Tristan by Henry H. Hilliard
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Chapter 5
The following week Tristan felt like he had been at university for months. His mother had returned his email and said that she hoped he was studying and eating properly and the usual sorts of things. Tristan re-read it several times and thought it was correct' but rather bloodless', but was unsure, as emails miss the subtle emotion of the personal. He had not heard from his father either or his Gran for that matter. Most of his old friends had fallen away since he had not returned their calls or emails when he was going through his `bad patch' in Dallas.
One day he asked if he could watch the footballers train. He sat in the empty stands and watched the bevy of coaches work their ox-like players in the heat. At first they were so well disguised under all that padding that he could only identify Colton and Hollis by their numbers, but eventually his eyes were able to make out the subtle curves of both his friends, and especially the `fine ass' of his roomy. However, it soon became apparent that Colt was being singled out for solo drills that were even more punishing than the others. He had appeared to be training obediently and yet the drills seemed to be some kind of punishment. He could not hear what the instructing coach was yelling--perhaps the quarterback was just expected to do so much more than the other team members. He did not know.
At last Colt came up to where Tristan was sitting, the others having been sent to the showers twenty minutes before. He looked near death and was drenched in sweat. "I didn't understand a thing, but I did see you were directing `plays' --is that what they're called?" Tristan asked brightly. Colton nodded, bent over, hands on knees. "I don't suppose there is a vacancy for a towel boy in the locker room like in the stories? I'd work for free."
Colton gave him a puzzled look. "Don't think they 'low visitors, but I'll ask for y'gay ass n'other day. I've gotta see Coach Gleeson. See y'all at home." With that he jogged off, still an impressive colossus in all his pads.
"Why are you having your arse busted, Colt?" asked Tristan as Colt dressed for Nonno's.
"Coach says I need step up if'n I'm to remain quarterback. Mentally and physically, he says he finds me `wantin'."
Tristan snorted. "Real reason?"
"Coach Gleeson is the pa of Hetch Gleeson."
"You mean the former quarterback?" said Tristan, realising that he knew more about the team than he thought he did.
"Yeah, was quarterback as a sophomore and las' year as a senior. Should have moved on, but somethin' wrong with his degree and he's back all of a sudden. Here's me recruited by Coach Peck and Coach Kempter straight up from high school atakin' his place, as welcome as an egg-sucking dog, and he's all bowed up."
"That's terrible! What can you do?"
"Nuttin' much. Suck it up like a big boy, 'spose, till he lets up," concluded Colton as he left for work.
Tristan visited with Hollis and Parker for a while and then returned to his room and read for a bit. Then he thought he'd better check his emails.
When Colton returned and parked the truck he looked up and noticed that there was no light in their window, although it was only ten. When he opened the door he called, softly, "Tris?" There was no answer and so he turned on the overhead light. "Sorry, Roomy, I didn't reckon you were in bed...Tris, what the fuck?"
Tristan was lying in the dark and had obviously been crying. He looked up and gesticulated at his open laptop.
"Your Gramma! Oh Tris, I'm real sorry, that's cruel tough. Poor lady."
"Read on," Tristan managed to say.
"Your Momma's having a baby! Well that's a turn-up. You'll have a brother or sister, that's great!"
"No it's not," he said bitterly. "There will be even less room for me and now with Gran gone, I'm all alone. She didn't even ring."
"No, buddy, don't look at it that way. Did she even have your number?" Tristan thought that she didn't, but perhaps that it was remiss of her that she hadn't asked for it. Colton moved over to the bed and put his arm around Tristan in a gesture of comfort. "Your mom loves you, I'm sure, and a baby is always good news. You loved your Gramma, and that can't be taken off of you."
"Who would have thought it? She's 43," he said, referring to his mother.
"Any steps?"
Yeah, Rodger has two boys, 13 and 16--Huw and Jago. Lived with them for a while.
"Well, that's great. I bet they love havin' a big bro--just like I do."
"I'm not really close to them. Why would they want a gay brother?"
Colton didn't venture an opinion. "What about your Gran?"
"She was great. She was the first person I came out to when I was 14 and I used to go and stay with her when things got bad at home. She broke with my Aunt, but Nigel--he's my cousin--Jean's boy--and I were always welcome in the hols."
"She was poorly?"
"I didn't think so--some angina, but I thought she's live forever."
Colton lay on Tristan's bed and let him talk.
"What are y'all fixin' to do?" he asked during a pause.
"I don't know,' he said wearily. "Can't do anything, really."
