Bill Edginton Author

From Freyberg
Sample from Chapter 13

The next morning, Craig read in the paper that some American was rubbishing Kinsey’s statistic of 10 percent for homosexuals. The American had been giving evidence on behalf of the Society for the Preservation of Community Standards. He accused Kinsey of fraudulent data. Craig felt worried. Would this weaken the gay case in the eyes of supporters? But he also felt suspicious. He hoped express would publish an answer to the allegations.

The Dominion was calling for a commission of enquiry into the Aramoana massacre. Craig thought of the carnage caused by a disaffected loner in that beautiful, remote place. He wondered whether resentments had built up in the gunman’s mind, and whether he had been excluded from others who might have made him feel respected and loved. Would people be willing to look at possible social causes and not just the more superficial issues of gun control?

While Craig was reading the paper, Paul rang the plumber for the third time about a leak from the wash-tub tap. The previous week, he had noticed that the plastic containers of household cleaners under the tub were wet. He had removed everything, then lay on his back to see where the leak was. He had rung the plumber and left a message on his answerphone. That was Wednesday morning. There had been no reply by Friday so he rang again. This time the plumber’s wife answered and said she would ask her husband to call. When Paul rang on this Tuesday morning, the plumber himself answered.

‘What’s the problem?’ he asked, without any apology.

Paul explained, with thinly disguised annoyance. ‘Could you please come today?’ he said with unusual firmness.

‘Possibly. I’ve got two other jobs.’

‘I’ve been ringing since last Wednesday.’

‘OK.’ The plumber sounded slightly conceding, but unmoved. ‘I’ll come later this morning.’

‘Bloody tradesmen!’ Paul sounded off after he had hung up. ‘After three phone calls, how can he be so off-hand? I always reply to people when they call!’

Paul felt so mad he wanted to beat up the plumber for ignoring his calls. ‘Why should I be made to feel as though it is me who is being a pain? Fuck the guy!’

Craig enjoyed this display. It relieved some of the tension in the house and put life into their morning routine. He also wondered whether it was in fact Paul’s anger with him, misdirected at the poor plumber. He smiled indulgently at Paul.

Paul slammed a few kitchen cupboard doors and glared at Craig. ‘Well you could have done something too! What did you do all weekend?’

Craig hunched over the Dominion. ‘We don’t have the right tools,’ he muttered in self-defence. ‘Anyway, I was looking forward to seeing the plumber,’ he added as a spontaneous, mischievous gratuity.

Notwithstanding his extramarital lusts, Craig felt a customary sadness in seeing Paul go off to work. It was the little death of parting. He also wondered whether he was feeling privileged for his greater freedom as a self-employed person.

Craig looked at the steady rain. He thought of going to the sauna on a recent wet afternoon. He had talked to Kerry, whom he had met through the AIDS support network. He had had sex with him once, long before that. Kerry asked if Craig had been to the new KMart in Porirua. Was that just to make conversation? Was there a beat there?

Maybe because of Paul’s feelings about the plumber, Craig thought of Henry in the film Good Fellas. He loved Henry’s pretty looks, his bedroom eyes. Craig thought how Henry had walked with quick, short, purposeful steps towards a guy to punch his head to pulp.

How did he, Craig, feel about violence? Was he ambivalent? Did he get a thrill from it? Would he be violent if pushed too far? Shooting was a quick means of conveying feeling (but counter-productive if fatally aimed), or of getting someone out of your way. The barman in Good Fellas was shot simply because he had irritated his killer. There had been no respect for his person. Craig wondered what capacity for violence was buried inside him. Could he, too, wield an automatic? He thought it was important to be conscious of another person’s sensitive, breathing being, their vulnerability. Yet the murderer, Tamahere, was allegedly aware of his Swedish victim’s delicate skin when he raped her. What a strange dichotomy! Instead of sensitive touching, there was savage abuse. Instead of showing hospitality to the tourist, he violated her. He acted like the inhabitants of Sodom.

Craig switched his thoughts back to Good Fellas. What was it about the male bonding in that Mafia family? It held through fear. Fear of whoever had power. Certainly the men had power over the women, and power was exercised in various ways between the men. It was patriarchal and maintained by the use of force. There were values — readiness to steal, clear gender boundaries. Craig thought about the idea he had first heard argued by lesbians that the maintenance of power by men over women is at the basis of homophobia. Men who were in breach of this gender role had to be eliminated.

On a roll from his bout with the plumber and his jibe at Craig, Paul took his car into Honda on the way to work. He had done nothing for weeks about an ominous rattle. When he arrived at the workshop, he parked his car in a space alongside the showroom. He would either have to back out onto Kent Terrace when he left, or drive through to the back exit onto Lloyd Street. Because of traffic at that hour of day, it was easiest to go out the back. But when he came to do so, there was a white Accord parked facing him, blocking the way outside the entrance doors to the service area. The driver seemed to be putting on her seat belt, so Paul waited for her to move out. But she did not, so he drove towards her and waited for her to get out of the way. She just sat there. Paul got out and went up to her, looking determinedly and expectantly through the door window that was closed. She opened the window after sitting tight for half a minute, stony-faced.

‘Would you please back out?’ Paul asked sharply. ‘I want to get through.’

The woman turned the ignition key as if to shut Paul up, and backed brassily into the workshop. Paul acknowledged her response with a wave, although he felt like giving her a vigorous shake. He was surprised at his anger.

Paul wondered about his combative feelings, first with the plumber and then with the woman in the car. Had Craig’s infatuation with Neil struck harder than he was admitting? Had this stirred a pile of affronts from the past? Anger about sneers and taunts? Who and what did the plumber symbolise? Inarticulate men? Boring mechanical know-how? Unintelligent muscular strength? Being ignored? And the woman in the car – contempt?

Paul felt disappointed that he and Craig were not more open in venting their feelings in a healthy way. He was aware that other gay couples had rows, fights even. And psychologists talked about battered gay and lesbian partners as well as battered heterosexual partners. But Paul’s experience was a constant avoidance of anything that might be the cause of conflict. He and Craig always pulled their weight around the house, despite what he had said to him that morning about the leaking tap. They allowed each other’s preferences, compromising in the process. They had never had a ding dong row.