A View of Capri: Can a new life escape the past?

By Nicholas Bundock

Russ is wary of close relationships. Life has made him a loner. 

He is a restorer of antique mirrors, but avoids looking hard at himself. 

He likes to play it safe. The one risk he has ever taken has been blotted from memory.     

A new partner and a move to Italy promise a perfect future

• Language: English
• Publisher: Amsterdam Publishers
• Release date: Oct 16, 2021
• ISBN: 9789493231702

Book preview

Prologue

22nd February 1957

In ancient shadows and twilights

Where childhood had strayed,

The world’s great sorrows were born

And its heroes were made.

In the lost boyhood of Judas

Christ was betrayed.

---

George Russell

---

It would have been safer to have taken the other route home. Most boys of my age would have done so. It was a little longer that way, but the pavements on South Parade were lit up by street lights. And at seven in the evening there would have been a few adults hurrying back from work. They would have ignored me, but I’d have felt protected.

Instead, I’d chosen to cut through the Common. In daytime, it was peaceful and a favourite place for dogwalkers. At one end, there was even a flower bed. After dark, you seldom saw anyone, and if there was no moon or a London smog, you avoided coming here. There was no smog that night, only a mist which shrouded the night sky. If there was a moon, it wasn’t visible. The day before, I’d told Kev about my plan. No one else knew. We were good mates at school. His uncle was in the USAF and was able to get Kev American comics, which he swapped each week for my Eagle: Spider-Man and Batman for Dan Dare and Storm Nelson – a fair exchange, we both thought. ‘It will be fun walking through the Common after dark,’ I’d said. I wanted to make out I was as brave as our superheroes. But now I regretted the playground boast. I imagined I was being followed. I looked round. There was no one there. Even so, I felt an unseen presence behind me.

The trees either side of the path were leafless, but they added to the darkness. Where light stole through their branches, they cast shadows like gaunt arms with gnarled fingers and long nails. I walked as fast as I could, but didn’t run. I didn’t dare. The person or thing tailing me would only have started running, too. Anyhow, I wanted to prove to him or it, as much as to myself, that I wasn’t scared. It helped when I heard in the distance a car or bus, but when the sound faded, the fear returned.

Of course, this was only a small West London park, and, if I listened, I could hear the background drone of the city. But at that moment, in the darkness, I might have been lost in a dangerous foreign country. The fingers continued to spread out in front of me. I imagined them grabbing my ankles. I tried not to tread on them. Several times I moved off the path and onto the grass to avoid them. But even here, where there were patches of bare earth, they reappeared. Before Christmas, my class had been taken to see the pantomime at the town hall. It was Snow White, and I had hissed and laughed with the other kids each time the witch Queen appeared. But alone that evening on the Common, I believed in witches.

To my left was the railway embankment. Once a train passed. For a few seconds its lights drove away the shadows. I could even make out the colours of the bunch of tulips I was holding – mauve, my mother’s favourites. They were my reason for being out late. Tomorrow was Mum’s birthday and they were a present. I’d bought them from the flower stall at the other end of the Common. I would have gone earlier, but after seven p.m. they reduced their prices to a level my pocket money could stretch to. At home, after we’d had tea, Mum had gone to her embroidery class, and Dad, as usual on a Friday night, had gone to the pub. I’m an only child, so I was left alone in the house. I wasn’t allowed to go out on my own, and I usually didn’t. But loads of kids did, and most parents never worried. London in the 1950s, even at night, was much safer than it is now.

Another train passed, this time in the opposite direction. I could just make out the heads of the seated passengers. For a few seconds, they gave me some company. Then I was alone again. To my right, the dark shape of St Alban’s church loomed out of the night. There were no lights from inside. Even in daylight it looked a sad place. It was the only building on the Common, standing as if it had been placed there because nowhere else wanted it. Very different from the church where I was a server, St Michael and All Angels, up near the tube station and the flower stall. My godmother had first taken me there. Then she moved away. I went on my own now. I hoped one of those angels was guarding me.