"I think you should go home for the funeral and to see your mom. I think you'll regret it if you don't and get all depressed again. It might give y'all `closure' as they say. Whadda y'thank?"
Tristan felt good letting Colton decide for him. "My father won't go. I'll have to go alone. You can't come with me, not with football and work and all. Don't suppose you even have a passport?"
Colton shook his head. "I'll drive y'all to Fort Worth. Find out when the funeral is and we'll get organized."
The next day Tristan went to his usual classes. By the evening he found out that his grandmother's funeral would be on the Monday at St Peters and St Paul's in Godalming, which Tristan explained to his sympathetic friends was in the country, a short drive south of London. He calculated that if he left on Saturday, he could be back late on Wednesday and Colton reaffirmed his offer to drive him the three hours to the airport. Parker offered to ride shotgun on the way back.
The following day, Thursday, Tristan, made sure that he spoke to all the professors who gave classes on the three days that he would be gone. There were no great problems and a couple of friends offered to take notes.
Tristan was moping at his desk--or more properly at Colt's desk, for his was given over to the coffee machine and the whiskey--trying to lose himself in his History assignment, but even Robert La Follette and Lincoln Steffans in the far off mid-west had a way of returning his thoughts to the very different skies of England, which he realised, he now missed.
He jumped slightly when he found Parker at his elbow. "Sorry, Buddy, but the guys want you in the Common Room if you've got a minute."
Tristan followed Parker down the corridor to the large room that was formed by its widening at the south end. There sat a group of the usual people--his friends and acquaintances from the dorm. There was something odd about how they were arranged and there was an air of anticipation. Parker led him to a chair in a prominent position, Leesha and Alexinia coming to sit by his feet.
"What's all this?" he asked, looking about. No one answered, but it became clear when Colton retrieved a large acoustic guitar from behind the couch and bean to tune it. "You play guitar...too?" Tristan uttered, trying to find precedent in the college stories he had read for this revelation.
Colton played and then he began to sing. He sang beautifully! It was a light baritone, but very masculine in a sweet cowboy tradition and, of course, it suited him exactly. It was a sad song that he had never heard before and he couldn't remember it afterwards, except to be conscious that every one listened intently, although it was Tristan that he was singing to, he was quite sure. Mid way, he reflected how different were the Americans to the English. Here there was no shame or embarrassment in performing like this--it was almost expected that you could perform. It was a perhaps a tradition from the unsophisticated past--perhaps a German or Irish influence on the country. In England it would have been considered bad form, even hokey.
The song came to an end and the strings were stilled. Colton bent his head to retune, saying, in an appropriate voice, "This is Station dubya, double cee, your Christian country music station right here in Waco. Remember, Jesus saves...but Moses invests at ten percent in the Lone Star Farmers and Trust, McLennon County." There was laughter and a ripple of applause. "Now here's a little something of my own, by Johnny Mercer."
Colt picked out the tune very slowly and carefully, pausing for two beats between phrases. The treatment was beautiful and unusual and gave a profundity to the words that was probably undeserved.
I'm an old cowhand from the Rio Grande
But my legs ain't bowed and my cheeks ain't tan
He looked up quickly to where Tristan was sitting, to emphasise that it was Tristan who was the dude in the song.
I'm a cowboy who never saw a cow
Never roped a steer 'cause I don't know how
Sure ain't a fixing to start in now
Oh, yippie yi yo kayah, He paused. yippie yi yo (pause) kayah
I'm an old cowhand and I come down from the Rio Grande
And I learned to ride, ride, ride 'fore I learned to stand
I'm a riding fool who is up to date
I know every trail in the Lone Star State
'Cause I ride the range in a Ford V 8
Oh, Yippie yi yo... kayah, yippie yi yo... kayah
We're old cowhands from the Rio Grande
And we come to town just to hear the band
We know all the songs that the cowboys know
'Bout the big corral where the doggies go
We learned them all on the rad-i-o
Yippie yi yo... kayah, yippie yi yo... kayah
There was great applause and Hollis slapped Colton on the back. Tristan found that he was a little teary and Alexinia squeezed his knee.
Colton was now whispering conspiratorially with Parker and the group began to murmur. With a nodding of his head as he looked at Parker, Colton counted them in. This cowboy tune was done at great speed and with wild abandon. It had everybody laughing.
Oh, gimme a horse, a great big horse,
And gimme a buckaroo,
And let me Wah Hoo! Wah Hoo! Wah Hoo!
