I slept well on the journey back.
When we got home life seemed so empty. The familiarity of my own room was good, but it was empty without either of my two very special friends. I felt almost as if I'd been bereaved.
Eventually I told mum and Dad that I would be going to camp with Mark in a few weeks, and that seemed to be OK, so there was something to look forward to.
The days dragged. The next weekend brought a card from the Evanses, signed by all three. On the bottom was written 'I wish you were up here, love James.'
I wished so, too. Even more, I wish it was the week after next.
But then on the Tuesday…
And here is where the story gets told quickly, because the next six months or so were the worst I have ever experienced in my entire life. I don't want, now, to think about the details apart from my main actions and thoughts and agonies.
On the Tuesday my father opened a fat letter, and as he read it I could see his face get more and more serious. I caught him shooting a strange, rather worried look at me now and again and as this was a bit odd I became aware that more looks were coming my way. When he had finished reading he just sat there, looking blankly into the distance. Mum was in the kitchen at the time.
"Something wrong, Dad?"
"Er…Well. Yes. Er…"
I waited. At last he seemed to make up his mind.
"Martin, when you and Mark were together, did anything happen between you that you didn't like?"
"Like what?"
"Anything. Did he do anything that made you feel…uncomfortable?"
"No. Is that who the letter's from?"
"No. Well, it's from Dr. Rogers. Look, something's happened. Oh…where do I start?"
He drummed his fingers on the table.
"Is Mark all right? Has something happened to him? I'm going camping with him in a few weeks, don't forget."
He looked at me sharply. "Martin, I'm sorry, but that's out of the question now. I know he was a good friend to you, but he won't be camping with you, I'm afraid."
"Why? He's not…dead, is he? Dad…" I was really scared by now. Mark can't be dead. No. Please God.
"No, it's nothing like that. Er……"
Another long pause.
"Dad, please! He's my friend. Tell me what's happened."
"Oh dear. Well…It seems that he was sent home from Scout camp last weekend because he was discovered…um…in an embarrassing situation with another Scout."
"What do you mean, an embarrassing situation?"
"Martin, you're not old enough for me to explain."
"Dad, I'm fourteen, and he's fifteen. If he can do it, I can understand it."
He looked at me and raised his eyebrows.
"Have you heard of masturbation?"
I'd never heard the word, and said so.
"I knew you'd not understand. It's what you do when you play around with your sex organs to make it stiff."
"Oh. Yes. I know about that."
"He was showing another boy what to do."
"Yes."
"Well, that's it."
"Is that all?"
"It's enough. You don't do that sort of thing in the Scouts."
"I thought everybody did it."
"What d'you know about it?"
"Hang on, do you mean he was showing him how to…how to…" I couldn't think of another word to call it which would make him angry. "…you know, make er…"
"Yes, that's what I do mean."
"And they sent him home for that?"
"Yes. The thing is, he's admitted to being attracted to other boys."
"You mean he's queer?"
"Yes. In a word. And that's why he obviously can't go on a camp with you, particularly on your own."
"But we were sharing a bed in a room, and he was fine with me."
"Maybe, but I just can't take the chance. You're sure he didn't do anything to you?"
"Yes. He wouldn't. We like each other too much."
"You see, I just can't help wonder if he was trying it on with you. You know, to get you to do…things with him."
"No."
"That's all right then. Thank goodness for that. But you'll obviously not want him as a friend any more."
"Why not? I still want to go to camp with him next week."
"Martin, that's out of the question."
"Why?"
"Because of what might happen."
"What might happen?"
"He might try something on with you."
"What?"
"I'm not going on with this, Martin. You don't know it and shouldn't have to know it, but there are things that homosexuals do with each other that are disgusting. I'm not going to allow you to get near someone like that and put yourself in danger."
"But Dad, if he'd want to did something like that he'd have done it on the island."
"Just thank your stars he didn't. I'm not going to give him the chance of doing it to you."
"But what might he do?"
"I said, I'm not going on with that. Just count yourself lucky you've seen the last of him, that's all."
"But he's my friend. I want to see him again." By now I was getting really choked up with alarm at the idea that I wouldn't see him any more. Ever.
"No. I'm sorry. But there are times when you have to leave judgements like that to your mother and me. And on this, I am adamant. When you're older and can understand what homosexuals do then you'll also understand why I'm putting my foot down. But that's it for now. No more contact. I'll write to the doctor and set his mind at rest, and that'll be it."
"Can I see the letter, please?"
"No. I'm sorry."
"Dad…"
"No, Martin."
"It's not fair. He's my friend and I trust him. You don't make my friends for me."
"Don't be rude."
"Well you don't."
"I think you'd better go to your room and calm down, old son. I'm sorry this has come as a shock, but you'll have to learn to live with it."
