1.   Decisions:     Easter Vacation   [May] 2000

 

                        Some of the Characters Appearing:   [Year 2000]

Mark Henry Foster              16 rising 17, 5ft 11in and still growing

Tristan (Tris) Price‑Williams    17 just about 18,  6ft and well‑proportioned

Francis Michael [Microbe] Foster  Almost 14   just growing and wondering

Shelley Price‑Williams        13    horse‑mad and blonde

Ivo Richie Carr                    19    5ft 10in, chunky and cheeky with it  

Adam Benjamin Carr          19   ditto as his twin

Jack Goldman                     14  Francis's friend, growing and slightly knowledgeable

Laurent de Villiers              14  French, growing and full of knowledge

Gordon Foster          Father of Mark and Francis       Fiddles for a living

Maria (Angelica Matteoli) Foster  Mother of Mark and Francis   Teaches singing

Nicholas Price‑Williams QC   Father of Tristan and Shelley   Lawyer and opera lover

Dilys Price‑Williams        Mother of Tristan and Shelley  A poetess manqué

George Carr                      Farmer and father of the twins

Sophia Carr                      Gordon's sister and mother of the twins

Francesco Matteoli           Designer and Uncle of Mark and Francis

Aldo Leopardi                  Companion of Francesco with a surprise in store

 

        

 

"For fuck's sake, Mark, make your bloody mind up!  Apply for it!  It'll be a cinch!  All

you've got to do is to go for the interview, play..."

 

     "....And pass all the bloody A levels 'at the required level'...," I interrupted Tris in

full flow putting on a fair imitation of old Kenny Cardew our Careers Master for the

admonition.

 

     "...which will be a doddle for you, brainbox," Tris continued, unhindered by my

interjection.  "Look what you got last year.  GCSE with ten bloody A's with six of them

starred.  Better than me, nerd!"

 

     That was accompanied by a thump to my naked side.  I wriggled away a bit.

 

     "Bloody hell!" he continued, "You've already got three lots of Grade Eight music.

Piano, organ and clarinet and Mr Prentice says you'd get your Associateship quite easily at

Christmas if you put your mind to it.  You've had all those extra lessons at the RCM Juniors

on Saturdays, dammit!"  He drew breath.  "I don't know why I bother.  You're just too

fucking stubborn!"

 

     I lay silent.  This was continual harassment on Tris's part.  All this Easter vac he'd

been at me.  He wasn't finished.

 

     "Good God! Mark, I know it'll make your head swell even further, but last Sunday

everyone sat and listened while you played that Karg‑Elert at the end of the service and even

Reggie Prentice doesn't get that when he plays."

 

     "..All bombast and bluster...." I tried again to avert the flow.

     "...Yeah, we know.  But, it's all those lovely chords and fancy footwork...." He leaned

over and kissed my cheek.  He managed a vestige of a chuckle.  "...But it's the way you play.

You're good and I'll say that only once."  He paused to let the 'Ello, Ello' reference sink in.

"Hell's bells, I'll repeat it once more.  The fucking College wants an Organ Scholar, there's

family connections, you're dear departed grandfather was there, your twin cousins are there,

you're named after the bloody place and, last but not least, I'll be fucking there next year,

don't forget that!"

 

     I spoke up at last as he'd exhausted his frequently repeated diatribe.

 

     "I hope you won't be fucking there," I said in measured tones, " I sincerely hope I'm

the only one being fucked by you."

 

     "Oh God!  You pedantic little prick.  You know what I mean."  He sighed.

 

     "And my prick is not little as you so often comment favourably on its general

dimensions."

 

     I rolled over him and put my arms round him as he shifted towards me.

 

     "Tris, let's get this straight.  I do not want to do music as a profession.  There's a lot

of it around at home and I like it too much....  ...I don't know what I want to do.  I am only

sweet sixteen..."

 

     "....Seventeen in a fortnight's time...."

 

     "...OK, OK, seventeen in a fortnight's time... ....but you know you want to be a lawyer

like your Dad.  My family's all music and I'd rather keep it as a hobby ."