Colt and Parker shouted this at the top of their lungs. Parker took the next verse and did a commendable job, with his deep voice that rumbled from the depths.
Oh, gimme a ranch, a big pair of pants,
And gimme a Stetson too,
And let me Wah Hoo! Wah Hoo! Wah Hoo!
Effortlessly Colton joined him, then took over for the following verse
Give me the wide open spaces...
For I'm just like a prairie flower,
Growing wilder by the hour
Then it was Parker's turn:
Oh. gimme a moon, a prairie moon,
And gimme a gal what's true,
And let me Wah Hoo! Wah Hoo! Wah Hoo!
Colt took over again and suddenly Jimmy was on Parker's back riding him wildly around the room, whipping his butt with his baseball cap. Everyone was in hysterics.
Oh, I never could sing a high class thing,
Good music I never knew,
But I can Wah Hoo! Wah Hoo! Wah Hoo!
Oh, I never could dance, 'cause when I dance,
I ruin the lady's shoe,
But I can Wah Hoo! Wah Hoo! Wah Hoo!
It's just a gift from the prairie ...
You shout it when a bad man jigs,
And it's very good for calling pigs....
And so it went on for several more silly verses, Colton giving the guitar strings a really thrashing. Parker and his rider came to grief when they tried to jump a small table that usually supported magazines and stuff. It was flattened with a great crack and the boys tumbled to the carpet, rolling with laughter.
When the hubbub died down, Tristan found that he was not only no longer tearful but actually happy. He shook Colton's hand vigorously and slapped him on the back, thanking him as adequately as he could. "You were wonderful. Was that guitar under your bed all this time?" Colt nodded. "You could turn professional!"
"Aw shucks!" replied Colton in imitation of someone very like himself.
Back in the room, with Hollis, Parker and Colton, the `Jack' was broached and they toasted the musician, but he could not be persuaded to play anew, however the guitar was no longer hidden but it stood proudly in its case against the wall, presumably to be produced on future occasions.
On the early morning drive north, Tristan tried to explain about England and he tried to describe the village of Godalming, but could only say to Colt and Parker that it looked like what every American thought England looked like--and certainly there were no cowboys resident except among the estate agents.
At Dallas-Fort Worth the boys all had breakfast burritos and dreadful coffee. Tristan had done the whole thing on his phone and possessed no baggage save his `carry on' backpack. He still had an hour to wait but dismissed Colt and Parker who had a long drive back.
Tristan found himself alone and having entered that extraordinary world of air travel, where one is carried along, without the apparent application of will, by all the theatrical machinery of queues, tickets, printouts, passes, travelators and the like, rather like peaches in a canning factory.
Soon the world he had left behind was distant both mentally and physically, but his destination was not yet reality. This betwixt-and-between existence gave him time to think and to see things from a fresh perspective, with the world of everyday concerns being reduced to just the few inches around his folding tray.
Tristan passed the time reading college stories on his phone, often annoyed that an engaging story was suddenly left unfinished or finding that the protagonists were unsympathetic and obviously reflected unintentionally on the author. One set in the panhandle of Kentucky he abandoned because the author had obviously never heard of paragraphs or spell check and it was thus an indictment on the American education system. He dozed.
With a shock he found that he was now at Heathrow. The train took him to Paddington and with his old Oyster Card he crossed London to Waterloo and boarded a train on the Portsmouth line.
He had been away for only a year, but it seemed much longer. The `Englishness' of everything hit him; from the once familiar accents around him, to the beauty of the Surrey countryside that they passed through, to the product of the odd mixture of domesticity and sophistication that was peculiar to southern England, so different to the results of the same ingredients in somewhere like Dallas.
He walked with his backpack into Godalming from the pretty Victorian station, a walk that he had taken many times when his Gran was alive. Everything was much the same and even some of the people looked familiar.
He had booked ahead on his phone for a room at the Kings Arms and Royal Hotel in the High Street and there was the usual mix-up when he went to the desk--very English he thought--but all was finally and fussily `sorted' and in exhaustion he flopped onto the bed in his small but pricey room.
The alarm on his phone rang and woke him. He thought it best not to succumb to jet lag, so he went out for a meal and sat by himself, texting his safe arrival to those back in Texas. He included a few snaps of the village and wondered what Colton would make of them. He did not want to go to the house yet and so he avoided that part of the village and hoped not to bump in to any of his family. He returned to the room and read a story on his phone about ice hockey jocks in a Mormon university until he fell asleep again.
