gay club."

Colton took off his sockless Vans and slid his jeans down. He was just wearing a pair of USMC silkies. Messers Brooke and Delgano hummed appreciatively in unison.

"Those too lad."

The boy at the bar had stopped work and the single customer drew closer. Colton shed them like a jock in the locker room and gave his newly freed self a shake.

"That's a sizable piece of equipment, Mr Stone. And look at his orchestras, Louis! You don't get many of them to the pound at Smithfield. And you'd have to sit down the back of the Temple," he added, indicating Colton's folds of foreskin.

"Grower or a shower?" asked Mr Delgano with a professional air.

"He's more of a shower," said Tristan.

"You speak from experience, son?" Tristan thought it pointless to be embarrassed and he barely blushed.

"Do you mind?" asked Mr Brooke again. Colton didn't and the owner hefted his cock and balls. "A shower is good for the customers. When they squeeze you down there--even mash you--they like to have something to grab on to." He now grasped Colton's cock with one hand and was able to pull the foreskin back to expose the shiny purple head with the other. Colton let out a slight gasp.

"Very nice!" he commented. "Look at the piss slit on the lad, Mr Delgano. "I bet you piss like the proverbial racehorse." Colton said nothing as he was being manhandled.

"Do you use a sound?"

"That's a metal..." began Tristan.

"I know what a urethral sound is," said Colton. "No, I never have. It's naturally this wide. Guy at the Clinic got an infection from using sounds, Tris."

"In the back room there'd be some customers who'd be trying to get their tongues and pinkies in there, all just to make you feel good, Cowboy. Would you like that?"

"I might, but I'm not gay, Mr Brooke." Colton finished up his beer over the top of Mr Brooke's bent form.

"Never said you were. That's your business. I'm just thinking of my customers. When they see you walking around in just a jockstrap out here or see you being flogged on the St Andrews Cross in the `Supper Room', they don't care if you're gay or a Chelsea Pensioner. It's all money."

"Fact is, Mr Stone, straight boys are at a premium," said the manager. "We could make it a monkey if you could take a little pain." Colton looked puzzled. "£500, Mr Stone."

"Mr Delgano! Don't be so hasty! The boy might have done it for four," cried Mr Brooke who was still rolling Colton's penis between his fingers like a cigar. "Turn around."

Colton turned around and both Brooke and Delgano now ran their hands from Colton's wide shoulders down to his narrow waist and beyond to his calves. "Do you mind, Mr Stone?" Before Colton could answer both men had spanked his buttocks.

"Muscle butt alright," said Mr Delgano. "Didn't move."

"Lots of squats," explained Colton.

"I think we might need to see your Aris."

"Look, I'm not working here and I don't know what you mean."

Colton received another spank, Mr Brooke's diamond signet ring leaving a mark.

"Your Aristotle-- your arse, Sonny Jim. Bend over and part 'em."

"Well, why didn't you say so," said Colton, annoyed. Tristan wanted to laugh, for Colton bent over like the worst slut and parted his jock buns.

"Very nice. I don't suppose you could take a fist? I reckon Tosher could have you opened up in a fortnight of intensive training."

"A fist!" cried Tristan.

"Here, look at this," said Mr Brooke to Tristan. He stood up and fished out his phone. On it was a poorly executed shot of a young boy in a sling. He was wearing a hood. The other man was older and hairier, but obviously athletic and he had half his forearm up the rectum of the boy. "Do you know how old that boy is?" Tristan looked and thought he may have been about his own age or slightly younger. Mr Delgano leaned close and whispered unpleasantly in his ear.

"Never!" cried Tristan, but Mr Brooke nodded emphatically. "And the man was a well known sportsman--but just who is not for you to know or I might just have to kill you. The boy is his son!"

"Fuckin' Hell!" said Tristan, the breath almost knocked out of him. "And that happened in the `Supper Room'?"

"No, that was not at this club at all and we don't employ anyone underage. It is too risky. But there are certain illegal gatherings...So, Mr Stone?"

"No thank you, Mr Brooke," said Colton, "I think that's enough."

"Just a minute lad. Stay like that." Mr Brooke tapped his moistened middle finger against Colton's tightly buttoned sphincter. He then sniffed it. "Mrs Brooke is away in Malaga and I'm having a little gathering of business connections at my home this evening--quite exclusive and private, I assure you. £500 for making my friends happy--plus cab fare out to Golders Green."

"I don't have £500."

"See, the boy makes a joke? I'd pay you, Sunshine."

"No, it's very generous, but I don't want to do it, now if you'd let me..."

"Wait just a minute, my dear. Let's all have another drink as friends." He turned to the barman. "Four Vera-and-Phil, Billy."

Colton straightened up and took his gin-and-tonic. He was still naked.

"Mr Isley, what can we do to persuade your friend here that he has a future in show business?"

"I don't know, Mr Brooke. Of course I could use the cash. £300 would be useful for a poor student."

"Ahh...Mr Isley..." said Mr Brooke, appraising him but clearly worried.

"I was joking," said Tristan and Mr Brooke relaxed and his smile returned.

"See what fine fellows these are, Louis!"

"Perhaps Colton could give us a little show," said Mr Delgano.

"Y'want me to dance?"

"If you like, but I want to see you wank yourself."

"Up on he bar, Mr Stone," said Mr Brooke brightly, "and show us how much of a stud you are."

Colton leapt athletically onto the bar, knocking over a bowl of pork scratchings. He strutted along the bar like a performer and then made his cock do a `helicopter'. He ran his hands up and down his own body in a sensuous fashion.

"Touch your toes, lad," called Mr Brooke.

Colton bowed with a flourish and thrust his meaty arse in their direction while he grinned at himself in the peach-coloured mirror over the bar.

"Mr Isley?" said Mr Delgano. Tristan looked over to him and he waggled the tip of his extended tongue in a disgusting fashion, but his meaning was clear.

