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 A NineStar Press Publication
www.ninestarpress.com

To Catch a Fallen Leaf

ISBN: 978-1-64890-382-3
© 2021 Fearne Hill
Cover Art © 2021 Natasha Snow
Edited by Elizabetta McKay
Published in September, 2021 by NineStar Press, New Mexico, USA.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the
product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to
actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is
entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any material
form, whether by printing, photocopying, scanning or otherwise without the
written permission of the publisher. To request permission and all other inquiries,
contact NineStar Press at Contact@ninestarpress.com.
Also available in Print, ISBN: 978-1-64890-383-0

CONTENT WARNING:
This book contains sexually explicit content, which is only suitable for mature
readers, discussion of drug (past) and alcohol use and the need for rehab, eating
issues; past trauma, and past sexual assault/rape (off page).
To Catch a Fallen Leaf

Rossingley, Book Two

Fearne Hill
Table of Contents

Dedication
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
About the Author
To the gardening team at Rossingley. You know who you are.
 Prologue

Freddie
THREE MONTHS EARLIER

“Oh, baby doll, for goodness’ sake! Please, please, please. Could we
ensure this be the last time I have to put up with all of your
ridiculousness?”
Disappointment is the inevitable result of a mismatch between
expectation and reality. Vincent expects me to never get drunk,
never embarrass him in public, and never, ever, ever vomit over his
shoes outside a smart London restaurant.
The reality, of course, is that I’m a twenty-five-year-old male
model. I like booze, I like to occasionally snort coke, I say stupid
things in front of people I shouldn’t, and sometimes, all of those
combined, lead to unexpected chundering episodes outside smart
London restaurants. So, I can’t be blamed if Vincent chooses to put
his burgundy Lobb penny loafers in the path of the contents of my
stomach.
I am fully cognisant of the reasons Vincent endures these
occasional mishaps. Being a minor member of the aristocracy helps.
In addition, my father, a well-known and respected politician, is
perfectly placed to further Vincent’s own eventual political ambitions.
But, most importantly, Vincent is a sucker for eye-catching arm
candy. I’m not the first pretty piece of fluff he’s moved into his
Belgravia apartment, but I’ve stayed the longest. While I’m definitely
pretty, I also have financial independence and a first-class degree
from Cambridge. Thus, he finds my company tolerable.
What’s in it for me is more complex. Despite occasional
debauched one-night forgettables when I’m working abroad—to
which Vincent turns a blind eye—I’m a sucker for a steady
relationship. Unless I’m travelling for work, I prefer waking up in the
same familiar bed each morning. I enjoy the finer things in life, such
as sharing good food in decent restaurants and trips to the theatre
with an educated partner.
My adorable cousin, Lucien, believes my predilection for older
men comes from a deep-seated desire to be cared for, seeing as
Father left that responsibility entirely to my boarding school after
Mother died. According to his theory, my monogamous tendencies
are an unconscious rebellion against Father’s complete lack of fidelity
towards my mother. He’s probably right on both accounts, explaining
how I muster a coquettish smile as I watch forty-something Vincent,
in his pristine white Y-fronts and sock garters, select a double-
breasted Hawes & Curtis suit from his walk-in wardrobe. Even
though the zipping of his fly and the clack of one wooden coat
hanger against another is enough to make my head reel and my
guts threaten a repeat performance.
Rolling over in bed, I clamp a goose down pillow over my head in
an attempt to shut out the morning sunlight.
 “Sorry about last night, Vincent,” I mumble from underneath the
pillow. “I possibly overcooked things a little. The end of a busy
week, I guess, and I probably didn’t eat enough dinner with my
wine. I’m not sure I ate at all yesterday, now I think about it—it was
a long photo shoot.”
There’s a slithery sound as he selects a tie. Time stands still; I
wish he’d bloody get on with it and clear off, so I can retch over the
loo in peace.
“Yes. Well, whatever, baby doll. I have to dash; I’m chairing a
meeting of investors at nine, and I can’t have that derailed by your
foolish antics.”
He looms over me, all expensive sandalwood and minty
freshness. In a bespoke suit, which hides the paunchy bit around his
middle, Vincent is a good-looking guy. He still has a full head of dark
hair; any flecks of grey only serve to accentuate his air of suave
sophistication. Despite himself, he smiles as he pecks my cheek.
“You are going to be the death of me, young man,” he murmurs.
“Try to stay out of trouble. Drink plenty of fluids and take an aspirin.
You can make it up to me tonight.”
I recall that it’s Tuesday and manage to stifle my groan at least
until the front door slams. Oh joy. Deep, deep joy. To say we have a
regimented sex life would be affording the military a degree of
precision they can only dream of emulating. On Tuesdays,
Thursdays, and Saturdays, at the stroke of twenty-two hundred
hours, Vincent switches on the BBC News and swallows down 50 mg
of Viagra with a small glass of San Pellegrino (one cube of ice). He
doesn’t know that I know about the Viagra. The gravitas of the
opening theme tune is my cue to go and “freshen up, baby doll,”
which is Vincent doublespeak for reacquainting my arse with the
nozzle of the shower hose. I am then expected to drape myself
seductively across our enormous bed in the master suite, with a
fresh towel under me, and await his presence.
I used to like my sex spontaneous and messy. I still do. Because,
occasionally, smelly, sweaty, imprecise, surprising, and even
disappointing sex can unexpectedly turn into joyous, forgiving,
funny, and tender sex. Not loving sex. I haven’t experienced that
yet, although I remain optimistic. I’ll take all of the above over
predictable any day. And—not to put too fine a point on it—I quite
like topping. Turn and turnabout is okay if the mood takes me, but
really? Always bottoming? Not so much. Some guys love it; for some
of my friends it’s a race to the bottom, but I’m prepared to share the
love around. Unfortunately, Vincent’s arse only opens once a day,
around 6:45 a.m., as part of his shit, shower, shave routine. After
that, it’s locked tight as an oyster shell, whereas I’m expected to roll
over and take it, and take it, and bloody take it. I usually manage to
reach orgasm (ejaculating carefully onto the towel, naturally), but
only because I’m young, horny, and excellent at conjuring up visions
of myself ploughing into some raven-haired, faceless beauty, while
Vincent happily labours above me.
The thing is, I could put up with being called baby doll. I could
put up with the bad sex. I could even put up with being told what to
wear and when to wear it. But there is one thing that really sticks in
my craw: My boyfriend’s close friendship with my father. Around
once a month, they share lunch at my father’s club, when I imagine,
along with plotting world domination and very visible, showy acts of
philanthropy, they enumerate my varied shortcomings, sighing
wistfully at each other: “If only Aloysius could… If only he would…”
etcetera, etcetera. (My real name is Aloysius; thank God, my second
name is Frederick.) And then, after a manly handshake, they part
ways; my father returns to pontificating in the House of Commons,
and Vincent returns to whatever he does in that enormous office of
his in Mayfair.
 Chapter One

