Chapter Three: Aunty Dilys

As Gethin fastened the door of the flat behind him, he realised he'd brought the attendance list upstairs by mistake. Well, he wasn't going back down to file it, not now – too much like starting work and he'd only just allowed himself a glimpse of the treat ahead of him – Saturday night and the promise of Sunday spreading like lazy butter and the duvet hot as toast... and as for tonight...

Gethin considered his options.

Not too late to go out, not really, but when he thought about it, the effort involved was too much... he settled down with a book and a beer, wondering vaguely if this meant he was getting old...

Not half an hour passed and the echoes of a thumping on the shop door downstairs reverberate up the staircase. With a sigh (he felt he was perpetually sighing, these days) he went to the window to look down and see.

On the pavement outside the shop was a woman... well, possibly someone dressed like a woman, s/he was all dressed up in a black and silver skirt suit, teamed with long black evening gloves, a glitzy bracelet on one wrist, and the wrong sort of heels... and was knocking on the door like a champion.

Gethin pushed up the window.

'We're closed!' he called down, trying not to let his annoyance show. 'Open on Monday, nine o' clock sharp!'

The banging stopped and the individual staggered back a few steps to peer upwards and stare at the window, swaying slightly and one hand going to the head where what looked like an elaborate bubble perm wig was starting to suffer the attentions of gravity. Suddenly, the figure gave a little jump.

'Oh, s'you!' he (yes, definitely he) called up in slurred, yet familiar tones. 'Have... have you go'... "Queer Shipmates"?'

Ah, it was not-Frank-Spencer-possibly-someone-called-Jonathan. Gethin found his anger turning to something far sillier as his face, all by itself, decided to smile. He shook his head. Luckily, this was an easy one.

'No, I haven't!' he called down. '1962, Archibald Bruce Campbell, published by Phoenix House. Sorry, we really are closed.'

'I... came for the meeting... not the meeting, but meeting someone from the... the meeting...'

'It'd over. Finished nearly an hour ago.'

'Oh. But I was meeting someone.'

'Sorry. All gone home.'

Not-Frank thought about this for a moment.

'What shall I do?'

'Maybe go home yourself?'

'No... Got to... to meet Luke, he gets all cross if I don't show up... 'Nyway, Bookshopkeeper, I heard... I heard you were going out with Muz... muzicle Ivan.'

'No, just friends.' Not that it was any of not-Frank's business, oh, and now the local beat bobbies who had just happened to be passing the end of the street were starting to look interested, especially when the individual below took a step back and twirled experimentally, gloved arms outstretched...

Oddly enough, the skirt suit actually looked better than the beige coat and the beret, Gethin noticed. Worrying, that. He'd had never considered himself as that sort of gay.

'Izzn Luke here?'

'Nobody's here, except you, and me. Everyone went home. Nobody else.'

'Not...not even Muzicle Ivan?

'No, he's not.'

Well, GOOD!' not-Frank decided. 'I'm musical, you know.'

'I'm sure you are.'

Not-Frank pulled out a samba whistle and began to blow it exuberantly in time with a tune only he could hear. He swung his hips, tried a few dance steps, almost fell over and the whistle fell from his lips mid-blast, dangling from a cord around his neck. The bobbies at the end of the street turned, falling into that long, slow, purposeful stride that was usually the precursor to some awkward questions.

'Yes, lovely, very musical. No more, please, I like to think I get on well with my neighbours, mostly.'

'S...sorry.'

A pause, during which Gethin tried to find a nice way to repeat, go home, without it sounding like a rejection. But Not-Frank's wombling mind had moved on.

'What about... about... "Cock Tugs"?'

No, Gethin didn't know that one. He rummaged for his ever-growing list, read through, went back to the window, saw the bobbies bee-lining towards Not-Frank, oh, Dew, that was all he needed...

'I want "Cock Tugs", if you please, Mister Bookshopkeeper!'

Grabbing keys Gethin thundered down the stairs, flinging wide his front door in time to hear something from one of the bobbies about improper propositions likely to cause a breach of the peace.

The second police officer turned his attention on Gethin.

'Would you mind telling me, sir, do you know this... lady?'

'It wasn't a proposition, it was just an enquiry for the book shop.'

'A book shop, is it?'

'Yes.'

'But we just heard this person mention certain services not generally found at WH Smiths'... what's going on here?'

'Ah. That's Aunty Dilys, you see, from Abergele... she... she's on medication. It takes her funny, sometimes...'

'Ah, yes. Aunty Dilys. And the cock tugs, sir?'

Gethin held out his list with trembling hands.

'It's a little joke we have, she... book titles... see? "Cock Tugs, a Short History of the Liverpool Screw Towing Company." James Birchall and company, Liverpool, 1963... it's about boats, actually. Maritime history... Sorry about Aunty, it's the pills.' Gethin lowered his voice. 'They're a bit strong, if you ask me.'

He nodded his head and eased past the police officers to take Not-Frank Spencer by the arm.