 

     "Yeah, so you keep saying, so why not do bloody Maths or fucking Physics?  You're

doing those for A's as well as manky‑arsed Music.  Make up your tiny mind, please!"

 

     I nuzzled his ear.  "I will make up my mind all in good time and it won't be helped by

your foul tongue.  A well brought up young man of your standing shouldn't have to resort to

peppering his arguments with such unseemly adjectives...    Ouch, you fucking bastard!!"

 

     I was caught.  A hand had encircled my pendant testes and had squeezed them, none

too gently.

 

     "Whose adjectives are unseemly, young Mark?" came a throaty chuckle, "Make your

mind up quickly or you'll be back to singing treble in the choir again."

 

     I had made my mind up.  Actually at the beginning of the Easter vac but I'd decided I

wasn't going to let on so easily.  We always had these friendly battles of wills and this one

had gone on long enough.  I thought I'd better tell Tris now before irreparable damage might

ensue, not to our friendship but to my precious bollocks.  I knew there wouldn't be damage

but he was getting desperate with my procrastination.

 

     "If I tell you you'll let go?" I asked in as stern a tone as I could muster, but giggling

internally.

 

     His hand relaxed then gripped my rather sturdy young erection.

 

     "Tell," he said and squeezed my rigidity.

 

     "I am applying," I said, "In fact, I sent the letter to the Dean the week before we

broke up.  I had a reply yesterday."  I stroked his back.  "If you can spare the time you may

accompany me to Cambridge on Friday to St Mark's College where I am to play three pieces

and have two interviews."  I paused for effect.   "I have to play Bach's BWV 534 and two

pieces of my own choosing, as you know, but I am also to see some Maths don later in the

day."

 

     He sighed deeply.  "You bastard," he whispered, "You mangy, weasly, mingy, scabby

little  article!  So that's why I've been turning the pages of that Bach while you practice every

blasted phrase ninety‑nine times."  He laughed.  "You bastard!  You've had me on a string

for weeks!  And that's why you've had your bloody nose in that Pure Maths book when I've

suggested we go up to town!"

 

     He rolled us over so he was now on top of me and kissed me fiercely.

 

     "We've got an hour before your Mum gets back and Frankie's not likely to tear

himself away from his pal's Playstation for ages so I'm going to give you the loveliest and

hardest fuck you've had in the last fortnight.......    ....I love you so much, I forgive you....."

 

                               .............................................

 

     Tristan and I had been pals from the time our families moved almost simultaneously

into adjacent rather large houses in this leafy South London suburb.  Admittedly he was a

year older than me, but we joined  the same local Junior School, me aged seven, he aged

eight, on the same day and had defended ourselves against all the slings and arrows of

adversity showered on newbies by all the old hands. We had survived.   We had been friends

ever since.  In due time both of us had won substantial scholarships to the fee‑paying

independent school a mile away.  We had both been well‑scrubbed, fresh‑faced young

choirboys in the rather High Anglican church at the end of the road.  With voices broken we

had carried on into the ranks of the men's section of the choir and I had become assistant to

the organist, Reginald Prentice FRCO, at the ripe old age of fourteen.

 

     I suppose that was inevitable on my part given my heritage.  My grandmother on

Dad's side had been to the Royal Academy and was a notable piano teacher.  She had started

me off on my musical path at the age of six.  Dad had gone to the Royal College and was one

of the first violins in a big London symphony orchestra.  He'd met Mum when she came over

from Italy to continue her singing studies and her father was the late Signor Alberto Matteoli

who had been a conductor at the opera house in Palermo.  So, I liked music ‑ in fact, I loved

it ‑ but I didn't want it as a career and that was why I'd been rather hesitant when Mum had

seen the announcement about the Augustus Pennefather Organ Scholar position which would

become vacant at St Mark's College, Cambridge, in October 2001.  But, then of course,

grandfather Foster had been at the choir school there and had graduated from the College

before becoming one of  Her Majesty's loyal Civil Servants before being mown down by an

errant taxi driver while posted as Third Secretary at the Embassy in Paris.