Freddie
THREE MONTHS LATER

“I think we need some time apart,” I repeat blandly, throwing the

last of my toiletries into my already overstuffed suitcase. Montblanc
did not design this carry-on with moving out in mind. More fitting for
a romantic weekend in Antibes, with a fantasy raven-haired beauty.
Dream on, Freddie.
“It’s not you, Vincent, it’s me.”
As the hackneyed phrase falls from my lips, we both know it’s a
lie. So, yes, my extremely bad behaviour three days ago in New York
is undoubtedly the catalyst, but his exacting standards and my
repeated failure to meet them, have to account for some of the
blame for the demise of our relationship. I think, subliminally, I’ve
been behaving like an arsehole to see how far I can push him. A
very long way is the answer, which makes me a fairly unpleasant
human being. And “time apart”? A coward’s way of saying it’s over.
Someone less thick-skinned than Vincent would see that.
“We can get through this, baby doll,” he beseeches. “All good
relationships have ups and downs. I think you owe it to me to at
least try. Your father and I agree that you need help, professional
help. We can find someone to support you through your addictions.
Barclay Montague-Fiennes at the office found a super little woman
who helped enormously when his wife…”
“I don’t have an addiction problem,” I begin stoutly, though I’m
talking to myself. Vincent and my father made up their minds a long
time ago that I drink and dally with coke because I have a defective,
addictive personality. That I’m mentally unstable, that I’m only one
glass of neat Bombay Sapphire away from being sectionable. For my
own good, you understand. Vincent enjoys the role of caring,
concerned lover, and my father enjoys… Well, I’m not sure what my
father gets out of it, apart from the grim satisfaction of being able to
justify his criticisms of my “lifestyle choices.”
It hasn’t occurred to them that I’m bored out of my tiny mind
with my social life, my love life, and often my work life. Drinking and
a friendly relationship with drugs? Gets me through the days,
although whatever it is that’s missing from my life, I’ll be damned if I
can work it out. Lucien thinks I need a man who loves me for me. A
man who doesn’t want to change me, improve me, mould me.
Which is really adorable and everything, but rather soppy. He’s
become quite the romantic in his old age, I have no idea what’s
behind it.
Vincent is still bloody speaking.
“Darling, I’m so sorry that you feel driven to this. I’ll be the first
to admit I’ve made a few wrong steps in this relationship, but
please, don’t be so dramatic. Stay with me, baby doll, we’ll work
through it.”
 He’s apologising to me? I’m the one who’s been arrested and
escaped a rather unpleasant stay at the president’s pleasure in the
US. Which will rain all manner of shitstorms upon my father and his
career any day now when the newspapers get hold of it. If Vincent
manages to avoid a mention in the scandal columns, by dint of his
association with me, then he’ll have had a very lucky escape.
I take a deep breath.
“Vincent, it’s been great. Whatever we had, it was great. You…
honestly, you have nothing to apologise for. My behaviour has been
appalling, and it’s not fair to drag you into this mess. You deserve so
much better than me. All the blame falls squarely on my shoulders.
Truthfully, it does.”
I’m prepared to say whatever will get me out of here. I turn to
him and place a hand on his sleeve, which he alarmingly clutches,
much like a starving beggar would clutch a loaf of bread. My cool,
intellectual, older boyfriend has vanished and been replaced by a
needy, slightly pathetic creature that I no longer recognise. This is
not going how I envisaged at all.
“Listen, my taxi will be here any minute. Just… I need some
breathing space, okay? To get my shit together. I’ll call you, okay?”
His voice goes up several tones. “But where will you go? At this
time of night, baby doll?”
It’s a damned good question, to be fair. I haven’t thought this
through at all. There’s always my father’s townhouse. It’s a bit late
to phone Lucien to ask to stay at his London pad, although that
would be my preferred option, and he wouldn’t mind if I stayed
without asking.
 Another job for tomorrow; I need to call Lucien. Several times,
he’s phoned me and I’ve deliberately let it ring to voicemail, each of
his messages sounding increasingly concerned. Usually, I speak to
him every week; this time, it’s been nearly a month. I know why I’m
avoiding him. It’s because he senses my unhappiness and wants to
help. But Lucien has his own life to lead. He can’t be my perennial
shoulder to cry on. Hand on heart, he’s the only person I know who
truly cares about me, the real me, and what I want. Perhaps he’s
right; maybe I am ready to love someone and be loved properly in
return.
Vincent anxiously runs a firm, square hand through his thick hair,
for the first time looking all of his forty-five years. Purplish bruises
underline his eyes, wrinkles we pretend are laughter lines bracket his
mouth. He works terribly hard; he deserves someone more worthy
of him than me. With some difficulty, I prise his fingers out of mine,
snap closed the complaining lid of my case, and heft it off the bed
and onto the floor.
And then a most unexpected thing happens. Vincent bursts into
tears. Oh, fuck.
“Please stay, Freddie, please. I’m begging you.”
Oh God, this is beyond ugly. Noisy, wet, slobbery sobs. They can
probably hear them in the apartment next door. Sinking to his knees,
he paws at my trousers, globs of saliva collecting at the corners of
his mouth.
“Excalibur is really going to miss Mr Greedyhole.”
Oh God, worse than ugly. Absolutely, fucking horrendous. Our
mature, mutually agreed separation has developed into an episode
of abject humiliation that, years and years after everyone else has
forgotten them, still make one squirm with shame. Like wetting
oneself in primary school assembly.
I’m saved by the parp of the taxi horn. Even as I’m heading out
of the bedroom, he’s still clawing at my trouser leg and wailing. God,
I need to work on my taste in men.
So, imagine my immense relief when I arrive at my father’s
London townhouse, and fall through the door into his loving,
understanding embrace. Over a snifter of ten-year-old Macallan, one
arm around my shoulder on the sofa, he reassures me he fully
forgives me for my recent error of judgement in New York, pulls my
head into his manly chest, and whispers how proud he is to have a
homosexual model of an only son like me. Then we laugh about
what an idiot I’ve been, reminisce fondly about when my mother
was alive, and he fixes me a mug of cocoa after ensuring the bed is
made up in the nicest spare room.
Hah! Not bloody likely. Dream on, Freddie. My spot of bother in
America has preceded me. I get no farther than the housekeeper’s
blunt prick of a husband and the polished marble doorstep. Laetitia,
my father’s current wife, has a migraine (my fault), and my loving
father is otherwise engaged. My own father, refusing me entry into
one of my childhood homes! From now on, he will be communicating
with me via email, if I would like to check my inbox. In other words:
fuck off.
 Chapter Two

Freddie
PRESENT

From: charles.d-avery@parliament.uk

To: aloysius@d-avery.com

Freddie,

Words fail me. If your mother were alive today, she would
be so utterly ashamed of you that it’s almost better she’s
dead. You don’t need me to tell you, but you have let
yourself down, the Duchamps-Avery family name down,
and more importantly, you’ve let me down. I could lose my
job and everything I’ve worked for when word about this
idiocy gets out! God knows what the PM is going to make
of it, in an election year too. The shame that my only son
has brought on me. The shame, Freddie! It truly beggars
belief.