Tristan, no longer caring that Brooke and Delgano were almost certainly a pair of depraved villains, slid off his stool and went over to Colton. "Stay like that,' he said. He then touched the tip of his tongue to Colton's pinky-brown fundament.

"We'd have to engage them both, Louis," observed Mr Brooke.

Then Colton suddenly stood and Tristan stepped back. He did a few dance moves and then flipped himself up and proceeded to walk along the bar on his hands, his cock and balls hanging at an unaccustomed angle.

Then, with a leap, he sat down on the edge of the bar and picked up his flaccid `piece'.

He stroked himself without shame in front of his small audience. It went on and on, through the various stages of such things. They followed his every move, watching his changing expressions and varied actions. His young muscles flexed and strained and his flesh was reddened by lust as a sheen of sweat gilded his masculine form that would have eluded the chisel of Praxiteles.

Mr Brooke was kneading himself through his expensive suiting, while Mr Delgano kept his hands free, although he was possibly plumped up in his black jeans, and he was watching intently.

"Don't worry about the floor, my dear," said Mr Brooke at one point. "Billy will clean it up. Let's see what you can do."

One..two..three...Colton came hard. Shot number four was the big one, while numbers nine and ten had to be wrung out.

"You have the position, Mr Stone. Any more and I just might have made you a partner in the business."

"Thanks, but no thanks, Mr Brooke. It made me hot having an audience, but I don't want to do it professionally."

"It's the second oldest profession, eh, Louis?"

Mr Delgano shook his head in disbelief.

"Thank you for the free show, Mr Colt Stone," said Brooke, visibly red in the face up to the roots of his silver hair. "I hope you play football as well as you do cabaret. I've soiled my round-the-houses, young man, and that hasn't happened since Bernie Silver got out of bird."

Colton grinned at the underworld figures and retrieved his silkies, although he was slow to fully dress. They had obviously given up on recruiting Colton, however Mr Brooke was in a generous mood.

"Mr Isley, here is my card. If you should be at a loose end tonight, you are welcome as my guests at Golders Green. If you would like to dine at Chez Antoine, your money is no good there. It is one of my businesses and the duck is very good."

Tristan thanked him and helped Colton dress. They regained the doubtful fresh air of Soho.

"That Mr Brooke," said Tristan turning to Colton as they walked back to Old Compton Street. "I think he is the one who was said to be involved in Charlie Wilson's death."

"What?"

"A Great Train Robber who had fled to Spain where he was shot by some punk in the 'nineties."

"Shit! He might have killed us!"

"Made it exciting?"

"Shit yeah!" said Colton grinning and with a slight swagger in his gait.

They returned to The Clivedon with their purchases. The vibrator had to remain in its box because it would not work on British power. However, Colton, still `sexed-up' (as Tristan put it) from his recent display eyed the new dildo lasciviously.

"You want me to try it out on you, do you Colt?" asked Tristan disingenuously.

"Now Tris, you know I don't take anythang up m'butt."

"Except a tongue?"

"Yeah, a love a tongue."

"And a finger?"

"Maybe an occasional pinkie in the heat of passion. That things goin' up you, Tris, if I have to hammer it in." Colton was joking--at least Tristan hoped so.

"We can't make too much noise," said Tristan suddenly conscious of the other residents as he lay on his back with his knees raised and his `hole' lewdly on display for Colton.

"I can't use the `traditional solution'," said Colton looking round. "I didn't bring no jockstrap."

"I might have to punish you for that," began Tristan just before Colton shoved his left high top Van into his nose.

"Put your face in there. They're pretty sweaty from all the walkin' an' no one will hear you scream."

They did stink of hot rubber and sweat and Colton had thought it was more masculine not to wear socks. Tristan held it aside until he thought he'd need to muffle himself and took advantage of the fresh air.

Colton set to work with his tongue and Tristan squirmed in pleasure. His tongue was a strong muscle and he alternated force with tender, teasing swipes. Colton became clearly worked up and kissed and sucked at Tristan's anus, making him think that he would prolapse into Colton's hungry mouth just like the pair of college luge competitors in the story set in Aspen that he had read called, `Rosebud is not just a Sled'. But that never happened.

"Right, lube!" said Colton eventually in a business-like manner. "You enjoying it?"

Tristan removed the shoe and said, "Yes, thank you." Colton laughed and planted a kiss on his lips and placed the shoe back on.

Colton set to work with his fingers: one...two...twisting...curling...withdrawing...three, then stretching with one from each hand.

When Tristan could speak, he remarked, "Why are guys so fascinated with sticking things inside other people--girls and guys?"

Colton paused but left two fingers inserted. "Dunno. Must be a reproductive urge, a primal turn on. Girl's get off on feeling good before they'll let a guy in."

"Feeling good?"

"Yeah, might be safe' or loss of control' or loved'--not often used'--not like in porn."

"And a guy might get off shoving his fist up a girl or a guy?"

"Sure--even if just in a dark fantasy. We're sick, eh?"

"I'm not sure that men don't actually hate women."

"I'm not sure either. I sure get off on sticking things in you."

"Even if it hurts?"

"Good question. I could ask you the same thing."

"Good point. A bit more lube, please Colt."

Colton spent a very long time before Tristan accommodated (if that was the right word) the new larger dildo--a black monster, replete with hawser-like veins."

"Looks so hot in you, Tris," said Colton with eyes shining. He was stroking his cock as he looked down on his handiwork. "How's it feel?"

Tristan had cast the shoe aside as he needed big gulps of air. "I can't really describe it. It fuckin' hurts, but feels good."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, but the best feeling is that your doing it to me and I'm pleasing you in some sick way."

"You're actually turned on?"

"Yeah."

"Let's come together. Think you can?"