The next day was the funeral. Tristan had no suit to wear and could only supplement his equivocal travelling clothes with a clean, long-sleeved shirt. He wore a pair of Colton's plaid boxers and felt the comfort of his closeness.
He arrived at the beautiful old church and, steeling himself, greeted his family who were gathered in a patch of autumn sun under the shadow of the spire. His mother broke away from the group she had been talking to as chief mourner' and hugged him in a slightly theatrical manner. "Poor Gran, this is an awful day for us all. Still, she was a good age, Tristan, we must remember that and she didn't suffer like poor Grandpa. None of us want to end our days like that, do we?" Tristan had barely uttered a word. He looked at his mother as she prattled on. She looked well, blooming' might be the adjective that others might employ, but Tristan thought that she looked much the same as always. She was dressed expensively, but had not gone for the cliché of a black hat, a detail for which Tristan felt oddly grateful.
He was propelled over to Rodger. He had nothing against Rodger and so he was more than cordial, even going so far as to congratulate him on the baby within the hearing of his mother. He didn't really know how he felt. Rodger asked politely about America and offered that his two boys were at school, the oldest being in the midst of his O Levels.
He spoke briefly to some other people--family friends-- then came across his Uncle Magnus and Nigel, his cousin. He liked them both but before he could say much, they had to go in.
The service was conducted with all the aplomb of the Anglican rite and there were no displays of grief--or any emotion really--that lesser races might indulge in. Tristan sat in the row behind his mother, and Rodger, Magnus and Nigel slid in next to him. He looked across the aisle and picked out his Aunty Jean in an unsuitable hat and who had clearly been banished into Outer Darkness. The soft pink of the massed flowers against the polished wood of the coffin and the soft grey of the church's ancient stones formed a comforting picture and Tristan found himself concentrating on them, rather than the vicar's fluting voice or the thornier problem of his Gran's family.
Then the service was over. Rodger insisted that Tristan ride with them back to the house where Mrs Pope had provided refreshments. Banalities were exchanged in the car and then there was silence, Tristan not feeling guilty for not trying to fill it.
It was a short drive down the narrow lane that was also a busy road. Tall, mop-headed trees protruded above lovely stone walls. Some were just starting to turn while others still had the heaviness of late summer. A panoply of English architecture unwound before them--rows of redbrick cottages almost upon the road and grander detached houses that were set further back. It was all slightly chic and slickly prosperous.
Gran's house was one of the larger ones on about an acre that ran down to a tributary of the Wey. It was close to the road, but screened by a wall and the gravel forecourt quickly filled with expensive motors.
Tristan looked up at the familiar house, now strangely hollow without Gran's presence. The house was made of mellow redbrick, like its newer neighbours, but its core dated back to the seventeenth century with additions made in the early nineteenth. With its plain roof of three steep, asymmetrical gables and its latticed casements, it was a handsome house.
The conversational groupings reformed and were much the same as outside the church. Aunt Jean stood off to one side and talked only to unimportant people. Tristan, however, gave her a little wave and a smile and she looked relieved. He was glad he had.
He soon sought out Nigel and they took a handful of Mrs Popes's tiny smoked salmon-and-cucumber sandwiches and a bottle of wine out into the walled garden. They chatted as they made their way to their favorite spot. This was through a wrought iron gate and into the meadow of long grass that ran down to the stream. About half way was a swing-for-two that sat under its own thatched roof and this had been where they had played pirates and other games as boys during their holidays with their grandmother.
"You know what will happen to this place?" Nigel asked as they sat side by side and gently swung.
"Go to our Mums, I suppose. Will it be broken up into flats, do you think?" He drank from the bottle and passed it to his cousin.
"Nope. Gran left it all to us."
"No?" cried Tristan, astounded.
"Yes, our Mums will only get the jewellery and stuff and some of Grandpa's money. Mr Ticehurst told me, he added, mentioning the solicitor. "The house and some money as well goes to us fifty-fifty. She'd made a new will as our Mums must have pissed her right off."
"Pissed me."
"Me too. Dad and I want to move to Spain as soon as I've finished school."
"He hasn't found anyone?"
"No. Wouldn't mind if he did; he's pretty lonely. Perhaps he'll find some bird out in Ibiza. Maybe I will too." Then Nigel launched into an account of own his love life, which had them both in stitches.
"So we'll sell?"
"Yeah, if it's alright with you. It was Gran's house and I loved it, but it was Gran's house."
"I feel the same. I don't know what's left for me in England now," said Tristan mournfully.