"Dad, it's not fair…"
"Off you go."
"Dad…"
"NOW."
And even in my state I knew that when he used his Navy Commander voice on me I stood no chance. I ran upstairs, my throat choking up as I did so, and slammed the door of my room, and turned the key.
Tears. Sickness. Disgust. Abject sadness. Sorrow for myself and for Mark. A silent protest at the injustice of the adult world. A sense of tremendous loss. Desperation. Sickness. More tears. Loneliness.
I needed to see that letter. More, I needed the address. I weathered the next few days, a silent shadow of my usual self, mooning about the town, spending as little time at home as I could. Finally my parents decided to go out for a meal one weekend, assumed I'd go too, and were rather angry when I said I didn't want to go. But they had booked by this time and, not without some angry words, went.
Alone at home, at last. After a search I found the letter in my father's desk.
Basically it said what had happened, but went into more detail than Dad had done. He'd been caught just as he was wanking off another Scout, and both of them had been sent home in disgrace. He'd been talked to by both parents, had said that girls didn't attract him but that boys did, that he wasn't sorry, and he'd done no harm to either him or his subject.
They'd read the riot act, had banned him from Scouts, had grilled him about the times we'd spent together, but he'd said nothing. Only that we'd done nothing wrong or to be ashamed of.
I was so proud of him.
"Obviously," continued the letter, "you won't want Martin to continue his friendship with Mark. We've explained that to him, and of all the things we've discussed it's the one that made him go silent. I'm sure he has an attraction to your son, and of course we can't allow that to continue. In fact after we'd discussed Mark he went to his room and has been more or less incommunicado since. This of itself seems to indicate the level of danger to Martin should the two be alone together in the future.
"I am so sorry about this. Perhaps you could check with Martin that there were no unwanted overtures and that nothing else occurred. If it did please will you let me know since obviously we shall have to think again."
That was more or less it.
I didn't know what to think. Here was a doctor saying such awful things about his own son. Mark hadn't done anything to me, hadn't even suggested doing anything with me that I didn't want to do too. What was it that was dangerous that he might do?
I tossed the whole thing around in my brain all night. I must have slept, 'cos I didn't hear mum and Dad come back. But I knew that every time I woke up, which was frequently, I wanted Mark with me so badly that I felt sick and trembly again.
For two days I was really off beam, and on the third I'd made my decision. I was going to write to Mark and say I still wanted him as my friend so long as he didn't want to do anything to me that would be dangerous. It took me another few days to find the right words. Then it was Sunday, and I couldn't buy a stamp. The following Monday, before I could post it, a letter arrived for me.
'Dear Martin, You'll know what's happened and I'm sorry. More sorry than I can say. Since all this happened life at home has been awful, nobody wants to talk to me and they all treat me as if I'm dangerous to everybody. I don't know why. Nobody's asked me what I want, and if they did I'd say that all I want is to be your friend and somehow spend as much time with you as I could. I wouldn't be dangerous or make you do any of the things people say queers do. All I want is to enjoy having you with me as we were on the island.
"They're stopping me going anywhere now. Every time I go out they ask where I'm off to and when I'll be back and who I'm going to see. I can't stand this. They've even taken me away from the local school and all my friends, and are putting me in one the other side of town where I'm not known. For God's sake don't let them know you love me, as I know you must, or they'll do the same to you.
"Got to go. My few moments to myself are almost up. I'll write again. I love you. Mark'
"Anything interesting?" asked my father.
"No, just from a school friend." I made it sound as casual as I could. Inside my guts felt as if they were twisting up. I muttered my excuses and went to my room. I must have read the letter about twenty times, trying to get more words, more thoughts from it.
I re-read my own letter, and added something suitable to it, bought a stamp and posted it.
Two days later there was a phone call. All I heard was "Oh did he," from my father before the door shut and the rest was cut off. When he rang off he called me in.
"That was Dr. Rogers. He said you wrote to Mark."
"Yes, I did. Mark's a friend of mine and will stay so."
I was going to brazen this out. They weren't going to tell me who I could have as a friend. If they'd read my letter it was too late to save face, anyway.
"What did you write in the letter?"
"Didn't he tell you?"
"Don't answer me back. What was in the letter?"
"I said that I was still his friend."
"Is that all?"
"More or less."
"Martin, I've told you before you're not his friend any more. You have to accept that."
"I can't. Not when I know it's not true."
"I'm telling you to end the friendship."
"I can't. You always told me to be true to myself, and that's what I'm doing."
We stared at each other. I hated him at that point as I'd hated my mother when we were on holiday.
"Well, you're not to write to him any more. Is that clear?"
"He needs help, Dad."
"Not from you he doesn't."
"But he's being treated badly."
"How do you know?"
I thought, quickly. I wasn't about to tell them it was Mark who had written to me.