Not far to go. I could see the houses beyond the far end of the Common. There was more light now. At last, the gnarled fingers disappeared. There were a few massive trees ahead, but I’d almost reached the stretch of path which was lit up by the street lights in Acton Lane. I was safe. Then I saw them.

I knew immediately who they were: the gang who picked on me at school and who made the others join in. Not that they needed much persuading. The gang decided who or what was to be liked, tolerated, ignored or hated, and it made life easier for the other kids if they fell in line. The gang’s verdict on me was somewhere between ignore and hate, because they thought I was a weakling and hopeless at sport. My surname, Gimpel, didn’t help. Dad had told me to be proud of it because the family had originated from France where they had been famous furniture-makers. I don’t know if this was true, but if fame had made them rich, none of their money had found its way down to us. Dad had also told me that there was a well-known London art gallery with our name, although Mum said they weren’t related to us. None of this would have impressed the gang, who called me Gimpy.

I stood still. They were blocking the path but not coming towards me. My best chance was to run. They were all faster than me, but if I turned back, I’d have a head start. There was a gate on the other side of St Alban’s which led to South Parade. If I made it that far, I’d be where there might be adults, and the gang might not attack me. I turned and ran back. But only a few yards. Two of the gang appeared from behind trees near the church. They must have been lying in wait, ready to cut me off if I made a bolt for it. I stopped running. This was a planned ambush, and I knew I didn’t have a chance.

The two were now face-to-face with me, grinning. They were pleased their scheme had worked out. They grabbed my arms and spun me round to face the rest of the gang. I didn’t resist. I was too frightened. Then, one on each side, they marched me forwards, each gripping a sleeve of my coat. Neither had spoken. They knew that silence can be a more terrifying weapon than verbal abuse. Like many boys of eleven, they’d already learned the skills of intimidation. I knew what would follow. Mockery, punches, being pushed to the ground, kicking. At school, I’d already suffered milder versions of this treatment. Now, with no teachers close by, they would have free rein.

‘Gimpy, nice of you to join us,’ said Mau. Mau, Maureen, was the leader; there was no sex discrimination in the gang. She was the toughest, and could take on and beat any boy. No one challenged her authority. Rumour had it her dad was a bare-fist fighter, and that he’d taught her all he knew. Even in her bottle-green school pinafore dress, she looked a bruiser. There was one other girl in the gang, Mau’s best friend, her lieutenant. She was in charge of Mau’s dog, a Staffordshire terrier. The others were boys. They were out in full force: all six of them, plus one extra – Kev, who I’d thought was a friend, but who must have been the one who’d let them know I’d be alone on the Common. He was standing behind the others, looking sheepish. I guessed that by betraying me he’d gained admission to the gang. I hoped he now felt bad about it.

Mau was in no hurry. Pulling out a packet of Park Drive, she flicked it with a finger so a cigarette popped up. Slowly, she lifted the packet to her mouth and pulled out the cigarette with her lips. Then one of the boys lit it for her with a lighter. She didn’t look at him as he did so, but kept her eyes on me. The first drag she exhaled over my head. The second was in my face. I coughed. The gang laughed. She handed the cigarette to her lieutenant, who took a single drag, then passed it on to the boy with the lighter.

‘Buying flowers for mummy, were you, Gimpy?’ said Mau, and she snatched them from me, tearing away some of the green tissue paper the flower woman had wrapped them in. Then, with both hands tight round them, she held them in front of my face and squeezed the stalks as though she was wringing a neck. Smiling, she now twisted her knuckles and I heard the stalks break. It was like a predator crushing the vertebrae of a small animal.

‘Give them back,’ I shouted. I lunged forward to grab them, but the boys either side of me held me back.

The terrier growled. It was straining on its rope leash.

‘Nasty temper you’ve got there, Gimpy,’ Mau said. She looked down at the dog. ‘And you’ve upset Lola. She’s not very nice to people who upset her. Nor am I.’ Mau looked up again. ‘But I’m feeling kind tonight, Gimpy. I’ll let you have your flowers back.’ She dropped them on the ground.

I bent down to pick them up, but before my hands touched them, I felt Mau’s fist in my chest. Beyond the pain, I heard the gang laughing.