 

     I suppose it was also inevitable Tris and I would become friends.  With a name like

Tristan it was patently obvious that at least Mr Price‑Williams was an opera fan ‑ and

Wagner to boot.  As Mum was often in the extra chorus at the Royal Opera House there were

always tickets available and Mr P‑W, always accepted the offers with a grin on his face.  And

we were always welcome next door especially for Sunday lunches as Mrs P‑W was a superb

cook.

 

     But, actually Tris and I were more than just pals.  My Aunt Sophie had remarked

years ago we were joined at the hip, we were always together.  We were joined ‑ as true

boyfriends now, one to the other.  We both knew we wanted to be together and we had

professed our love for each other exactly two years ago.

 

     It was just two years ago in 1998, almost to the week as I had just celebrated my

fifteenth birthday, when Mum came home early from her teaching job at the RCM and found

two sexually satiated boys asleep in each other's arms in my bed.  Tris and I had that

afternoon fully consummated our love for each other and had promised to be faithful to each

other for as long as we lived.  A daunting promise for two highly sexed young teenagers but

we were adamant in our protestations of fidelity to each other.

 

     Mum, apparently, looked in on us and quietly closed the door and went downstairs

and put the kettle on.  We didn't realise she was home until at least half an hour later when

we woke up, rather groggily got out of bed, clasped each other once again with Tris

remarking I stunk like a polecat.  I kissed his nose and said even polecats probably did what

we'd just done and led him to the bathroom where we showered, separately, and then doused

ourselves liberally with Dad's expensive Dior body lotion.  Only then were we aware that

someone was home.  I suppose rather guiltily, we went downstairs.  Mum was waiting, sitting

at the kitchen table, a plate of sandwiches and buns and a big pot of tea in front of her.  She

smiled.  She pointed at the food.  Our guilt vanished.

 

     "Anything to tell me?" she asked as hands retracted, bearing a sandwich each.  "But

then, I know.  You're more than friends?"

 

     Tris and I looked at each other.  We both smiled.  We both nodded.

 

     "Yes, Mum," I said, with not a quiver in my adolescent tenor.  "I think we know."

 

     Tris's rather deeper voice cut in with authority.  "We do most certainly know.  I love

Mark and I know he loves me."

 

     Quite a statement for a sixteen‑year‑old to impart to his lover's Mum.

 

     "It's true, Mum," I added, "We certainly know."

 

     "I thought so," she said, "The evidence was building up."  She smiled again.  "The

way you look at each other.  I've seen it before."

 

     I knew what she meant.  My Uncle Francesco, her older brother, was gay and lived

with his long‑term partner, Aldo, in a magnificent villa in Southern Italy.  He was a well‑

known designer, clothes, accessories and so on, and was always in the glossies and celeb

mags and the Sunday supplements.  Not that Tris nor I would be seen dead in some of his

creations for highly trendy young males.  We had ogled the last lot of hunky models pictured

but had giggled over the so‑tight shirts with transparent panels showing off super‑sized

nipple rings and be‑jewelled navels.  Tris had said that the lads must have stuffed at least

three pairs of football socks down their undies to get those bulges because the strutting hunks

we'd seen on the beach in Italy last summer didn't seem to have a lot in their Speedos!

 

     I went over to her and kissed her.  "Mum, I love you, too.  Thanks."

 

     She beckoned Tris over and he kissed her as well.  His eyes were shining when he

came back to me.  Two tears rolled down his cheek.

 

     "I'm so happy, but what about my Mum and Dad?" he whispered.

 

     "I think that'll be OK," Mum said.  "They've noticed, too."  She laughed, then looked

serious.  "It's a good job we've got Francis to carry on the line but there's only your sister

Shelley and she'll change the name when she gets married."

 

     Tris looked suddenly worried.  "But what will Mum and Dad really say?  Would you

come in tonight when I tell them?"

 

     "I think you and Mark should tell them together.  I think they're expecting something

and it's something your Dad has had to deal with."

 

     True.  Mr Price‑Williams was a QC who had led on the defence side in  two

particular  cases where well‑known gays in public life had been scurrilously attacked in the

tabloids.  From discussions at the dinner‑table I knew he'd won both cases and was very

sympathetic towards the victims of gutter‑press journalism.  So that was a minor hurdle to be

crossed.  But what about my Dad?