"You told me what started all this off. It sounds like a small thing to me."
"A small thing? Interfering with another boy? Don't talk nonsense. If you'd done anything like that I'd be so ashamed, just as Dr Rogers is. Mark deserves what he's getting."
"No he doesn't," I said, slowly and as positively as I could manage. "Nobody deserves that."
And I walked out of the room, up to my own room.
Well, I couldn't write. I couldn't visit. Or could I? Could I phone? No, they'd notice on the bill. We used the phone so rarely. I could try, and he could phone me back.
When they were out I tried, and kept getting one or other of the parents or Billy or Rose. I wondered if they were being horrible to him as well? I didn't find out, because I never said anything.
I made plans to travel up to London and try and find where they lived. I'd almost got round to telling my parents I would be out for a whole day when another letter arrived for me. His handwriting. Hastily I took it from the doormat, went straight upstairs and tore it open, trembling once again.
'Dear Martin, It's just got too bad. They tried to get your letter from me but I escaped with it and had to flush it down the toilet before they could read it. I'm sorry. I really wanted to keep it, and keep it safe, too. But now this has gone on too long. I'm queer and I know I can't help it and I know I'm not going to harm anyone. But Dad's taking me to a friend of his who runs a special clinic. They're giving me electric shocks every time I look at pictures of boys and men, and all I think of is you, what a friend you are and how kind you were to me. I can't go on like this. All my friends have given up on me, the family have had hate mail, and even Billy and Rose have been laughed at because of me.
'I'm sorry, but I've decided that I can't go on. I don't know how I'll do it but I really feel I'm better off dead than like this. I shan't see you again, and please don't try and write because it'll get both of us into more trouble. Goodbye. Think of me some times. I still love you and now I know I always will. It was a good holiday. Mark.'
I read it again, the horror rising in me as if I was going to be sick. I remember shouting "NO!!" at the top of my voice, and then collapsing on the floor.
When I came to I was on the bed, my mother cradling me as if I was five again, and Dad sitting at the bottom of the bed, reading my letter. Weakly I put out my hand for it, but it wouldn't work properly. I couldn't keep it up.
"Phone them and tell them," I croaked. Dad looked at me. "Dad, just SAVE HIS LIFE, will you?"
He looked at me aghast, and then, to give him his due he rushed down to the phone.
We listened. "Hallo? Dr. Rogers? George Finch. Look, Martin's just had this letter from Mark saying that he's thinking of taking his own life. Listen, I'll read it to you……pardon?"
A long pause. Then: "Oh God. Oh no. Oh…Oh I'm so frightfully sorry. Oh…I don't know what to say…Yes…Yes…anything we can do…Yes, I'll tell him. Yes, I'll wait for you to call."
I knew what was coming. As he climbed the stairs my tears started. As he entered the room I turned and hid my face against the wall so he couldn't see.
"Martin…old son…I'm so sorry, but we were all too late. He took some pills yesterday and drank half a bottle of scotch…They tried to save him but couldn't."
I curled into a ball of misery and lay there for hours. They left me alone eventually.
I really can't describe how I felt. All that I felt before, but more, because now I knew that never meant never, that fifteen year olds could die: worse, they could commit suicide. As the days passed and I regained a little balance, the spark of anger against the Rogers parents started and grew into a strong flame. I knew that I had to tell them I blamed them for what they'd done.
He phoned Dad later in the week and told him that the funeral was the following day, and that if I wanted to go 'in view of the friendship there was between them' then they'd be glad to see me. Friendship now, was it? That just fanned the anger into a blaze.
"I'm going," I said, as soon as Dad told me.
"Are you sure?"
"I said he was still my friend, and he was. I don't care if he was queer, he never did me any harm, nor would he."
So we went.
The whole family were there, and I sat and cried my eyes out with Billy and Rose. After the service and the burial I asked Dad if we could go. We quietly said our farewells and moved away. By the gate I stopped.
"Dad, can you wait here a moment, please? I need to say something to Dr Rogers before we go."
"OK."
The doctor was comforting his wife, and had his arms round the two younger ones.
"Dr Rogers. Can I say something to you, please?"
"Martin…yes…of course…and thank you for coming to support us. What did you want to say?"
"Can I talk alone, please?"
"Alone? Oh…er…yes…one moment."
And he said something swiftly to his wife, then came over to me.
I wondered if I could carry this through. Then I remembered that letter, and pictured his dead face as I'd imagined it so many times, and compared it with that wonderful aura of life on the face that had kissed me and been my closest ever friend.
"Dr Rogers…why did you do that to Mark?"
He looked at me, his eyes tired and red from his own tears. I nearly gave up, but my love for his dead son carried me on. "Why did you make life so awful for him that he…threw it away?"
And I walked off, back to my father, and out of their lives.