Poor Vincent was on the phone earlier. He was such a good

influence on you, and you couldn’t even manage to hold on
 to him. For some reason, he still wants to help. I’ve told
him that you are not worth the bother, but the man must
be a saint. Probably best if you stay away from the chap for
now—we don’t need his name dragged through the mud as
well. I have a lot of money invested in his company—he’s a
jolly good sort.

I trust you are making arrangements to disappear for three

months, until the hoo-ha dies down. Seek professional
help. I do not expect to hear a whisper of your activities.
Laetitia and I certainly don’t need to see you for a while.
Spend the time wisely, reflecting on your foolish lifestyle
choices. I’ll be in touch.

Your disappointed father, Charles.

Rossingley is gloomy as hell in the misty dawn light, the neoclassical,

whiteish-grey façade of the main house hinting at all kinds of
ghoulies and ghosties and things that go bump in the night. The taxi
driver clearly thinks so, he’s twice offered to drop me off halfway up
the drive so I can enjoy the walk. Unfortunately for him, I’m not so
easily spooked, having grown up on a country estate myself—a tad
smaller than this one, admittedly. Even though the achingly familiar
looming cattle and whispering trees don’t give me the willies, it
doesn’t automatically follow that I like them—goodness, no, not at
all. Give me the swinging, bustling streets of London or New York
any day. I can’t fathom how Lucien stands it living here, week in,
week out. No shops, no gossip, definitely no hot men to ogle; he’s
wasting his best years, in my opinion.
 I’m hoping he’s still an early riser because I didn’t phone ahead
to warn him I was coming to stay, and it’s bloody freezing out here.
I only made up my mind a few hours ago, and no one appreciates
an unexpected night-time call, especially Lucien. His life was
comprehensively shattered by the mother of all out-of-hours phone
calls a couple of years ago, so if he saw my number appear on his
screen at three in the morning, he’d immediately assume the worst.
I’m not exactly dressed for the inclement January weather,
having expected to spend the night at my father’s London home. I’d
flounced out of Vincent’s place after our miserable row wearing only
the tightest pair of chocolate-coloured skinny jeans, which are
threatening to guillotine my balls, and a rather divine, yellow silk
Paul Smith shirt. I was not anticipating having to shout at the
housekeeper through a Belgravia letterbox before eventually being
told by her beefy husband to “bugger off,” and then flag down a taxi.
Three hours later, and I’m rather regretting hotfooting it out of
Vincent’s without at least putting on a coat first. I’m not sure I even
packed one in my small suitcase. Thank heavens Lucien’s clothes will
fit me because if I have to endure these trousers for a single hour
longer, I’ll be auditioning for the soprano section of the Rossingley
church choir. And if I do find myself twiddling my thumbs in the
godforsaken countryside for a few days, he’s going to have to ferret
out a whole new wardrobe for me because my London togs will be
extremely ill-suited to the terrain.
After paying off the taxi driver, I make my way around to the
back of Rossingley house, the gorgeous, flimsy shirt soaked within
seconds. As I alighted from the cab, I stepped straight into a puddle,
so water is seeping through my Gucci loafers. I squelch noisily as I
peer into the house. A dim glow emanates from the kitchen window,
and through the material of the blinds, I make out a tall, slim figure
pottering about. Thank God. I send a short text, and five seconds
later, the figure is stationary for a moment before moving towards
me in a more purposeful fashion. Several bolts are unfastened, and
the heavy back door opens.
“Gosh, Freddie darling! Oh my goodness, how marvellous to see
you! I was only saying yesterday how I hadn’t heard from you and
was missing you dreadfully! Oh, darling, you look to be freezing, and
so wet, like a drowned rat! Come in, come in; stand by the warm
Aga, and let me give you a hug!”
And that is the point at which I burst out crying because my
wonderful cousin Lucien, who never tells me I’m a disappointment,
who never claims I bring shame on the family name, who never
judges my lifestyle, and who makes me feel as if I’m one of the most
important people orbiting his universe, strips me of my wet clothes,
wraps my shivery body in his fluffy pink dressing gown, manoeuvres
me so my bottom is warming against the Aga, and allows me to bury
my face into his neck. All the fear, all the shame, all the uncertainty,
all the jetlag, and all the exhausting bravado of the last forty-eight
hours comes pouring out in the form of hot, salty tears.
“Darling, darling, tell me what’s wrong? Why didn’t you call me?
Look at you! Oh, don’t cry darling; please don’t cry. Let me make
you a cup of Earl Grey, and you can tell me what’s happened, so I
can make it right for you.”
Cue more tears and more cuddles. Eventually, he calms me down
sufficiently so that, between ugly sobs, I give him the bones of it.
It’s not a particularly edifying tale. I finish by showing him my
father’s caustic email.
“Gosh, delete that rubbish at once, and don’t think about it
again! I shall be having some strong words when I call him later.
How dare he use your mother’s name against you like that!
Especially when he didn’t care much for what she thought when she
was alive.”
I have no idea what I’ve ever done to deserve Lucien’s
unconditional love and support, but if there was ever a time I
needed it, it’s now. He’s a wonderful person to have on your side,
and I don’t envy my father being the recipient of that particular
dressing-down.
I’d thought a lot about my father’s email and treatment of me as
the taxi drove through the night down the M4 towards Rossingley.
Granted, he has a right to be angry. I’ve fucked up. He’s been
waiting for an excuse to tear me apart, and I’ve gone and thrown
one in his lap. I’m an eternal disappointment to him. After Eton and
Cambridge, my father entered politics at an extremely young age
and swiftly rose to his current elevated seat. I was expected, nay,
groomed to follow. And what did I do? Eton, Cambridge, and a
swerve into modelling. And partying. Not to mention other men—
that’s a whole box of disappointment right there on its own. A
degree from Cambridge and a lucrative career isn’t enough to satisfy
him; I should be heterosexual (oops), clean living (oops again), and
mostly invisible.
Several times over the last few years, I’ve contemplated severing
all ties with him. Thanks to my own income and my mother’s legacy,
I have financial independence. But apart from Lucien, he’s all the
family I have. We’ve never been close—his new trophy wife and all
those years spent at boarding school saw to that, but I haven’t ever
given up hope that one day we could maybe have something
between us. Because for some stupid fucking reason I can’t bloody
fathom, I really care what he thinks. I crave his approval, which, in a
grown man, is frankly pathetic.
“I don’t know what to do or where to go, Lucien,” I get out
between fresh outbreaks of hideous crying. “I think my father is
about to disown me, which the bitch wife is, as we speak, no doubt
strongly encouraging. Malcolm, my agent, says I have to dry out or
get out, and Vincent… Well, I’ve called time on Vincent. I’ve asked
him to box up my stuff and send it here— I couldn’t think of any
other address to give him. I don’t think he will though. He’ll make
me go back and get it myself, knowing him.”
“Good riddance, too, darling. Vincent, I mean, not your stuff.
Leave the sorting out of that to me; we’ll have it sent down within
the week. That man had his heart in the right place, but gosh, he
was so controlling. And in cahoots with your father. I hated seeing
how he treated you.”
“No more Excalibur though.” I giggle through my tears.
Lucien laughs with delight. “No, no more Excalibur, thank
goodness. Last time you invited me for dinner, I could scarcely keep
a straight face when he showed me his first edition of The Sword in
the Stone. All I could think about was him attempting to get his
floppy sword in your arse after I left!”
He hugs me close. For the first time this week, the tension in my
shoulders drops and my heart rate steadies. Lucien senses it.
 “My home is always your home, Freddie darling, you know that.
And the New York thingy will blow over. We’ll decide what to do
about your father when you’re rested and more settled. Now, dry
your eyes, and don’t you worry about another thing.”
Cue another flood of tears.
My agent, Malcolm, had scouted me at a private party at
Annabel’s nightclub while in my final term at Cambridge, and instead
of going on to complete my planned doctorate, I began modelling.
It’s mostly fun; I’m good at it, and I love, love, love dressing up.
Which, according to my father, makes me a super-shallow
underachiever.
I have a desirable, unusual look: pale, aristocratic, slender, and
slightly androgynous. I also have two small symmetrical moles
situated exactly 4.5 cm on either side of my upper lip, which the
agency bookers go wild for. That naughty sailor straddling a giant
Jean Paul Gaultier aftershave bottle in this month’s Tatler? That’s
me. The troubled young man on the inside cover of Vogue, moodily
staring into the sunset, swathed in Ralph Lauren cashmere? Me too.
Prada sunglasses in the broadsheet Sunday supplements? Check.
The Oscar-winning performance, five days ago, of an incontinent,