Tristan actually found it was difficult and Colton held off until Tristan secured a proper erection. Eventually Tristan signalled that he was close'. They came together on Tristan's chest and, after a pause, Colton eased the dildo out, admired the damage' and tenderly put some numbing cream around the red and puffy lips.

"Enjoy that?"

"Yeah, I did. Must be a sick as you."

Tristan had recovered by evening. They look the Tube to Leicester Square and walked south.

"Know what that is?" asked Tristan mischievously.

Colton looked ahead to an illuminated classical building standing a little apart from the others.

"No. Town Hall?"

"Of course you don't. It's St Martin's-in-the Fields."

"Oh shit! Yeah, I never made it to the service because I was busy fuckin' Jemma Swire."

Tristan giggled and they turned left down one of the many narrow streets that so fascinated Colton and they were quickly at The Harp. It was a traditional Victorian shopfront in dark wood with leaded glass with the Welsh Harps in the design. Two big `gin palace' lamps adorned the front along with a row of kitsch hanging baskets in full bloom.

"This pub has the best beers in London," said Tristan as they entered the long, narrow space. "I had to book a table."

"What's `Shepherd's Pie?"

"Meat n'potatoes. Mashed potato on top instead of pastry."

"So it's not dessert?"

"No, main course--sorry `entree'.

"Shut the fuck up. And no curry?" Tristan shook his head.

"Go and pick a beer. Get one for Sas. She'll be along soon and she'll be thirsty."

Colton walked up to the bar with its intriguing row of pump handles. He held a conversation with the Australian barman and eventually returned.

He had just sat down when a girl appeared. "Tris!" she exclaimed and bent down and hugged him until Colton thought he'd break. Saskia was not the willowy girls that he'd imagined. She was fleshy and round and wore tight black pants and tall boots beneath a long coat of some light, summer material. She was sexy, but not strictly beautiful.

"I was so surprised to hear your voice. Let me look at you..."

"Sas, this is Colton--Colt--my best friend."

"Well! Hello Colt! And so you play chess?"

Colton looked confused. "She's teasing, Colt. She didn't believe I'd be friends with a jock."

"I can play chess," said Colton coolly." Tristan knew that he'd made a gaff.

There were some pleasantries and an awful lot of `catching up', Colton only occasionally making a comment. Tristan suddenly realised that something was wrong, but felt powerless to do anything as the evening moved along.

They ordered food--three shepherd's pies.

"I was such a mess, Sas," said Tristan. "I was taking all these pills--anything I could get my hands on and even hording them in the hollow of the towel rail at Dad's in case I should want to overdose. I was so fucked. It was Colton who helped me."

"Any friend would have," said Colton pointedly.

"No, Colt. You've got it wrong. Saskia didn't let me down. I refused to see anybody and Mum made it pretty clear that she wasn't welcome at my place."

"Perhaps I could have done more, Colton. I didn't know he was hurting quite so badly. He kept it inside, but I didn't cut him, I promise."

"If 'n it was me, I wouldn't have let anythang stop me."

"Well," said Saskia. "You probably are a better friend than me, but I love Tris, but maybe not as much as you do."

"Come on guys, please don't fight. What was wrong with me was my fault. Colt, Sas was a good friend but I owe Colt everything, Sas. He gave me my life back."

"I can see that."

"Tristan has done a lot for me. I wouldn't be here seeing London, if it wasn't for him."

"Where would you be, Colt?"

"Back on the farm, helping m'dad."

"This is your first time here? Do you like it?"

"Yeah, it's great," said Colton with renewed warmth. "I came over with some other students 'bout six months back--it was only for a week and we stayed at the University of London."

"Colt delivered a paper to the Linnaean Society and met David Attenborough."

"Cool. Biology right?"

"Yeah, natural selection and stuff like that."

"Well, you should meet my father. He was probably there."

"Who's y'father, Saskia?"

"Richard Hipwell. He has the Fink Chair in Evolutionary Biology and Environment."

"As in Hipwell and Mason?' asked Colton with surprise in his voice.

"Eric Mason died about eighteen months ago. He was Dad's colleague, but pretty old.

"Tris!" exclaimed an excited Colton, "Saskia's father was the author of one of the texts I read this year. That's so cool!"

"Shit, Sas! I knew he was an academic, but I never knew his field."

"Boring. Want to speak to him, Colton? He's at home. I'll give him a call." Without waiting she pulled her phone out of her bag and hit the button.

"Tris, what will I say to him?" asked Colton in a panic. "What do I call him? He's a proper professor, not just a teacher."

"Relax, Colt. He' a nice guy. He likes making lame `dad' jokes."

They could hear Saskia. It was noisy in the pub and she held a finger in her other ear.

"...Yeah...an American student, just finished first year...yeah, a friend of Tristan's--he's gorgeous," she looked at the boys and grinned "...he was with a group who were at the Linnaean Society at the beginning of the year...yeah...yeah...I don't know, evolution and stuff...do you want to speak to him?" She handed the phone to Colton.

"Hello, Professor Hipwell...Richard then..." He stood up and walked out into the street, despite the light rain, still talking on the phone.

"Well, that's a lucky break," said Tristan. "He's a bit protective."

"I wish he'd protect me. Is he your boyfriend, Tris?"

"No, he' not my boyfriend. He's straight."

"So there's still a chance for me?"

"Aren't you going with Dominic Whatshisface? Anyway, you can't have him."

"Why not, if he's straight?" said Saskia mischievously.

"It's complicated."

"Knowing you, I thought it would be."

"What's he look like without his clothes on?"

"Sas! How would I know?"

"You shared a room for a whole year, sure you know."

Tristan caved. "His body is unbelievable. He's the quarterback for the college football team--amateur but they take it very seriously. It's a real honour for a first year to start."

"Then I guess that's not football padding in those tight jeans?"

