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I always tried to be brave in front of my dear man, because though he tried to hide it, I knew he was scared. Scared, and grieving. I didn’t want to add to his burden, and I was already afraid I had done so in some ways.
I can’t pretend to have been perfect. I was impatient sometimes, I snapped at him. I even shouted. (How I regret all those moments now, wishing I could turn the clock back, try again.)
I couldn’t always stay in control, and though I was shocked by Freddie suggesting I move into a different room, I was also relieved. More and more often I was needing to rush off and stifle tears. That made me feel rotten, because I was living up to the worst ideas about men like us. No self control. Full of emotion, acting like women. The last thing I wanted was anyone else to know. Joe was poorly himself and poor Phoebe did all the heaviest work of looking after my man, he didn’t need me slopping around, acting like a dying swan.
I hated hearing Freddie in tears, supposedly all alone in what had been our room. But I knew Phoebe was going in to him, recognised the fast and heavy tread. And he didn’t want me there, not for this, and nor did Freddie…
It was funny, in a bitter way. Both of us shut up in different rooms, crying like a pair of kids. Only we weren’t crying over bad marks at school or a bully or being picked last for a team. It still seemed a little less than real that Freddie was going to die, even though other people we knew had died already. It wasn’t a secret, not even from the general public. Not in those days. The gay plague. And Freddie was so ill, then, enough that I don’t like to think about the details. Thank God for Phoebe.
I was useless, compared to Phoebe. Crying my eyes out in the pink room, without even a cat, most of the time. They always wanted to get in and be with Freddie, it was like they knew that they wouldn’t have him for much longer.
I heard soft footsteps and I knew it must be Joe, because Phoebe was already in Freddie’s room, and Freddie wouldn’t try to get up on his own. Still, I wasn’t expecting him to knock on my door, since we never bother each other, not in our own rooms, and I wasn’t polite to him. I think I snapped something like “Go away” at the poor fellow.
He didn’t listen. Opened my door and came right in. It was hard to keep in mind how ill he was because Freddie always looked worse. When Freddie was in this state, he either didn’t know or couldn’t admit to the truth. Even now I can’t be sure which it was, and I don’t know if he knew. Joe was unflinching in a different way, and I respected it, but that made it harder to have him walk in on me crying like an eejit.
“You don’t have to pretend not to give a rat’s ass,” he said, walking over and sitting down on the bed. I remember that because of the choice of words. Was that how I seemed? Did Freddie think I didn’t care?
I bit my lip, struggled for control. If I’d ever been like this when I was a young lad, I’d have had the shit kicked out of me.
“Aren’t we all fucked?” Joe said calmly, leaning back on the bed as if he had every right to be there. I wondered if he’d started drinking again, but I couldn’t smell anything. Then he shifted and I saw his eyes were gleaming too, a bit over bright in the moonlight. Wet with tears? His voice was steady, though.
“Fucked ourselves to death,” he added, squeezing my knee through the blankets. “He knows it, I know it. You can admit it too.”
I cried some more, and he was careful about not looking at me. We could both hear Freddie being sick, and Phoebe’s gentle voice, too quiet to make out any words.
The next morning I made up my mind that I would have to go and get tested. Even if it took a while to do it, I never doubted again that I would, not after that. And the next night I asked Phoebe to let me stay up with Freddie, give him a break. I didn’t mind what I’d need to do, I just wanted to be the one in there with him.
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Found among Jim Hutton’s personal papers, upon his death:
Jim, this is almost TOO sad, not sure the public is ready, I’m afraid - what do you think about trimming down how much we include from this period? I appreciate the notes, would you be up to reading a shortened version I’ve drafted up for you?—TW