dying junkie slumped outside Macy’s on West 34th Street? That was
me too. A fondness for cocaine and too many lunchtime Negroni’s
had me waking up in a hospital bed, handcuffed to one of New
York’s finest. And not handcuffed in a kinky, fun way. Arrested for
possession of an illegal substance and public vagrancy, I was
released on bail, and hotfooted it into the nearest first-class flight
cabin back to Blighty. Those free Prada shades came in very handy.
 I’m not the first model or minor member of the aristocracy to
excessively embrace the sex, drugs, and rock-and-roll lifestyle, and I
won’t be the last. But when your father is the current Home
Secretary, tipped to be a future prime minister, and renowned for his
traditional conservative stance of being tough on crime and drugs,
then my behaviour is no longer viewed as merely decadent and
brattish, but cannon fodder for a ravenous British tabloid press. They
haven’t got hold of the story yet, thank God, but it’s only a matter of
time before it breaks.
My father and Lucien’s father were brothers, and while this is
undoubtedly a genetically accurate description, the filial similarity
ends there. Lucien’s father was one of the nicest men you could ever
hope to meet, whereas mine is still a work in progress. And while I
didn’t spend my school holidays confined to a broom cupboard
under the stairs, sometimes it would have been preferable to
constantly failing to live up to my father’s expectations. Yes, so I’ve
been an utter tit on this occasion, but I have to do something to get
his attention once in a while. Sometimes, he makes it quite clear his
life would be so much simpler if I didn’t exist.
At this point, it would be easy to conclude I’m a fairly spoiled,
unpleasant, shallow, and superficial young man, and I deserve
everything coming to me. And that would be absolutely right. But
Lucien doesn’t think so. He looks at me the way I always imagined a
kindly older brother might if I’d had one, or perhaps how my mother
had before she became too ill. As if he’s spotted a grain of goodness
inside me, even if no one else can see it. As if I’m a really important
piece of his world jigsaw, and he doesn’t want to lose me. And for
that alone, I utterly adore him. At the moment, he feels like the only
person in the world who cares.
“You look terribly thin, darling,” he says, casting an expert eye
over me. (It takes one to know one.) “Have you been eating
properly?”
“No, probably not,” I answer miserably. Lucien seems to be
winning on the dietary front. We’ve both had food issues over the
years, but he looks great, slim not thin, and his complexion is
amazing. Life is evidently treating him well.
“God, I’ve got myself into a bit of a pickle, I’m afraid,” I wail,
clutching my mug of tea. “Can I crash here for a few days? And then
I suppose I’ll check myself into some rehab place somewhere. When
the press get hold of the story, I don’t know, I’ll sit it out.”
He has managed to detach me from his body, and I’m now
nestled on the big comfy kitchen sofa, still cosseted in the cosy
dressing gown, while he’s propped against the Aga, those shrewd,
pale blue eyes assessing me carefully.
“I know it’s a pickle, darling, and I’m going to do my very best to
sort you out. But you don’t need to go to rehab and be surrounded
by a pile of strangers for three months. No, no, no, absolutely not.
Why don’t you stay here with me? I can look after you as well as
anyone. Fresh Rossingley air is what you need, my sweet. We’ll have
you better and back at it in no time. A new, improved, and dare I
say it, darling, a more sensible version of you?”
And that’s about the extent of my telling off. Most people are
fooled by that fey, whispery voice, but not me, not anymore. Lucien
doesn’t make suggestions, he commands, but in such a quiet,
fluttery way that you believe you are being asked very nicely, and
don’t have the heart to disappoint him. Staying at Rossingley is a fait
accompli; he’s already reaching for the phone.
“I’ll contact your father immediately, and inform him you will be
rehabilitating here. To keep him happy, I’m sure we can pay lip
service to finding a drug and alcohol dependency centre in
Allenmouth or Bristol that will suit your needs, instead of trekking up
to London or being an inpatient in some ghastly private clinic
masquerading as a smart hotel. So that we can reassure him you’ve
taken his concerns seriously. Even if we only visit once. Surely, he
won’t complain if there are two doctors keeping an eye on you here,
and of course, it will be much less of an imposition financially, which
we both know will ultimately swing the argument for him.”
He briefly flashes me one of his pointy, mischievous smiles, and
all my woes become a little bit easier to navigate. He’s right; I don’t
need inpatient care in a fancy celebrity spa, pretending I’m suffering
from ‘exhaustion’. I’m not even sure if I’m an addict at all. If I’m
addicted to anything, it’s to not feeling so alone. Even when I was
with Vincent, deep down I still felt alone.
But I do need to lay low for a few months. I’ll consider it a
holiday, get my shit together, and have a few strong words with
myself. The idea of resting here at Rossingley, with Lucien, is hugely
appealing. Maybe I’ll read some of the history books in his vast
library, take long afternoon naps, go on a few strolls through the
grounds, perhaps try out new recipes to boost my appetite. A few
months and a few miles distance from temptation and I’ll be good as
new. Lots and lots of rest, exactly as Dr Avery ordered. Granted, I
hate the countryside, but with half a cup of tea inside me, and
Lucien’s soothing reassurance, I’m almost beginning to look forwards
to it. Of course, when I’m feeling a bit more like myself, I’ll need to
find out what Lucien does for entertainment around here.
Hang on; did I hear Lucien say two doctors? Who’s the other
one?
While he’s been schmoozing my father on the phone, lulling him
into a false sense of security before tearing a strip off him for
sending that vile email, I’ve been mulling stuff over and feeling
extremely sorry for myself. Lucien has put some slices of bread in
the toaster and made a fresh pot of tea. This peaceful domestic
scene is interrupted by a sudden thumping noise from the staircase,
accompanied by a rather coarse holler.
“Luce! Luce! Where the fuck are you? I only sent you down for
the butter!”
Luce? Luce? Who on God’s earth calls the sixteenth Earl of
Rossingley ‘Luce’ and gets to keep his balls intact? And what on
earth is that appalling accent? Certainly not the received
pronunciation practiced by ‘Luce’ and me, that’s for sure. Moreover,
what’s with the butter? Was Lucien’s mysterious house guest
planning breakfast in bed? I glance over at my cousin, who is
serenely reaching for the crockery and smiling to himself, completely
unperturbed. More heavy footsteps come closer before the doorway
is filled by around six feet four of toned, tanned, prime masculinity,
his modesty only protected by a pair of well-filled dazzling-white
briefs. A vaguely familiar pink feather boa hangs around his thick
neck.
Bloody hell, my morning has improved immeasurably. No need to
ask Lucien what he does for entertainment around here because the
entertainment is striding over to my favourite cousin and grabbing
him possessively around the waist. From the mesmerising flex of his
upper back as he presses his nether regions against Lucien’s arse,
the entertainment has muscles growing on muscles. I’m about to
announce my presence with a variation on the ‘is that a canoe in
your pocket or are you pleased to see me?’ theme, when the
entertainment nuzzles into Lucien’s neck and speaks in a low growl.
“I’m not sure I can wait until I get you and the Lurpak back
upstairs, Luce,” he says, pushing up against my cousin. “I think I’m
going to have to fuck you here, right now, over this table.”
“Gosh, as lovely as that sounds, Jay, darling,” replies Lucien, not
missing a beat, not even when a huge hand begins snaking up the
inside of his nightie, “we have company.”
He gracefully nods his head in my direction, and the man turns,
rewarding me with a much better view of the veritable python
stuffed into his underwear. Dear lord, I’m lost for words. My jaw
drops open. Taking one look at me, the guy blinks a couple of times,
as if clearing his head, and then dramatically sinks into the nearest
kitchen chair, his head in his hands.
“Oh, fuck,” he groans. “There are two of you.”
Evidently not in the market for a threesome, then, which is
disappointing.
Lucien and I are frequently mistaken for brothers. Even twins, on
a few occasions, which is slightly irritating for me as he’s nearly ten
years older. Lucien tends to play up the feminine side of our
androgyny, with makeup and clothing, whereas, unless I’m working,
I tend to go for the more masculine version. Two sides of a pale,
blond, genetically blessed coin.
 “It’s all becoming clear, Lucien.” I point a finger at the hunk, who
is still regarding me with total dismay. “Now I know what’s been
keeping you away from the bright lights of London town. And why
you always seem so darned cheerful when you phone me. Tell me,
how do I get myself one of those while I’m confined to the country?”
Chortling with delight, Lucien glides over to the man, settles
himself on that delectable broad lap, and kisses him. “This, Freddie,
is my darlingest, dearest Dr Jay Sorrentino. You can’t have one of
these, I’m afraid, because he’s totally unique. And he’s totally mine.”