"We bought those today. No, it's all genuine."

"Has he got a girlfriend?"

"I've lost count of the number of girls he's bedded in the last twelve months. He even picked up one when he was here last time--and that was only for five days!"

"And no boyfriends?"

"Shut up."

"Well, you don't often get brains with a body like that, not to mention a pretty face with that dimple in his chin."

"Yeah, and he's really nice too. You know he volunteers at the College Clinic? He talks to students and refers them to doctors and counsellors and that sort of stuff. He knows a lot about sex."

"You're making that up, Tristan Isley!"

"No, it's true. I couldn't believe it when I found he was my roommate in the dorm for athletes."

"You in a jocks' dorm?"

"Shut up, bitch, but yeah."

"Are you sharing next year?"

"Better than that. When Gran died, she left her house to Nigel and me."

"Oh your gran died! I'm so sorry, Tris, she was great."

"Thanks. Well, I used some of the money to buy an old house near the campus and I've done it up. Nine of us are moving in and Colt and I will share the loft."

"Is that the honeymoon suite?"

"Shut up--and don't say that in front of Colt. Have a look at these pictures and tell me if it's the honeymoon suite." He fiddled with his phone and handed it over. Saskia was still scrolling through and commenting when Colton returned.

"Well?" asked Tristan.

"Your dad's real nice, Saskia. He actually remembered my talk--I don't think he was just bein' nice. He was real chuffed'--is that the right word?" The other two nodded, "when I told him the house was called HMS Beagle'." He nodded to the phone Saskia was still holding. "He said that I should come and have a talk to him. Where's Islington?"

"That's where we live--in Gibson Square."

You've been there, Colt. Remember XOXO and Jessica? She was the one, Sas."

Colton blushed and said, "That was a mistake."

Thereafter followed a very British debate about the best way to get there from South Kensington, from which Colton was excluded.

It was interrupted by the arrival of their food and Colton was so excited that he barely tasted his shepherd's pie. Tristan went on to tell Saskia about his mother's odd behaviour.

"She never like me," Saskia commented.

Then Tristan asked after her brother and about how Saskia was faring at her father's university.

"Where did you two meet?" asked Colton at length.

"At School. We were both borders, weren't we Tris?" That then opened the floodgates of school stories and Colton listened because he knew Tristan had done the same with Brady.

They were all in a good mood when they stepped out into the rain. They decided on another pub and Saskia led the way through a series of small streets until they come to an open square. "This is Covent Garden," said Tristan.

"As in the opera?" asked Colton as they hurried for shelter from the rain.

"Yeah. That's the Royal Opera house over there--or the back of it," he said pointing. "The front is in Bow Street."

"As in Bow Street Runners and Oranges-and-Lemons."

"Yeah, do they have that nursery rhyme in America?" Colton nodded. "Well that's St Clements Danes over there."

"The market is gone now. It's just a shopping mall," said Saskia.

"And here?" asked Colton, indicating the portico of a rather gloomy classical building under which they were sheltering.

"This is St Paul's Church--the Actors' Church. It was designed by Indigo Jones in the early 1600s and was one of the first Italian Renaissance buildings in England."

"I suppose American are always sayin' `That's old!', but that's old!"

They made a dash across the road to the market building where there was another very old pub, The Punch and Judy. They had more drinks and talked about all sorts of things. Tristan pointed out that this was where Henry Higgins met Eliza Doolittle selling flowers.

"Cheer ap, Keptin; n'baw ya flahr orf a pore gel," began Saskia.

Tristan replied: "Really, sir, if you are a detective, you need not begin protecting me from molestation by young women until I ask you. Anybody could see the girl meant no harm."

They roared with laughter until they looked at Colton who was not laughing and only looked puzzled at their behaviour.

"It was a play we did at School. Sas was Eliza Doolittle."

"And Tris was Colonel Pickering--he was the nice one."

Still Colton was unmoved.

"It was Pygmalion--you know, about the professor who teaches a poor flower seller to speak and act like a lady. It was made into a musical, My Fair Lady.

It registered. "Oh yeah. I didn't know what it was called. Pretty Woman is a rip off." They nodded.

"It was fun, wasn't it, Sas? Sas was brilliant until she had to talk proper and couldn't do it." Saskia gave him a wack. They fell to reminiscing.

"You're school must have been pretty good," said Colton who had been listening. Tristan knew he meant more than academically.

"I suppose so," admitted Tristan, feeling a little guilty, "but we had nothing like he sports facilities you had. You should see the football stadium and athletic track at Colton's school. Olympic standard!"

"Well, they spend the money on football, but not proper teaching."

"Hey, don't say that!" He turned to Saskia. "Colton's mum is a teacher and she's really insightful with kids."

"I suppose she is," said Colton. The praise had come at the right time.

They were getting rather drunk and silly and Sakia grew bolder and quizzed Colton on his love life.

"So, when you're having sex, Colt, is it more important to satisfy a girl or to satisfy yourself."

"That's a good question." He finished his beer. "My round, I think." When he returned a few minutes later he continued: "It's more important to satisfy the girl."

"Why?"

"Well, I could say it's `gentlemanly' but I won't. Girls are slower to get in the mood and to reach orgasm; guys are always in the mood and can get off pretty easy--ain't that right, Tris."

"Hey! Are you dissing masturbation? That's my hobby!" They laughed.

"No, it's true. Girls are more complicated and their needs are more mysterious. You feel great when you've made them cum."

"Or are they just faking?" asked Saskia.

"Could be, you can't really tell and heaps of girls fake it just to keep their boyfriend happy. Some girls go through life never having an orgasm. I've had two girls tell me that at the Clinic."

"They haven't slept with you,' said Tristan.

Colton took this flippant remark seriously. "No they haven't. I would have tried m'hardest to give them pleasure--even if m'dick dropped off."