‘Not so fast,’ she said. ‘You can only have them when I tell you. You’ve got a little job to do first.’

Clutching my chest, I looked up. Her face, square with piggy eyes, smirked at me. What did she want me to do? Steal something from a nearby garden? Do some shoplifting down on the High Road? Everyone at school knew how the gang got other kids to do their dirty work for them. Last November, they’d forced a boy to push a lighted firework through a teacher’s letterbox. I looked down at the tulips. Perhaps they weren’t totally ruined.

‘What job?’ I asked.

‘You’re going to prettify your tulips.’

More laughter from the gang.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Look at them, Gimpy.’

I looked down at the flowers.

‘The buds are closed, aren’t they?’

‘Yes,’ I mumbled.

‘Say it louder, Gimpy.’

‘Yes.’

‘So, open them, Gimpy. With your foot. Like this.’ She stamped on the ground, and rubbed and scraped the sole into the damp earth. She was wearing heavy brown boots, very different from the school shoes the rest of us were wearing.

‘I won’t,’ I snapped back.

They were a present for Mum. I knew that she was never going to receive them now, but stamping on them would have been like attacking her.

Mau nodded to one of the boys holding me. He forced my left arm to my back and pushed it up my spine until I screamed in pain. The other boy pushed me forward so I was treading on the flowers.

‘Now stamp on them,’ Mau shouted.

The dog growled again.

I shuffled onto the stalks.

‘Stamp on them,’ she bawled in my face.

And then the whole gang shouted, ‘Stamp, stamp, stamp.’

Forcing myself not to cry, I stamped on the stalks.

‘Now on the flowers,’ they screamed.

I looked up at Mau’s face. Smiling, she raised a fist. I looked down at the tulip heads. For a moment I froze. Then I imagined they were Mau’s head, and I stamped on them as hard as I could. Repeatedly, until they were a mauve mess on the ground. I think the violence of my stamping shocked the gang. The boys holding me released their grip. I continued to crush the remains of the flowers.

‘Stop, stop,’ shouted Mau.

Now the dog was barking.

I continued to stamp, even though the soles of my feet hurt.

‘Gimpy’s gone mad,’ someone said.

Mau’s fist struck me on the back of my head.

I stopped stamping. I’m sure she would have preferred to have punched me on the nose, but didn’t want to leave any obvious marks – evidence. I looked Mau in the face. She raised her right hand. I thought another blow was coming. I was wrong. She pushed me in the chest and I moved backwards. It was only a few inches, but it was enough. I hadn’t realised that one of the boys had crouched down behind me on all fours. The calves of my legs struck the side of his body, and I fell over on my back. It was a playground trick I’d seen played on other kids. At school, the playground was asphalt and victims had a hard fall. At least mine was on grass. But the serious pain was to follow.

Now the kicking started. It was a gang ritual: one kick each. I was forced to lie on my side, so the kicks could come from behind, and I couldn’t see the kicker, or know when the kick would hit me. There was a delay between each assault. They knew that the agony while you wait for the next kick is worse than the kick itself. The first five landed on my backside. The fifth was the most painful. In agony, I rolled over onto my front. It was a mistake. The next kick struck me on the right thigh. At school, a sly knee had given me the occasional dead leg, but this kick hurt much more. Reeling, I twisted round. I was now lying on my back. I could see their faces. They were all gloating. Apart from Kev. He was pretending to gloat. Then Mau’s lieutenant stepped towards me. I guessed that she was last in the kicking order. I tried to roll onto one side, but I was too slow. Her kick landed where it was aimed – in my groin. I screamed in pain. She must have slackened her hold on the dog, since I now felt its jaws grip an arm of my coat. Its teeth sank into my skin. I screamed again.

‘That’s a little kiss from Lola,’ said the lieutenant, as she pulled the dog away from me.

The whole gang laughed.

‘Wish mummy a happy birthday from us,’ said Mau.

‘And if you squeal to your mum or dad,’ said Kev, ‘you’ll have a little accident at school, and you’ll wish you’d kept your fat gob shut.’ He smiled at the others.

Now they would accept him as a fully-fledged gang member. We never again swapped comics.