As for those vague plans for rest and recuperation, for maybe
reading a few novels, and so forth? Well, Lucien has other ideas. His
brain moves far too quickly.
Introductions out of the way, he remains in his very comfy seat
on Jay’s lap, while the man mountain munches his way steadily
through a kilo of marmite on toast. He’s evidently the strong, silent
type. Every so often, he persuades Lucien to nibble on a corner of
his breakfast. For some disturbing reason, this simple act of sharing
—which from their obvious familiarity with each other probably
happens most mornings—brings tears to my eyes. No one deserves
happiness any more than my dearest cousin, and if Lucien looked at
me as though I were the centre of his world, then this Jay chap
looks at Lucien as if he’s the centre of his entire galaxy. I’m an
emotional wreck these days, and I hide the wetness on my face by
busying myself at the sink with my empty mug. My hands shake.
Somebody much smarter than me once said that he didn’t merely
have a nervous system, that he was a nervous system, and that is
exactly how I feel.
 “Freddie, darling, I have had the most marvellous idea for your
rest and recuperation.”
I turn to look at Lucien with a feeling of trepidation. It’s that
commanding tone again, dressed up as a lighthearted, fluttery
suggestion. And the eyes, the pale assessing eyes, a much lighter
shade of blue than mine. Jay senses the whirring of the brain too.
He looks expectantly at the beautiful man perched in his lap, waiting
for whatever wonderful suggestion/command he’s about to deliver.
Maybe I’ve come here to Rossingley because, subliminally, my
heart knows this is what I need: Lucien’s firmness wrapped up in his
kindness, his wisdom, his never-ending, patient love. My nerves are
so stretched to the wire that I’m totally in his hands. I’ll say yes to
anything, as long as he remains my guardian angel, even though he
is regarding me in a worryingly naughty fashion.
“You’re going to find rattling around this big old place terribly
boring, darling, especially when Jay and I are at work. So, it will be
best if you find something to occupy yourself, and do you know, I
have exactly the thing. Steve, the head gardener, has recently fired
one of his boys for pilfering from the estate stores, and so they are a
bit short on labour.”
Yep, those eyes definitely have a naughty gleam.
“And the grounds require so much maintenance at this time of
year. I’ll phone Will, my estate manager, right now, and let him know
I have a willing, young body to take his place. He’ll be so pleased,
and the exercise and fresh air will do you the power of good,
darling. You will be a perfect fit for that gardening team. You know
I’m right. Now, go and have a nice hot shower, and I’ll find you
some comfy clothes. Then have a gorgeous rest and you can start
work after the weekend.”
And that is a masterclass in how to persuade a spoiled young
man to perform forty hours a week of manual labour, outside, in the
depths of winter, and still be his favourite person in the entire world.
Bloody hell.
 Chapter Three

Reuben
Dear Guillaume,

Doesn’t time pass quickly? I’ve been a gardener here at

Rossingley for nine whole months now. I wish you could
visit and see how beautiful it is. The photos I’ve sent you
don’t do it justice. Who knows? Maybe one day.

Now that the ice has thawed, hundreds of snowdrops are

pushing through the hard ground in the woods, and the
winter jasmine is such a pretty yellow against the old
crumbly stone of the walled garden. I’ll take a photo for
you when it’s fully in bloom.

It’s a bit chilly, of course, especially in the mornings, and

I’m glad of the warm gloves you sent me for Christmas.
The ground is too hard for planting, or doing anything
much really, but we have a pile of maintenance jobs to
finish before the spring. Steve says we’ll have a mild winter
and spring is just around the corner.
The men have got used to me now and don’t ask too many
questions, which is good. I will tell them about prison one
day, but I’m not ready yet. Joe and Lee are very funny, and
Steve’s wife gives me a lift to the supermarket every
Saturday, so I don’t have to walk any longer, thank
goodness, because it’s four miles away.