"Oh, my ideal boyfriend!" exclaimed Saskia, theatrically.

"That girl I got onto in London--I won't tell you her name, 'cause y'daddy just might just teach her--or she'd probably turn out to be a friend or something..."

"A school friend?"

"Not unless you went t'Cheltenham." Saskia shook her head violently. She was a bit drunk.

"This chick wanted t'have sex bad, but she couldn't get over the fact that she hated me, or thought that she should hate me. I'd have sex with her and make her cum, then she'd slap m'face--like I'd done somethang wrong."

"That's weird."

"Why did she do that, Colt?"

"I reckon she suffered guilt and shame for wanting an orgasm. Maybe it was admitting that she wasn't I control--I don't really know. Like I said, chicks is complicated."

"What happened?" asked Saskia.

"Well, I got m'face slapped a heap o'times until she threw me out. Had t'damn fight her to get m'clothes."

"Well, I've had guys who think only of themselves. They get off and leave you hanging. I even had one bastard who got up and switched on the football."

There was just a trace of guilt in Colton's expression but Saskia caught it.

"Boys!" she said with contempt. "Just when I thought I'd found one who understood us." It was her round and he went to the bar and was engaged for some minutes with another Australian barman.

When she ferried the three large glasses back Colton said: "We should introduce Saskia to Brady, eh Tris?"

"And who is Brady?" asked Saskia.

"He's a buddy o'mine from home. Really understands the female mind."

"Humm. Does he look like you, Mr Texan?"

"No, he doesn't," said Tristan. "But he does have something."

"I might have to come out there to see for myself."

"You're welcome at `HMS Beagle' anytime, Sas. We've got Deshawn and Hollis who are footballers and Parker who plays lacrosse. There's Carlos too. They're all hot-looking dudes."

"They've regular features, I suppose," said Colton, begrudgingly.

"Don't listen to him; they're hot. I'll send pics and biographies." Saskia was laughing. "Anyway, what about Dominic?"

"Remember what I said about football? Maybe he's past his use by date. Anyway, I'm off to Sardinia on Thursday and maybe I'll hook up with a hot Italian.

"They like football too."

"What's your use by date Colton?" Saskia was obviously a little drunk.

"Y'better check the tag." He stood up lifted up his jacket and and Saskia made a show of looking at the label on his underwear that protruded a little above his jeans.

"Ah! Army issue. Civil War, I think. Might have spoilt."

"You could give it the sniff test," laughed Tristan.

"Don't think that I wouldn't sniff a hot boy's butt, but right now I'm feeling quite pissed and I think I'd better be going home. Big day tomorrow."

"Taxi and not the Tube, Sas," said Tristan firmly.

They helped her into the street. "Colt, promise me you will look after Tris."

"Yeah, I will." She leaned in and gave him a soft, but slightly inaccurate kiss. Colton jumped. "You are a big boy," she said with beery breath and a leer. "I bet you could make me cum. I'd do my best to fuckin' suck you dry!"

"You're a naughty girl, Saskia Hipwell,' said Colton with good humour. "I guess I won't see you when I see your dad."

"I'll be with Gio or Luca or somebody on the beach, with any luck."

A black cab was hailed. "Text me when you reach home," said Tristan. He gave her a kiss.

"Saskia was fun," said Colton. "English girls ain't as hung up as American ones."

"I don't know about that."

"Well, Saskia ain't. Hey! I'm stoked about seeing Professor Hipwell."

"Colt, don't plan anything for Friday and Saturday, I have a surprise."

"Yeah? What is it?"

"Well, it wouldn't be a surprise then would it, doofus?"

It was six stops from Covent Garden Tube Station to South Kensington and they were just at Green Park when there was a text. She was safe and the message was surrounded by a constellation of heart emojis.

In their hotel room they were pulling off their clothes. In London, the rooms were notably cooler than their counterparts in Texas--especially in summer, but Colton was pretty insistent on nakedness and Tristan was now used to it.

"I'm glad things worked out with Sas," said Tristan. "Thanks for being friends with her. It means a lot to me. I suppose it puts something right that was left wrong when I was exiled to America."

"Yeah, I can se how she'd be good for a gloomy fuck like you."

"You think I'm gloomy?"

"A bit. Should say `you've got hidden depths'."

"Maybe. That sounds sexier." Tristan was now down on his knees before Colton who towered above him with his hands defiantly on his hips and he determined to do what Saskia had boasted.

The next day Tristan was trying to put the dinner with his mother out of his mind. At breakfast, Colton organized a group from The Clivedon to go for a run around Hyde Park, which was close to their hotel. They were a mixed bunch, but mostly young. One fellow, Milorad, was in his thirties and it was clear he was trying to impress several of the girls, two of whom he was travelling with. He forged ahead and urged the others to catch up. "Come on, fucking!" he called, a sheen of sweat on his shaved head catching the summer sun which had come out. Tristan could see that Colton didn't approve but Colton allowed him to take the lead, even going to far as to drop back to keep pace with two girls from Iran who were wearing hijabs. They were struggling, but Colton admired them for being bold enough to travel abroad and to mix with boys on their own terms.

The route around the perimeter of Hyde Park and Kensington Gardens was about four miles and Colton knew how to pace himself. He could easily have sprinted, but he saw this as a social event and made sure he ran alongside every member of the troop to have a chat or share a joke. Only Milorad, up ahead, was on his own.

Of course the obvious happened. At Cumberland Gate they caught up with Milorad. He was off to the side of the path throwing up and looking quite distressed. A policeman was with him and not looking pleased. A lesser man might have pressed on, but Colton had the whole group pause. Tristan talked the policeman round while Colton got Milorad to do some professional movements to apparently ease his difficulties. He shepherded him out into Bayswater Road and hailed a taxi to take Milorad ignominiously back to The Clivedon.

