The Gilded Madonna by Garrick Jones (ebook reader for comics TXT) 📕

out for the day, I put up rails and hooks in his workshop to get some of his tools out of the way—”

“Clyde? What is it, sweetheart? Come here.” Mary turned me in her arms and I wept on her shoulder.

“I’m so sorry,” I said. “I thought I’d be able to talk about it without getting all mushy.”

“You are forgiven, Clyde.” She patted my back and then asked if I had a handkerchief. When I said no, she pulled one of her immaculate white tea towels from the kitchen drawer and gave it to me, telling me to blow my nose on it.

“You know, Mary. I saw my father cry twice in my entire life,” I said, snuffling as I wiped my nose. “The first time was when he saw my face when I came down the gangplank of the ship coming home from war. He told me he’d cried because of the pain and the hardness he saw there.”

“And the second?”

“Well, that was the year he died. I made him a shoebox for his shop. It had a sloping front so the clients could rest their feet while he fiddled with the fit of their shoes, and at the back was a drawer in which he could put his tools. ‘Did you make this?’ he asked me, and when I said I had, especially for the only person left in the world I truly loved, he broke down and wept in my arms, just like I did then into yours.”

“Clyde, may I tell you something?” Mary asked quietly after a few minutes of silence.

“Of course you may. What is it?”

“The money clip Arnold and I gave you for Christmas. Harry chose it. You know what he said when we were making up our minds what to buy you in David Jones?”

I shook my head. “I’ve no idea.”

“He said it was the perfect gift as it would sit in your pocket close to your heart, where it would always be warm and filled with radiated love …”

It was at that precise moment that I noticed Harry, who’d been leaning against the doorjamb of the scullery with his hands in his pockets. His slight blush told me he’d been listening for more than a few minutes.

“I’ll leave you two alone,” Mary said, patting my arm. “I need to check the table. Lunch won’t be far off.”

“Warm and filled with radiated love, Harry?”

“My heart is when we’re lying side by side,” he said, closing the scullery door behind him. He moved into my arms and placed one hand on my chest. “There’s enough love in here for half the world, Clyde Smith.”

I’d never cried while I was kissing anyone before.

“Happy Christmas, Clyde,” he whispered as we drew apart.

“Happy Christmas, my love,” I murmured against his cheek, reluctant to release him from my arms.

*****

I’d been home for about an hour when Harry slipped into my bed.

I hadn’t expected him. We’d made arrangements to meet up late in the morning on Boxing Day for a pre-planned picnic at Craig’s baths, using the gargantuan quantities of food we’d known would be left over from Christmas Day. I’d also prepared extra, and my fridge was jam-packed with roasted chickens, a large ham, and mountains of makings for salads.

We’d put together a list of our friends to join us for the get-together at Craig’s, and on my way home from Harry’s parents, I’d decided on the moment that I’d phone Luka in the morning and ask him if he’d like to join us. As it was to be a men-only do, perhaps he wouldn’t want to come without his sister, but I’d promised to invite him sometime to meet some of our “circle of friends”.

As the pool was always closed on Christmas Day, Boxing Day, and over Easter, Craig often made it available for private parties of like-minded men—queer men, in other words. I’d put my hand up just after we’d got back from Melbourne, asking if anyone else had bagsed it yet. Luckily, he hadn’t promised anyone else and had enquired whether I minded if he invited a few of his pals that were regulars at the baths—blokes I knew myself, and even though they weren’t men I’d call friends, I had no objections. I knew he’d never ask anyone who didn’t fit in with our crowd, and we easily had enough food for everyone, especially if everyone brought something to add to the table.

Just after Harry pulled back the sheets and slid down beside me in bed, I felt something slip into my hand.

“What’s this?”

“It’s your Christmas present,” Harry whispered.

“But you gave me two wonderful imported Italian cookbooks and a pair of copper saucepans …”

“This is the private one I said I’d give you later.”

“Aww …”

“Go on open it.”

He switched on the bedside light on his side of the bed. I’d bought a matching table since he’d started staying over, on which I’d managed to find a twin of the woven cane lamp that sat next to my side of the bed—even the shades were the same.

“Holy cow!” I said as I removed the last of the wrapping paper. I recognised the leather tooled box and its insignia. “It’s a Mont Blanc!”

“Well spotted, Dick Tracy,” he said, kissing my ear.

I couldn’t believe it. A handmade, numbered, and registered fountain pen, top of the line, and the best part of fifty quid’s worth of writing implement. I’d always fantasised about owning one.

“Harry …”

“Write me love letters,” he said, turning my chin with his thumb for a kiss on the lips.

“Why? Where are you going?”

He laughed and had just settled in for a round of heavy kissing when the phone rang.

“It’s quarter to twelve on Christmas night. Who the hell—”

I leaped out of bed, my heart thumping in my chest. A call this late at night could only be bad news.

“Hello, Clyde? It’s Tom.”

“Tom, yes, mate, what’s wrong?”

“I just thought you should know Vince was pulled out of bed fifteen minutes ago. There’s been another one.”

“Another what?”

“Another