The hungry kitten I found doesn’t seem to belong to

anyone and Will says I can keep it. He’s so cute, he sleeps
on my lap every evening until I chuck him out at bedtime. I
went to the village pub with the ‘lads’ after work on Friday,
for the first time, and I quite enjoyed myself. Mon dieu,
they can drink! I only had one pint of beer and was a bit
tiddly. Lee and Joe must have had five or six each, and still
seemed fairly sober! The pub has a weekly meat draw at
ten p.m., where you buy a raffle ticket to win a packet of
sausage or bacon, or a beef joint for a Sunday roast. I won
the sausage with only one ticket, so that was a bit of a
treat for me and Obélix on Saturday morning! (That’s my
cat’s name.)

Hope all is well with you. I’d love to see some pictures of
your last match. I enclose a photo of the coffee table I
made for my design and tech exam. If you look closely, you
can see I’ve inlaid the brass ends of some old shotgun
cartridges around the edge and polished them up. The
table still needs varnishing, but it’s not a bad effort, even if
I do say so myself.

Missing you, although it’s fine here, it really is.

 Love, Reuben and Obélix

“Give me three examples of sentences with homophones,” barks out

Gandalf during our morning tea break.
It’s the start of my twice daily, twenty-minute English lesson, and
this week, we’re covering the play An Inspector Calls, and the role of
the ghoulish Inspector Goole in particular. I screw up my nose, trying
to think. Merde! English is such a bloody difficult language, with
stupid words, and even worse, stupid spellings, dreamt up to
deliberately confuse Frenchmen like me. Ah, I’ve got one.
“Look at my lovely, big muscles, and look at my lovely, big
mussels.”
“Excellent, Reuben. Well done,” Gandalf praises cheerfully and
dips a chocolate digestive into his tea before expectantly waiting for
me to come up with another example. His name isn’t really Gandalf,
but he’s very tall and thin, has his long grey hair tied back in a
ponytail, and is a font of knowledge. I don’t know his real name; no
one ever uses it anyhow. When I first started working at Rossingley,
out of all the gardeners, he scared me the most, but since then, I’ve
realised he’s probably my favourite workmate. And he never takes
the piss when I get stuff wrong. Unlike the rest of them.
“Still can’t see them muscles, Frenchie,” interrupts Joe,
pretending to give me the once-over, and the others all snigger.
“Ooh, I’ve got an ’omophone,” chips in Lee, waving his mug
around and slopping tea over the side. “How about— I took my big
hose round the back of the shed, and then I invited my hoes round
the back of the shed too.”
More sniggering, and Gandalf rolls his eyes.
 “Very good, Lee,” he sighs wearily. “I think we’ve all got the gist
of homophones now. Let’s move on. Reuben, give me some
examples of how we can judge Mr Birling senior’s attitude towards
the women in the play, given the context of 1912.”
Granted, not your usual gardeners tea break chat, but it has
become the norm for us, and bizarrely, the crew tolerates it
remarkably well. We’re probably the only team of gardeners in the
country who not only analyse early twentieth-century plays during
the morning break, but recite Great War poetry during the afternoon
one too. I’m sitting a GCSE English exam in the summer, along with
a few other GCSEs. Putain, it’s a slog because I grew up in France,
but I need school-leaver qualifications if I want to follow my dreams.
In a former existence, Gandalf was a university lecturer. I think
his specialist subject must have been growing marijuana. When his
wife died suddenly, a few years ago, he decided to return to his
hippy roots in Rossingley and embrace the good life. He’s kindly
going through the syllabus for the English exam with me, twice a
day during our tea breaks.
In his own time, according to Lee (though I’m not sure I can
believe anything that comes out of Lee’s mouth), Gandalf juggles
two lady friends, one of whom is allegedly his dead wife’s sister.
Rumour has it he had a young man staying for a while, too, but that
could, of course, be another one of Lee’s tall tales. He smokes roll-
ups all day at work, and half of the time, I think he’s stoned, yet it
doesn’t stop him being an amazing teacher. Coming from Paris, I
always believed country life to be quiet and uneventful, but in the
short time I’ve lived at Rossingley, my viewpoint has changed
considerably.
 Homophones nailed—with a quick detour into how they differ
from homonyms, followed by a thorough discussion regarding Mr
Birling’s deplorable sexist and patronising attitudes towards women
—and conversation turns to more general gossip.
“The boss’s cousin is joining us this afternoon,” announces Steve,
swallowing down the last of his tea. Steve is the head gardener and
has worked this land for thirty years since leaving school. His dad
worked it, too, before him. He’s gruff and bluntly to the point, but
what Steve doesn’t know about horticulture can be written on the
back of a postage stamp. When he’s talking about plants, I hang on
his every word. When he’s gossiping, not so much.
“Gonna be with us for a few months, according to Will.”
Lee frowns. “Which cousin is that then? Most of Will’s family are
up north now.”
Rossingley village is incestuous—everyone knows everyone else’s
business, and they’ve all lived here for generations. Lee’s sister is
married to Will’s nephew, and Joe’s dad went to school with Steve
and Gandalf. Lee has a child with Joe’s half-sister, who is currently
shacked up with Gandalf’s youngest brother. Lee, himself, is seeing a
mysterious older woman who lives in Allenmouth and we suspect is
married. Joe, who smells a bit sweaty most of the time, is currently
single and, in his words, ‘ready to mingle’. The women of Rossingley
aren’t exactly queuing up. Which leaves me as the only outsider,
turning up from nowhere and a foreigner to boot. I’ve no idea what
story Will spun them when I joined, but I’ve fortunately been
welcomed into the fold with few questions asked.
“Nah, not Will’s cousin. The boss’s cousin, y’know, the real boss.
The earl.”
 “Christ.” Lee snorts. “What the hell is the earl’s cousin doing
working with us lot? He must be desperate.”
My ears always prick up at any mention of Lucien. Probably
because I have an enormous crush on him. Not only is he stupidly
handsome, but I owe him my job, my tiny cottage here on the
estate, and these blokes and their camaraderie. In essence, he’s the
reason I’ve got this shot at having a normal life. Pitching up in
England after almost ten years in a French prison, with no money,
no family, no job, and no qualifications, he took me in when most
looked the other way.
“I think we’re about to find out,” remarks Joe, nodding in the
direction of the big house.
Will, the genteel estate manager, is making his way across the
immaculate lawns towards us. The lawns are vast, so we have plenty
of opportunity to observe the new arrival. We take our tea breaks in
the potting shed next to the greenhouses. It’s set up like a little
kitchen, and we have a small electric heater, essential at this time of
year. Will is talking animatedly to a man at his side. At first glance, I
think it’s Lucien, and my heart rate picks up a little. But as they get
closer, I realise, despite this man having a similar slender build, he’s
younger, and the hair poking out from underneath his navy woollen
beanie is slightly less fair. Same amazing bone structure, although
his nose is slightly pointier, his lips fuller. Not that I’m gawping or
anything.
“Walks like he’s on a bloody catwalk,” cracks Lee, and he’s right;
the guy has long smooth strides, a confident roll of his hips and a
straight posture. Putain, it’s a sexy walk. Laughing at something Will
says, the newcomer throws his head back, revealing a long expanse
of pale throat and gleaming white teeth. He could have stepped out
of the pages of Vogue.
“Bet you twenty quid he bats for your team, Frenchie,” adds Joe,
and we all stand and endeavour to look busy as Will gets closer. I
blush down to the roots of my wild frizz of hair, and mumble a ‘va te
faire foutre’. None of them can remember any schoolboy French
apart from how to order a beer, but their colloquial swearing is
coming on a treat.
I’ve never specifically told them I’m gay, and they’ve never
asked. But they’ve drawn their own conclusions, especially as I’ve
yet to contribute to the daily update on the state of the barmaid’s
breasts at the Rossingley Arms. Neither have I taken Joe up on his
offer to fix me up with his sister’s best mate, nor have I encouraged
the advances of the single mum who walks her dogs through the
estate grounds almost daily and always searches me out for a chat.
Lee and Joe reckon she’s as fit as a butcher’s dog, but having never
fancied a woman in my life, I struggle to see it.
To label myself as gay would be pushing it somewhat, merely a
reflection of my generally upbeat and aspirational state of mind. A
more accurate description of my sexual orientation is enforced
celibacy. The only two gay men of my acquaintance are the earl and
his intimidating partner—it’s a foolhardy guy who’d make a pass at
Lucien and hope to get away with his cock in one piece. I’ve thought
about investigating Grindr, or maybe taking a trip into Bristol to, I
don’t know, try to hook up with someone. But up until now, I’ve not
really had the courage.
“Afternoon, Will,” acknowledges Steve, and we all nod our hellos,
making no bones about giving the stranger the once-over. One thing
I’ve noticed about country folk is they are very happy to stare, which
can obviously make newcomers uncomfortable. Unless they are
landed gentry like this chap, in which case they don’t give a stuff
and are more than happy to stare back. He’s appropriately dressed
for wintry outside work, and while his jeans are a faded grey, they
are an artfully distressed Armani faded grey, his hoodie sports a
Stone Island logo, and his snug winter jacket is a Moncler. His matte-
black work boots are brand new.
“Hello, everybody.” He smiles at us, all friendly-like. “I’m Aloysius
Duchamps-Avery, but everyone calls me Freddie. Nice to meet you
all.”
That sparkling smile could light up any dull January afternoon.
The identical twin moles he has on either side of his upper lip are