They started to walk away – another successful night.

I heard them shout back: ‘Night, night, Gimpy.’ ‘Give my love to mummy.’ ‘Hope she likes the flowers.’

I dragged myself to my feet. I ached all over, but at least I hadn’t cried. Tears would come much later. I looked at the remains of the tulips. They were totally ruined. My injured arm hurt, but I managed to scoop up the limp remnants. They didn’t deserve to lie there like discarded rubbish. I carried them towards the wire fence which bordered the railway embankment. The grass was longer here. I lay them at the base of the fence, arranging them as best as I could. They reminded me of flowers you see on a grave, which someone has visited but not returned to, leaving the bunch to wilt and rot.

And a grave it was. I didn’t realise it at the time, but that evening my trust in people had died and was buried. In pain, as I trudged home, I had left behind on the Common my faith in friendship. I never again risked having a friend at my primary school, nor, later, at my secondary school.

I arrived home before Mum and Dad, bathed my bruises and cleaned the mud off my clothes. I found the birthday card I’d made for her and wrote in it, leaving it on her dressing table. Then I went to bed. Alone in my room, I wanted to cry but couldn’t.

I never spoke of the attack to Mum or Dad. But the following Sunday, after mass, the assistant priest, an elderly canon who’d retired to the parish, approached me. He must have seen that I looked upset.

‘What is it, Russ?’ he asked.

‘Nothing,’ I said, but there were already tears in my eyes.

In a quiet corner of the church, I told him about Friday night. ‘I’m dreading facing them all on Monday,’ I said. ‘And I thought Kev and me were mates. Now we won’t be.’

The priest listened and advised me to tell my parents or a teacher. I told him I couldn’t: to grass on the gang would only make things worse for me. He was sympathetic. ‘You’re in good company, Russ,’ he said. ‘Christ was betrayed by a friend.’

This reassurance did nothing to lift my fears the following day as I walked to school. In the playground, before lessons started, it was clear that over the weekend word had got around about my beating-up on the Common. I could tell by the looks they all gave me, the sniggers and the whispers – even from kids much younger. But I was left alone. The gang had successfully dealt with me; now they would turn their attention to someone else. Then, after a couple of days, the sniggers and whispers stopped, and I was ignored. After that, I decided to make myself invisible, and not even to try to mix with other kids. It was a lonely existence, but perhaps my school work benefited from it, since I passed my Eleven-plus exam, and went on to a grammar school, while all the gang went to a secondary modern. It was a relief not having to see any of them again. But even at my new school I maintained my reserve and didn’t risk close friendships. There was only one teacher who took much interest in my work. For two years he taught me English, and gave me a lasting love of poetry, but academically I never excelled.

Opting for a safe life, I left school at fifteen and joined the firm my father worked for, Brewer & Son in Chiswick High Road, dealers in antique mirrors. Dad was their restorer, and I followed his trade, serving my apprenticeship under his critical eye. For three years I stood beside him at the workbench, a few feet from his all-pervading tobacco breath, longing for the next break, when Dad would go out into the yard and light his pipe. I hated those years, but my boss, Tom Brewer, the son of the long-dead founder, was always kind to me and encouraged me to stay with the firm.

Outside work, I continued to be a loner. The one exception was Brian, a boy I’d met at church. Our friendship ended when his family emigrated to Australia. It was years before I found another friend. My beating-up on the Common had been brutal, but it was only physical. The real damage had been much deeper: my ability to trust had been destroyed. Along with this, I suffered a debilitating aversion to any form of risk. I never had my own place. I remained in the same house after my parents died. I never considered sharing it with anyone. I never thought of changing jobs. I never owed money. I never gambled. Risk-taking was for other people. I had low expectations from life. I became one of those who live by the maxim, ‘Happy are those who expect nothing, get little, and aren’t disappointed.’ But, most important, I avoided any situation where there might have been the slightest chance of confrontation or violence.