They continued on but paused for a rest before Kensington Palace. The mellow redbrick building set in formal gardens behind railings was interesting enough, but a sleek car exiting through the police control caused much debate. Some said that it was carrying Princess Eugenie but Birgit, a German nurse and keen Royal watcher, said authoritatively that it was Princess Michael of Kent. Tristan was asked by Sakura, a Japanese student, to explain who the princess with a boy's name was. Tristan faltered and was unable to give a satisfactory genealogy. Birgit stepped in and stated flatly that she is the wife of Prince Michael of Kent whose father was the Queen's late uncle and who was killed in an air crash during the War. She then went on to give the Princess's German lineage.

They were only walking when they came back to the stupendous Albert Hall, which loomed over The Clivedon. Here they stopped in the cafe and entertained themselves for close to an hour before leaving, giving thanks to Colton for organizing the exercise and promising to repeat it the following day.

Tristan felt like some more sightseeing in his own hometown and hoped that Colton did too. They took the tube to Westminster and viewed the Houses of Parliament. Tristan tried to explain how Parliament worked in comparison to the United States Congress, but found he was making a hash of it, but stressed that it was paramount in making laws, unlike it's American counterpart which had to find accommodation with an elected president. They talked about politics as they strolled along The Embankment taking in the mighty Thames until they reached The Mansion House. Tristan couldn't explain its name. They came back via another route and drank coffee sitting on an ornamental bench looking at Cleopatra's Needle and the river beyond.

The Tube then took them to St James's. Tristan led the way. "This is shop sells the world's best shoes...this is the oldest hat shop in the world...this is the oldest barbershop in the world (they went in)...you know this business is famous for tobacco.... Here!" They stopped before a wine merchant. It was a lovely old shop, but Colton was puzzled. Tristan led him around the corner to a covered passage that led into a yard. "Read this plaque."

" `...to the Court of St James'. What?" He didn't quite understand.

"This was the embassy of Texas when it was an independent country. Cool?"

"Yeah! Shit! I want a photograph of this." He got out his phone. "How did you know about this?"

"Well, I thought I better know the history of the land I now call home."

There was an old pub--`The Red Lion'-- deeper in the maze of little streets. They had a drink.

"If I lived here, I would try to visit all the pubs in London," said Colton with enthusiasm.

From Piccadilly Circus they took the Tube to Regent's Park. Colton wanted to see the Zoo. There was some light rain, but Colton was pleased to have seen the species of snakes that he had written about, but had never actually seen in their native country. Tristan only saw a couple of inches of tail emerging from a hollow log. They clearly weren't putting on a show for the tourists--but Colton was `chuffed'.

It could be put off no longer; they had to get ready for dinner with Tristan's mother. Colton dressed in his new, tight black jeans and his new jacket. Tristan tidied himself up a bit--he did not feel the thrill of buying new clothes for himself.

They left at a quarter-to-seven and walked down to South Kensington Tube station. "You don't really need a car if you live in London," observed Colton. "It's weird."

"Can't afford one or to garage one, is more to the point. But, yeah, public transport is pretty good. No, not that train, Colt, that's the Circle Line. We wait for a District train or we can go deeper to the Piccadilly Line." Colton was amazed.

It was a short wait and only four stops. As they rumbled underground Colton asked questions.

"What's your mom's name? I ain't never asked."

"Fiona Tilson-Beck. That's the name she practices under. Rodger's last name is Trefeusis--it's a Cornish name, like Tristan, I suppose. The boys are Jago and Huw--he's the younger one.

"They all sound so `posh' as y'all say."

"Just like people everywhere, Colt. You'll be fine."

Colton was not convinced but kept reminding himself that he was doing this for Tristan. He thought for an instant of going into a bathroom and practicing saying `Trefeusis'.

At Hammersmith they alighted and walked down towards the River. It was very beautiful and the bridge was elegant, especially when a dying gleam of evening sun suddenly illuminated the scene.

In Castlenau Road the houses began after the shops ceased. They were large and seemed very ancient to Colton and they were mostly constructed in imposing pairs. Nearly all had heavy bay windows that gave a rhythm to their uniformity. There were plenty of old trees and Tristan explained about the Victorian reservoirs that had been replaced by a nature wetland that added to the open space of Barnes Common that apparently lay further down the road.

They hadn't walked for more than ten minutes when Tristan turned into a gateway.

"Wow! Nice house," said Colton. It was one of the villas constructed in yellow brick with white cement decorations. He silently noted the expensive cars on the gravel.

"Clients' money," said Tristan with humour.

Tristan rang the bell and this time the door was answered by his mother. Tristan quickly noted that she was dressed with studied casualness--slacks, flat shoes, and a summery top relieved by some gold chains. It was very much his mother's style: understated, no patterns and `good'. Her hair was perfect and Tristan was sure she'd been to the hairdresser that day.

"Hello, dear!" she cooed. It was a long time since Tristan could remember being addressed by other than his name. "Come in. And this must be Colton!"

"Ma'am," said Colton. Tristan felt that had he been wearing his Stetson he would have touched the brim.

They were in the hall. "Please, it's Fiona, Colton."

"Great to meet you, Fiona. Tristan's told me so much about you." If there was a flicker in his mother's eyes Tristan did not detect it. "Come through to the conservatory." She smoothly launched into a commentary on the rainy London weather, with side remarks about the supposed differences to the climate of Texas, barely drawing breath. The weather and transport were always safe topics for the English to disguise those that might prove to be unpleasantly dangerous.

The conservatory was a modern addition to the old house that formed an extension to the very flash kitchen. Colton half sensed why Tristan did not want a kitchen like his mother's.

"This is a lovely room, Fiona," Colton observed, taking in the immaculate potted plants, hanging baskets and the informal furniture. "We'd probably fry under all that glass back in Texas."