fascinating. I’m trying not to stare, but, putain, he’s seriously hot!
He holds out a well-manicured, elegant hand, and Steve takes it,
which hopefully distracts the newcomer, Freddie, from Lee and Joe
smirking behind him. It’s the Aloysius that’s got them giggling, and
even I can tell that’s a crazy posh name. Gandalf does the same,
and I follow, attempting to ignore the other two. His handshake is
warm and unexpectedly firm.
“Hi, I’m Reuben,” I murmur shyly, my gaze focused somewhere
in the region of his feet.
“Goodness, that doesn’t sound like an Allenmouth accent,” he
exclaims cheerfully.
My face warms from the heat of his golden-lashed blue eyes
waiting for my eyes to meet them. He’s going to have to wait a while
because as the others would tell him if he asked, I’m painfully timid
with strangers, and even more so in the presence of such a
confident, sophisticated sort. Merde, not to mention gorgeous. I find
myself staring fixedly at the ground.
Will is rubbing his hands together nervously, clearly finding the
whole earl’s cousin situation a little awkward. “Right then, Freddie,
I’ll leave you to it. Things to be getting on with in the office, you
know.”
There’s a pregnant pause as he retreats across the lawns, the
silence eventually filled by Gandalf, evidently the only one of us with
any social skills. “Steve, why don’t we get Freddie to help Reuben
this afternoon with mulching the roses in the big bed at the back of
the walled garden?”
The others are all in voluble support of this idea, the bastards,
and so I trudge off, with Freddie following.
“This doesn’t sound like the most glamorous of jobs,” he chatters
as we head towards the storage shed. “Milan one week, compost
bins the next. Yay!”
We’ve arrived at the storage sheds and I point to the tools. “It is
not difficult. You’ll need a wheelbarrow and a big fork.”
“Yes, sir!” he exclaims with a mock salute. “Reuben, isn’t it? May
I say how beautifully you’re rocking that whole romantic-poet look! A
modern-day Lord Byron! Your hair is fabulous. And I love the shirt,
especially. Where on earth did you manage to find that?”
I blush terribly and turn away so he can’t see. “Oxfam, in
Allenmouth.”
The others stopped taking the piss out of my clothes months
ago, attributing my outfits down to me being French and therefore
allowed to be a bit peculiar. I don’t sense that Freddie is taking the
piss. I think he’s being genuinely complimentary. I own two pairs of
black jeans, which I rotate weekly; my old work boots; and some
flouncy, billowy white shirts, three for a fiver in Oxfam. Someone
probably dumped them after a pantomime or something, but they fit
me nicely and hide bits of my body I don’t want others to see.
Anyway, at the time, it was all I could afford. I have a couple of plain
T-shirts, which I also rotate and wear under the shirts for warmth,
and one navy woollen sweater, which I try to keep clean for pub
night. My coat is a knackered waxed Barbour which appeared
outside my back door after Lucien caught me shivering one day. It is
too big for me, but warm, and it smelled of him.
I came to England a year ago with nothing but the clothes I
stood in and fifty quid cash. Now I have more than one outfit, a
belly full of food, and enough money for a pint of beer on a Friday
night. Not to mention some rough-and-ready countrymen I call
friends. Most importantly of all, I have a cottage all to myself, with a
front door that locks behind me, and a safe, warm bed.
Freddie uses some pretty choice swear words when we reach the
enormous rose beds, confirming Lee’s observation that posh folk
swear more than anyone. But once I’ve shown him what to do, he
puts his back into the work, despite keeping up a running
commentary. He’s what Steve would describe as a big strong lad.
Although Freddie is lean, like the earl, he’s tall and his shoulders are
broad. While we dig, he covers every topic under the sun, apart
from the only one in which I’m interested: why is the earl’s cousin
getting his hands dirty at Rossingley for a few months?
He’s too old to be a student—I’m guessing he’s in his mid-
twenties. It’s not university holidays anyway. His clothes scream of
money, so I don’t think he’s short of a few bob. Perhaps he’s on
parole, or doing community service for something his family are too
embarrassed to mention? In which case, we’ve got more in common
than he realises. He doesn’t strike me as a criminal though, even an
accidental one; he’s too open, unwary, too talkative. Unlike me. Most
likely, he’s curious as to how the other half live, and with some time
on his hands, fancied giving it a go. If the winter temperatures fall
any lower, I doubt we’ll see much of him.
“You don’t talk very much, do you?” he comments, interrupting
my reverie. We’re on our sixth trip to the compost heap, and we’ve
both built up a sweat.
“No awkward silences are there though?” I answer sarcastically,
and he laughs with delight.
“So you are listening under all that hair! I thought Will had paired
me with a deaf mute. Which I wouldn’t have minded, particularly if
he was as dashing as you. I once dated a most wonderful deaf man,
and let me tell you, Reuben, he was bloody marvellous with his
hands. I have many happy memories once I’d discovered his other
senses more than compensated for the missing one.”
I blush terribly, the warm flush beginning under my collar and
suffusing my face. Fortunately, he’s too preoccupied with the new
blisters on his hands to notice.
“I hope Lucien has a decent cream for these. Look at the state of
them! Ruined!”
He holds them out to me, and I can’t help but look. Yes, he has
four pinkish circles on his palms from where the rough handle of the
fork dug into the soft skin. His hands are slim and shapely, the nails
neatly filed and polished squares. Hands that have never
experienced a day’s manual labour until today, that’s for certain.
Briefly, I imagine how soft they’d feel against my skin.
“Maybe think about wearing some gloves tomorrow.”
Hearing a whistle and then my name shouted, with relief, I put
down my fork. “That’s our sign to join the others; sounds like Steve’s
got the kettle on.”
I’m acutely aware of that loping walk next to me as Freddie falls
into step. He’s taller than me by at least five or six inches, and I find
myself adjusting my stride to keep up. If he’s unhappy about his
new gardening job, he’s putting a very cheerful face on it. In his cut-
glass accent, he prattles on about the stripes on the lawns, the
intricate shaping of the box hedges, the nesting birds of prey; as I’ve
said, anything and everything.
“There’s a tea for you there, Reubs mate,” indicates Lee. “You,
too, Aloysius.”
Joe sniggers, and Freddie pretends he hasn’t heard. “Thank you
so much, Lee. I’m absolutely parched. Christ, that’s um…sweet.”
He pulls a face at the dishwater-coloured liquid but drinks it
down anyway. Knowing Lee, he’s made him the weakest tea possible
and stirred five sugars in it, just to see if he can provoke a reaction.
Joe and Steve are having an animated discussion about Monday
night’s opponents in the pub darts league, so grabbing a chocolate
digestive, Gandalf settles in the chair next to me and our lesson
begins.
“Of course, we always refer to Dulce et Decorum Est as one of
the most famous war poems, but as you and I are now apprised, it’s
an antiwar poem, warning future generations of the horrors of the
trenches. Owen achieves this by drawing the reader into a whole
sensory experience.”
Munching on his biscuit, Gandalf draws a crumpled printout of
the poem from the depths of his coat and hands it to me. “And while
I drink my tea, you are going to give me some fine examples of
exactly how he achieves this, in stanzas two and three, using all five
senses.”
Gandalf’s voice has a rich, deep timbre. It must have echoed very
clearly around a full lecture theatre, even if he had been stoned
most of the time. The others have fallen silent. They enjoy the war
poetry much more than An Inspector Calls, and we’ve all agreed this
one is the best of the lot.
I’m feeling more shy than usual as I begin to stumble my way
through the poem, and I know it’s because Freddie is listening. Even
though he must be curious, he hasn’t asked why Gandalf and I are
spending our break dissecting poetry, and as if he senses my
discomfort, he studies his phone screen. Whatever he sees there
doesn’t make him happy. After he shoves it back into his pocket, he
rests his head against the shed wall, closing his eyes as if trying to
block us all out for a few moments.
“Can any of you explain to me the meaning of the word
onomatopoeia?” asks Gandalf, looking around the room.
“Nah, but I reckon spelling it correctly would be worthy of an A-
star all of its own,” Steve says and laughs.
I shake my head. Putain, I’m not sure I can pronounce
onomatopoeia, let alone explain it. Freddie has shaken himself out of
whatever was troubling him and smiles gently at me. He’s evidently
a mind reader.
 “I want to hear Reuben say it in that lovely French accent,” he
teases, eliciting another blush from me. He must think crimson is my
natural skin tone. There’s clearly no malice in his words, so I humour
him.
“Onopat…omonato…” I begin, then give up, my Gallic tongue
refusing to curl into the right shapes. Gandalf comes to my rescue,
in a teacherly fashion.
“Fortunately, Reuben, the GCSE English syllabus doesn’t expect
you to be able to say it, you merely have to provide some excellent
examples of it from the text. Perhaps your smartarse classmate can
help you out.”
We all watch curiously as Freddie shifts in his seat. Gandalf isn’t
being malicious either, only taking back control of the lesson, as all
good teachers do. A small frown creases Freddie’s smooth forehead.
“Let’s see. Onomatopoeia. When a word describes a sound and
mimics the sound of the object or action it refers to when it is
spoken. If my memory hasn’t failed me, then examples from Dulce
could include ‘gargling’ and ‘sludge’. Sludge is a very sludgy word,
don’t you agree?”
He glances at his watch and rises to his feet. “Talking of sludge, I
think that’s the end of our allotted break. Reuben, that stinky poo
won’t throw itself around, and I do believe you were enlightening
me on how best to prune the yellow jasmine.”