"Tell me about Texas."
Tristan attempted to do so as they walked back to the house.
"Don't lose touch, Tris. Here." he took Tristan's phone and tapped in his email address. "You'll come and see us in Spain?"
"Why not?" said Tristan, feeling suddenly very much lighter. "Who knows what the future holds?"
Inside he cornered Mr Ticehurst in his Gran's old `flower room'. This was a former larder with a wooden sink and rows of shelves holding vases and buckets. Tristan used to play here. The solicitor confirmed what Nigel had said. "You will need your own solicitor in America, Tristan. If you don't mind my saying, I have a good friend who is now with a New York firm, but I don't personally know of anyone in Texas. Perhaps he could recommend someone down there. Of course, there is always your father..."
It was true, Tritan's father had originally been a corporate lawyer; that was how he had entered Globoco. He didn't really practice now. "He probably wouldn't be any good at small stuff like this, Mr Ticehurst."
"Well, give me your address and I will send you Gerald Butcher's details. I'll need yours for the distribution of the assets. Nigel wants to sell, do you?"
"Yes, as soon as is convenient, Mr Ticehurst. Thanks for taking good care of Gran, too."
"Well, as we've heard today, she was a great lady. So was your grandfather."
Tristan reflected for a moment. He only remembered his grandfather rather hazily as he had died while Tristan was still at prep school. He had also been a lawyer, if that's what you still call someone who was a famous High Court judge. His grandmother's family had been well-to-do tea importers and that accounted for the quantity of Asian artifacts about the house. According to all, it had been a happy marriage.
After a while Tristan wandered into the big old kitchen. This had been modernized in the 1970s and was where his grandmother had eaten most of her meals in her later years.
"Hullo, Mrs Pope," said Tristan. The elderly lady waddled over too him, wiping her hands on her apron and kissed him on the cheek. This turned into a hug.
"Oh it's wonderful to see you, Tris. We both missed you. Your Gran talked about you every day--Nigel too, of course."
"Mum and Aunty Jean are still not talking?"
"Two years now and that was on your Gran's mind right till the end, you know. How is America?"
Tristan tried to tell her. "What will you do now, Mrs Pope?" It was a good question, because Mrs Pope had lived in the house for as long as he could remember and she was not greatly younger than his grandmother herself.
"Don't you worry about me, Tris. Your Gran provided nicely for me and I've got an option on a flat in the Portsmouth Road. One bedroom, but on the ground floor and no stairs. Mr Ticehurst is looking after me."
"You've been marvelous to Gran, Mrs Pope," said Tristan, taking both her hands in his own. She only pulled away to wipe an errant tear.
"Here, I've put aside something you might remember."
She reached into a bottom drawer and pulled out an item wrapped in brown paper. Tristan opened it and there, with the bolt of things long forgotten but suddenly brought back, was The Cowboy. It was a cheap ceramic model made flat on the obverse to hang on a wall. The details of the hat, chaps and spurs and so on were picked out in bright paint and the cowboy's lariat was actually a device for holding kitchen string. The memory of playing with it in Mrs Pope's kitchen was almost visceral. He too found that he had tears in his eyes. He took it, kissed Mrs Pope and vowed to visit when he was next back in the Old Dart.
His mother and Rodger were standing on the terrace, just beyond the French windows, which had been thrown open. Tristan hovered on the periphery of the group that was listening to his mother hold forth. She glimpsed Tristan at one point and raised her eyebrows in a sort of acknowledgment, but without a pause, and Tristan managed a similar response.
Then he heard his mother say, "Of course we don't know the sex yet, but Rodger and the boys are so thrilled--quite beside themselves. We'll be a real family now..."
Tristan turned away in disgust, fighting back tears. He retreated upstairs and opened the door to his Gran's old room. It was done out in shades of dusky pink and oyster, with lots of satin that had seen better days and other fabrics that spoke of the fashions of half a century before. The smell was the same--lavender and mothballs--an old lady's smell and one that make him think instantly of his Gran. The tubular commode chair spoke of more recent times.
He approached the dressing table with its triple mirror and crystal duchesse set. In an ivory swinging frame was his favourite picture: his Gran in a ball gown taken at the Savoy or somewhere looking like a princess and his grandfather looking like a young Anthony Eden. It was in black-and-white and must have been taken in the mid-nineteen fifties when they were newly weds. He took the picture from the frame and put it with The Cowboy and immediately left the house, walking the distance back to the hotel.
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.