"Well, we love this room for our family breakfasts," said Tristan's mother, no doubt emphasising her central role in the life of a proper family, "but it will be nice to eat our supper here tonight. Perhaps Tristan could show you the garden later." Colton looked out through the lattice of white-painted windows and doors to a bright green sward of lawn that looked like velvet under discreetly placed lights. He glimpsed, stone, trellis, clipped box and a distant statue. "The Wildlife Wetland Centre is beyond that wall, and is home to several rare types of birds. Tristan tells me that you are studying biology."

"I am. We went to the Zoo this afternoon and I saw the species of snakes that I wrote a paper on. The Zoo is fantastic."

"Well, you'd like the Kew Gardens then. They are not far away and world famous." Colton agreed they were.

Fiona drew breath as she went into the kitchen for the champagne. Tristan, who had said almost nothing, was just about to speak to Colton when his mother called: "Tris, can you get the cork out."

They exchanged places and Fiona informed Colton that her husband would be down shortly with the baby and that she expected her boys' to return home in time for supper'.

Tristan returned with the opened bottle and filled the four glasses on the tray.

"Tristan, did you say that Colton's parents grew grapes?"

"I did, Mum. Their farm is in a very attractive part of Texas called Hill Country'. It's quite different to where Hollis lives out west. That's prairie like we see in films." Tristan steeled himself. If she said How fascinating' he'd scream.

"That must be lovely, Colton. We loved the wine country in France."

"We used to holiday there when I was younger," explained Tristan.

"Well, it's more hard work than romantic," explained Colton. "Dad runs some cattle too."

"Globoco has placed a steady order for their shiraz for the Corporation's planes and functions. It is hard for small vineyards to find a market."

"Well, that's just like your father, Tristan. Practical help."

"That's true," said Tristan then shut up.

Colton was made to tell about the Linnaean Society and had just got started when Rodger came into the room.

The introductions were repeated and Colton had to stop himself from calling him `sir'--such was the habit of a lifetime. He was then made restart the Linnaean Society and his snakes and he was starting to feel that his claim to fame was wearing a bit thin.

Rodger, however, saved him by directing the conversation to sports. Tristan didn't mind that, for he knew Colton was comfortable and he enjoyed seeing Colton admired. Rodger knew a little about American football, but Fiona was not used to being at a conversational disadvantage and ramped up her praise for Colton's height and muscles and was even straying away from good breeding when she commented on his looks and speculated (quite accurately) about his prowess with `the girls at your university'.

Tristan was unsure if his mother's manner, which had gone from smooth to almost garrulous, was the result of the champagne or some mania. She was now laughing at some remark that Colton had made about the unctuous man in the barber's shop in St James where Tristan had bought him some aftershave at £50 to replace the hated Axe.

Baby Alice was awake at last and she too was introduced to Colton. She was fed and then placed in a bouncing seat and remained the subject of much attention.

At last Fiona stood and said she had to be seeing to the supper. Tristan knew his mother was a good cook but had little time to practice it. "Do you want a hand Mum?" Tristan found himself saying, curious to see how his mother would react without Colton's presence.

Surprisingly she said he could chop some parsley and so he followed her back into the stainless steel empire that was her kitchen. Tristan waited for it, but it never came. "Colton seems a very nice young man, Tristan," said his mother as she tended something that smelt good. "It just goes to show that money does not compensate for character. I've seen that often enough in court."

Tristan thought that this was a bit condescending but detected no snide edge to his mother's observation. "Well, I think he's a terrific guy; full of confidence and yet really concerned with the welfare of others. His parents are like that."

"You've met them?"

"Yes, many times."

"I'm sure your father would like him, he's the type."

Tristan took this to mean Colton, not his father.

"Yeah, Dad does like him--even helped him out when he was in trouble."

"With the law?"

Tristan hesitated but decided to speak frankly. "Yeah, a girl accused him of raping her." He couldn't keep the distress out of his voice. "Mum, he'd never even slept with this girl and thank God we were able to prove Colton was on the other side of town when it happened."

"We try not to touch rape. Too had to prove either way. But there was one case I must tell you about sometime."

"Yeah, but there's more. It was the girl's brother, and their father was an important politician. Dad helped, but you should have seen the way Colton handled the father. Got him to make a big donation to the Clinic."

"Jesus, Tristan! All this happened in your first year?"

"That and more. Pretty eventful, Mum." Tristan felt the first tinge of warmth toward her.

"I suppose with his profile he would attract that sort of thing." She was busy taking down plates from a cupboard and then rejecting them with a curse and searching for ones she deemed more appropriate. "Football is very important out there, isn't it?" Tristan agreed and was just trying to think of some other fact that would show Colton in his true light when Jago and Huw entered.

"Tristan!" they cried. Huw even gave him a hug. Jago dragged Tristan away from the kitchen and out into the conservatory. They were introduced to Colton and Jago complained that there was no champagne left. Rodger went to get another bottle and two more glasses. Colton didn't think this free attitude to wine would be so common back home.

"So how's the holidays, Huw?" asked Tristan.

"Okay, Tris. Just hanging out with mates. We're going to Greece in two weeks."

"`With friends'," mimicked Jago. "Little prat has a girlfriend. Haven't you, Hugo?"

"Shut up."

"Well, you should talk to Colt. He'd the expert. Had more girlfriends than you've had wanks," said Tristan.

"Yeah?" Huw seemed interested and so did Jago. "We'll talk later, man," he said like a grown up. Colton fist-bumped him.

"So how's Community Service, Jay?"

"Oh, you've heard. It's actually great, Tris. I'm on this nice estate in Hammersmith. I did the shopping for this nice old geezer who played football for Chelsea in the 'fifties. Loves to talk. And I have this sweet old girl with a motorized chair. Just have to go for a walk with her to make sure she doesn't get lost--has dementia."

"Well, I'm glad for you, Jay."