 

     "What about Dad?" I asked.  I must have sounded rather plaintive as Tris put an arm

round me.

 

     Mum shook her head.  "What about Dad?"  She laughed.  "I should think he bumps

into more than his fair share of both males and females who only like others of the same

sex."

 

     Yeah, I'd been to a couple of rehearsals when he was playing in the orchestra for a

ballet company and a couple of the young males at one were arm in arm off‑stage and

grinned and winked at me when I stared rather too long.

 

     Mum became serious again.  "But you've got to be careful.  School, for example.  I

should keep quiet about yourselves there at present."  She looked at Tris.  "It'll be quite

different when you both go to college.  You'll just have to be patient.  And I wouldn't say

anything just yet to Francis or to Shelley."

 

     So that was that.  Mum knew.  Major hurdle.  That evening I went next door and we

stood together and said our piece to Tris's Mum and Dad.  His Dad put on a stern face and

said he didn't like people in court who he knew were guilty but wouldn't confess so he was

glad we had come clean and the sentence would be light he was sure.  He then came and

hugged us together so tightly I thought I would suffocate and Tris's Mum cried and said she

hoped we were happy.

 

     Dad next day at breakfast had obviously been primed by Mum.  His only comment

was that he didn't know if he was the father of the bride or of the groom and Mum told him

not to be facetious, it was their son he was talking about.

 

     I told Francis over a year later when he was twelve and all he did was sneer and say

he was quite aware of our relationship and if we thought the rest of the school didn't know

we were much mistaken and as far as he knew they couldn't care less and as long as he and

his friend Jack didn't have to be bridesmaids it didn't worry them, either.  Being six foot to

his four feet ten I grabbed him and tickled him and all he did was screech and said he loved

me anyway.  Shelley was informed at about the same time, but at eleven she was much more

interested in horses and whether she liked her bedroom being painted in that shade of pink

and the whole thing just washed over her.

 

                             ...........................................................

 

     ...I was panting heavily as Tris plunged his very familiar six inches fully in for those

last half‑dozen thrusts before he shot his usual capacious load of boy‑cream as far as possible

into me.  I looked up at his face as he leaned back from me.  He was panting heavily too but

that didn't prevent him grabbing my equal six inches and bringing me to a squirting,

spluttering conclusion.  He flopped down onto me.  My arms went round his back.  I pulled

him to me as tightly as possible.  It was as if I wanted him to be part of me.   I was

motionless, impaled on his still rigid prick, I wanted to remain like that for ever.  I felt we

were one.  I nuzzled his cheek.

 

     "I want you, always," I murmured.

 

     He moved his head and his dry lips met mine.  We wetted each other with our darting

tongues and I tasted the saltiness of the sweat above his lip.  I wanted more so licked up all I

could from his cheeks, his chin and down on his chest where a sweaty little river drained

between his well‑defined pecs.  I thought 'This hunk is mine.  My Tris!'.  I raised my head

and sought his lips again.  We kissed and then lay still again.

 

     "Oh, Marky, you're so beautiful," he whispered, "I want you in me tomorrow. I want

you to fuck me so slowly that all time stops and all I see are your wonderful eyes looking

down on me.  Please love me.  Please love me."

 

     All I could do was to whisper 'Please love me' in canon with him.  My big, hunky

Tristan, still slightly golden from last summer's sun.  No tan line as we had made full use of

Uncle Franceso's roof terrace while the grownups had their afternoon siestas.  Even young

Francis had stripped and lain naked.

 

     He had followed us up the first afternoon and watched as we pulled off our swimsuits.

He stared a bit at the nakedness of his brother and his friend, then rather hesitantly had pulled

off the baggy shorts he wore.  Yes, he was just like me at the same age.  A curled young prick

with just a hint of blackness of the hair which I now had in abundance at almost seventeen.

He would grow and develop just as I had.  I thought back to the time I had been initiated into

the mysteries of developing adolescent sexuality....