'If that will be all, officers, I'll take Aunty in and give her some cocoa. She'll be right as rain in the morning. Sorry for any inconvenience. Goodnight, now, thank you for your help. '

'Ah, now wait a minute! How do we know there isn't going to be any funny business going on?'

Gethin stared for a moment, his mind racing. Private property, both over age... true, but not exactly conciliating.

But the Not-Frank added his own contribution.

'With his own auntie? Really, just what kind of a deviant do you think I am?' He pushed at his wig, straightening it with dignity, then clutched Gethin's arm. 'Come along, nevvy, help your old Auntie Dennis...'

'Dilys.'

'...Dilys up the stairs...nighty night, officers...'

Gethin shut and locked the door behind them with a sigh of relief, shaking his head. The look on the officers' faces had been an alarming mingling of wonder and contempt, and he almost dragged Aunty Dilys up to the flat.

'Right, then. I'll make some coffee – I think you need some.'

'What I need,' Aunty Dilys said, 'is "The Gay Boys of Old Yale." Obviously.'

'John Denison Vose, I think. The police officer got my list, but I think that's an old title. Nineteenth century.' He steered his guest into the sitting room and onto the couch. 'Dressed like that, though, sure you wouldn't rather have "Fanny at School", by Frances Gage?'

Aunty began to giggle, then to laugh, and Gethin went to sort out the kettle, coffee, found himself grinning stupidly at the coffee cups. Not-Frank Spencer was here, he was back, he'd cared enough that Gethin might have had a musical boyfriend to demonstrate his own musicianship... and now his guest had kicked off the shoes now, showing nice legs, really.

'Yes, get comfortable, why don't you? How do you take your coffee?'

'You told the pleece you were making cocacocoa. Cocococccc... Hot chocolate.'

'You need coffee first.'

'Oh, all right, then. Thank you. Black and sugary.'

Gethin stirred sugar into dark liquid and set the cup on the table in front of the sofa.

'You drink up, you'll feel better.'

He stood leaning against the doorway to the kitchen to drink his own coffee, watching his guest under cover of stirring the spoon around in the mug, sipping the hot, aromatic liquid.

Aunty Dilys' wig was decidedly skew-whiff, tilted at an improbable angle and occasionally its wearer shoved it a little further onto his head, not always where it should be. Gethin hid a smile.

'Take it off, if you like. And your gloves, be easier for you with your coffee.'

'Yes, I... I suppose...' The dark-eyed gaze wandered across the flat even as the wig and gloves were discarded. A frown contacted the forehead. 'Isn't Luke here, then?'

Easy to get exasperated with a drunk, but Gethin made an effort for this one. Attention span not the best, and really, it wasn't all that late to have been out drinking. He remembered the attendance sheet, then, and went to pick it up and scan the names.

'Luke, was it? Well, there isn't a Luke on this list, see? And that was from the First Quarter secretary, handed it me himself, that's everyone who was here tonight.'

Aunt Dilys moved his head closer to and further from the list, trying to focus, taking hold of the paper near where Gethin held the page to steady it. Their fingers didn't touch, not quite, but Gethin was sure he could feel the radiant heat from Not-Frank's fingers.

'But... he said,' the big man complained, his voice puzzled. 'At the book shop, after the meeting. But if he wasn't here, why did he say that? Why would he say that?'

'You sure you got the right night?' Gethin asked. 'It usually being a Friday. They changed it this week. Some of them turned up last night anyway.'

His guest nodded, but after a moment that turned to head-shaking.

'Because it was this morning we agreed on it, you see? And...' He broke off, huffing out a breath. 'Starting to sober up. Don't think I want to... Haven't got any rum, have you?'

'Sorry, no. Can find you a beer, though.'

'No. Thanks all the same, but not on top of coffee.' He lowered his voice so that his tone became confiding. 'I don't like to mix my drinks.'

'I can do you a refill of coffee, then?'

Aunt Dilys shook his head, changed his mind.

'Please. Then I'll get out of your hair. So to speak.'

'I don't think you will,' Gethin said, looking out of the window where the local constabulary had called in reinforcements. 'Police are outside. Waiting like dogs for the table scraps... Brought their friends to the party, too. Can ring a taxi for you, if you like?'

But when Gethin turned back, it seemed the excitement had all been too much for Aunty Dilys. The exquisite leonine head was thrown back, exposing a beautifully sculpted throat, the eyes drifting closed to expose tired eyeshadow and determined eyeliner... a soft, rhythmical breathing that was not quite snoring drifting up...

Funnily enough, although Gethin had imagined spending the night with this lovely more than once lately, never in his wildest dreams had factored in a dress, or snoring, or the sofa... and those imaginings generally featured his guest whispering – or crying out – Gethin's name.

Which he didn't know, because they hadn't been introduced yet...

Ah, well.

Gethin fetched a couple of spare blankets from the airing cupboard and draped them carefully over the sleeping figure before switching off the lights and climbing the stairs to his bedroom.

If nothing else, at least he'd have a chance to ask in the morning.