"Hey Colt, you're built, man," said Jago. You must play sport."

Colton admitted that had been known to and the conversation settled into this safe rut once again.

"I want to go to America!" announced Huw.

"Well, there's a bed in Texas waiting for you--if you don't mind sharing my house with six hot guys and three hot girls."

"Six?" said Colton.

"Alright, five." There was laughter.

Eventually dinner came and it was served on the large mosaic tiled table under the glass roof. The sky was almost dark, but not quite and it remained an attractive purple colour.

The meal was elegant but informal. It was a tajine presented in the traditional pottery of Morocco and Tristan wondered how Colton would cope-- but he seemed to. Rodger talked of their holiday in North Africa. Tristan thought it was typical of his mother to be able to present such an exotic meal as correctly as at a restaurant.

The conversation was general. Fiona was still very `up' and periodically Tristan looked toward Rodger to see if he was conscious of this, but he could not read his expression. Then Tristan tried to describe his house to the others and they asked some polite questions, but were not overly interested as it was perhaps outside their ken.

After dinner, Jago and Huw disappeared upstairs and Fiona paused in her animated conversation to announce that she was going to put Alice down. The others repaired to the drawing room. Tristan could see that Colton was impressed with the grandeur of the lofty room with its parquet floor. He quietly pointed out one or two items that had come from his Gran's house and bespoke of the nineteenth century tea trade.

"Mum..." began Tristan looking at Rodger.

"She's having one of her good days, Tristan. She has them sometimes and other days she's withdrawn."

"Like she was when I was here?"

He gave a short nod. "The specialist is trying to get her medication right."

"If y'don't mind me askin', is it depression y'all talkin' about?" asked Colton.

"Yes. Maybe bi-polar or cyclothymic disorder. Don't ask me what that means."

Colton didn't know either.

They talked about other things and Rodger made coffee and brought it in on a silver tray. They then talked about coffee and Colton explained how Tristan had introduced `proper' coffee into their group. Rodger then augmented the coffee with Grand Marnier served in tiny glasses and Rodger was just giving the history of these antiques when Tristan's mother came back into the room.

"I almost fell asleep myself," she laughed nervously and then moved about the room, restlessly, straightening things--vases, cushions, a picture--still talking in an animated manner. "Must put these right," she kept saying. Tristan looked on with horror; it was not normal behaviour and his stomach tightened. He looked sideways saw the same look in the eyes of the others, but he continued to automatically respond to his mother's questions and comments for fear of distressing her further. Then, almost as a crescendo, her busy hands knocked a Tang figurine--one of her mother's-- off a highly-polished Regency games table. It was deftly caught by Colton.

"Well saved, sir!" said Rodger with an attempt at humour. "Come and sit next to me, Fi. I've poured you a coffee." The incident apparently had acted as a circuit breaker and Fiona too seemed to catch her breath and her nervousness seemed to suddenly dissipate.

Somehow the conversation was restarted and it turned to Colton's clinic. Tristan's mother, who had been silent since the incident, brought up a case that her firm had been involved in. Her manner was now calmer than before.

"I didn't handle it, you must understand--it was outside my area, but we were all keenly interested. We were testing the law on abortion in Northern Ireland where it was still illegal until only just recently, even though in the rest of the U.K. it has been legal since 1967, Colton.

"Our client had been raped--it was a dreadfully sad affair. She'd been raped, but the law in that province made no provision for this and deemed the foetus had rights irrespective of the circumstances it was conceived in. Our client could have travelled to England or Scotland to have one performed, but it was costly and so she delayed."

"What happened?"

"We lost the case. Hostile judge. She had the baby--a boy, I think. Put it up for adoption and then she took her own life--she had pre-exiting mental health problems. It was all very tragic."

"Wow!" said Colton. "In College we're always under pressure from Pro-Lifers. There're ain't many clinics and some girls go across to New Mexico where the laws are more liberal."

"That's really interesting, Mum. I didn't know you took social activist cases."

"It was led by Michael Cunningham, Tristan, I only worked on the articles of organization for the supported care centre where our client had been living at the time--quite peripheral. Our firm would have been better approaching it from the point of view of European treaties rather than by arguing it on case law."

"Still, you played a small part in something that will be remembered, Mum--even if that step was an unsuccessful one."

"Why, thank you, Tristan! I will spare you the story of how I successfully challenged the appointment of the board of directors of Eastern Insurance, which hinged on the definition of the word `severally'." There was polite laughter.

The rest of the evening was on an even keel. It was raining so Rodger ordered a taxi. Both Rodger and Fiona walked them to the front door and said goodbye with warmth. Tristan did not know when he would see them again.

"What did you think, Colt?"

Colton was looking through the window at the lights that were distorted by the rain. "Your mum is a nice person, Tris, and I reckon she loves you. I could see a familiarity between you--d'y'know what I mean?" Tristan nodded in the darkness of the taxi. "But she's ill. She has `mental health problems' as they say. She's probably really distressed inside and doesn't know what in the hell is going on, so you've got to be there for her, Tris, despite how she's reacting."

"But the cause?"

"Only a psych can tell, bit she might have been predisposed all her life."

"Well, she was always pretty wound up."

"Then there was the divorce and that may have set her off. Then there were all the hormonal and emotional changed with having a baby late in life..."

"So, I've got a father with Asperger's and a mother with bi-polar and I've been depressed and suicidal."

"Families is complicated thangs, Tris. You're mom will get better. She's rich and will get the best help. They'll get her meds right. And she's got Rodger to look after her."

"Yeah, he's a saint. I'll keep in touch, no matter what happens."

Colton put his arm around his shoulder and gave him a squeeze.

Please look for the next chapter. Henry would love to receive feedback and will endeavour to reply. Please email h.h.hilliard@hotmail.com and put Tristan in the subject line.