We shovel shit on roses until the light fades. With a backwards wave
of his hand, Freddie heads home, back to the big house, and I
amble the short distance to my cottage, smiling as I see Obélix
patiently waiting on the doorstep for me. When I unlock the door, as
is the way of cats, he pretends he hasn’t been waiting at all, and
hangs around on the doorstep a little longer, licking his paw before
following me inside. He turned up at Rossingley not long after I did,
scruffy and underfed. As no one else appeared to be looking after
him, I started feeding him. He comes and goes as he pleases—he’s
out all night—but spends most evenings curled in my lap next to the
wood burner. I named him Obélix after the sidekick in the Astérix
comic book, the only kid’s stories I’ve ever read.
My cottage is the most amazing place on earth. Even saying the
words ‘my cottage’ out loud makes me happy. It’s not mine, of
course, it belongs to the estate, but it’s mine as long as I live and
work here. I can honestly say it’s the only real home I’ve ever had.
Incredibly old, it’s tagged onto the end of a row of much larger
cottages. The row is hidden around the back of the big house, off
the rear driveway behind the stable block. My home almost seems
an afterthought, as if the seventeenth-century builders had a few
bricks left over and didn’t want them to go to waste, so they created
a doll’s house for fun. The hobbit-sized front door opens directly into
the lounge, with a tiny kitchen off to one side and an even tinier
bathroom next to that. A narrow wooden staircase leads out of the
lounge straight into my bedroom, and that’s it. There is enough
room to swing a cat in the lounge and the bedroom, because Obélix
and I have tried it, but not in the kitchen.
I put a match to the kindling in the wood burner, which I’d
prepared this morning. The only pieces of furniture in the lounge are
two old-fashioned, lumpy green armchairs, a fluffy red rug, and a
scratched gateleg table, with two mismatched oak dining chairs
tucked underneath it. I’ve made a coffee table out of packing crates,
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