The one area where I allowed myself freedom was AGADS, the Acton Green Amateur Dramatic Society, which my English teacher had encouraged me to join. Taking small parts in the three plays we staged each year, I could safely enter worlds of warfare, intrigue, tragedy or comedy. For a few performances – we never had long runs – I could become another person, someone who could have friends or enemies, take risks, lie, deceive, amuse, even murder. In my roles, however minor, I could be angry, sad, elated, scheming – whatever emotion the part demanded. I seldom had major roles, but it didn’t matter; AGADS provided an escape from myself. Occasionally, we even put on Shakespeare: I played a grave-digger in Hamlet, and Friar Laurence in Romeo and Juliet. But when I walked home after a performance, whatever I had felt during the play had been left behind on the stage. Away from the theatre, I lived a neutral life. I never even made deep friendships with other members of the Society; life was safer that way. My beating-up by the gang had shaped my life.

As the years passed, the Common remained a visible reminder of that February night. Since it lay between my house, in Kingswood Road, and St Michael’s, I often walked past, but never again set foot on it; I always skirted it by going along South Parade. I would avoid it even on a summer afternoon, when people of all ages were enjoying the sun, strolling along the path or picnicking. To have walked there would have been to relive that childhood attack, to see Mau and Kev and the rest of them waiting for me, to feel again the kicks and the dog bite, to hear the derisive laughter. I was lucky that, after primary school, I managed to avoid them. Always wary, if I saw any of them in the distance, I’d change direction, cross the street, hide in a shop doorway, or in the shop itself.

On those walks along South Parade, I sometimes wondered what the motives of the gang had been. In my late teens, when I became aware that I was gay, it was tempting to think that the gang had recognised my sexual identity long before I’d done so myself, and that their attack had been what was later called ‘queer-bashing’. But I don’t think they did, at least not consciously. They had simply registered the fact that I was different, and, because I was also physically inferior, they had made me their target. There may have been some unconscious, nascent homophobia, but for them it was all about power in the playground. I wasn’t their only victim, although the others seemed to have been less affected than me.

I lived in the same house until 1996. By this time, not only had both my parents died, but also Tom Brewer. I’d had only one relationship, but that had ended badly. The mirror business was now run by Tom’s son, Luke. Like his father, he was a good businessman, but more imaginative, and decided he could increase profits by being based outside London. ‘Would you join me in a move to East Anglia?’ he asked. It wasn’t a hard decision for me. I’d no ties to London, and many of my memories remained painful. And so I sold my house and bought a small place near Luke’s new shop in Cantisham, a Norfolk market town.

On my last day in London, I walked to the edge of the Common and looked along the path where my life had been shaped. Gazing towards the spot where I’d been attacked, I wondered if it had also shaped the future lives of the gang. Had Mau become a professional boxer? Had her lieutenant become a PA to some criminal? Had Kev become a secret agent? In comparison, my own trade of restorer and gilder, was mundane, unremarkable, and seemed likely to remain so until I retired. But at least, I told myself, it was steady work, danger-free.

Fortunately, my move to a small town suited me. There was a church, a local drama group, the Cantisham Players, and my house had a bigger garden than the back yard and patch of grass in Kingswood Road. Occasionally, I dreamed of a different future, perhaps making some sort of new life far away from the familiar drear. But, as year followed year, I slipped, as if drugged, into the undemanding and riskless security of routine. At an early age, I had been put in my place and had accepted it. I would have to wait many years for that dream to become reality. Meanwhile, I had my work, the church, the Dramatic Society. And always, always poetry.

Part I

How beautiful is sunset, when the glow

Of Heaven descends upon a land like thee,

Thou Paradise of exiles, Italy!

---

Percy Bysshe Shelley

1

22nd August 2015

‘C ome and live with me, Russ,’ said Matthew. He made his offer in a quiet, matter-of-fact manner. It was the tone one might use when inviting an old friend or neighbour to dinner. But Matthew wasn’t an old friend; I’d only known him a few days. Nor was he a neighbour; his home was in Italy.

‘I’d love to,’ I said, echoing his tone.

A play had brought us together. Amateur productions had often given respite and colour to my life, but never had I become emotionally involved with another member of the company. Equally strange were the circumstances which had made me a member of the cast.

Luke, who was unmarried, had recently found a new girlfriend, Rhona. She was much younger than him, and married.