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From: HMS Victor Victorian <victorvictorian@hushunomail.com>
Newsgroups: alt.fan.prettyboy
Subject: The Difficulty with Nigel Act 5 Scene 3
Date: Wed, 13 Oct 2010 08:05:11 -0600
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Act 5, Scene 3
The Garden of Eden
Saturday, April 17th, 10:00 am.
Having gotten dressed and eaten breakfast, Nigel and Evan dash outside
in high spirits, intending to go directly to the Evan's home on the
corner. They skip down Tennyson Avenue side by side, swinging Nigel's
Pooh between them. Nigel chants his magical incantation and Evan
chants his more scandalous one, the clapping and slapping of their
tennis shoes keeping time. Nigel abruptly stops with an irritated
expression.
"Evan," Nigel complained, "I keep saying 'poopy' instead of 'dirty.'
You're making me get it all wrong."
At which juncture Evan, of course, was compelled to repeat the
offending word several times, and laugh.
"Well, I'm not going to chant anymore, then," Nigel said.
"Alright, "Evan said, "We'll take turns."
A bold idea struck Nigel.
"What about an adventure?" he suggested brightly, "Let's go 'round to
your house the long way, down to Dean Street, then up Mooreland and
around."
Evan wasn't enthusiastic.
"There's just more houses like ours there, and I think some big boys
live on that street." he said a little fearfully. "I'm going home the
short way."
"Alright," Nigel said, determined to have an adventure that Saturday,
despite a reluctant friend. "I'll come to your house when Pooh and I
are done exploring."
So Nigel left Evan, who turned about and walked up Tennyson. Nigel,
with Pooh flopping along, trotted down Tennyson for what seemed quite
a time, until coming to Dean Street. He turned left. He walked one
block, which seemed a kilometre to him, to Mooreland, where he took
another right. He'd been there before, he believed, for it all looked
very familiar. Of course, the town houses all looked similar and,
therefore, familiar.
Suddenly, the boy saw something very familiar but not at all welcomed.
There was a large boy, with several other companions, coming down
Mooreland towards him. Nigel pressed Pooh to his heart with both
arms.
It was Dirk, the boy who had taken his Pooh watch.
Dirk saw Nigel and, even with his clothes on, recognised him right
off.
"Hey, you l'il homo!" the big boy yelled in such a way as to make his
violent intent completely obvious.
Nigel took off like a race car, his feet pounding just as fast as he
could make them, with Dirk and his friends in hot pursuit.
"I'll ge' you!" Dirk threatened. "You l'il shit."
But he couldn't, and neither could any of his friends. Nigel was
quick, even carrying Pooh, and jetted across the street and past the
next corner. He ran and ran and ran, desperately puffing out his
incantation between breaths.
"Dirty ... monkey's ... poopy ... Oh! Bother!"
And he had to clap his thigh with one hand since he was using the
other to hold Pooh during their wild escape. Finally, he slowed just
enough to safely look back. To his intense relief, Dirk was nowhere
to be seen. The incantation had worked again, even if he'd said a
wrong word here and there.
The trouble was that Nigel was also nowhere. Well, certainly he was
somewhere, but he had no particular idea where. He was on street of
town houses, but the numbers and the doors were all strange, and he
became very concerned. He was lost!
So Nigel timidly crept along the pavement until he came to a street
sign. It said, 'Wickham Avenue.' That was something recognisable, at
any rate, and he walked a little more confidently, though not having a
clue as to where he was going. Then he halted.
Down the row a man had come out of his home, dressed in gray shorts
and a green tee shirt, to fetch a lawn rake. It was Harry Campbell,
the grounds man at St. Peter's! Nigel burst into a sprint and called
his name with all breath he could spare.
"HARRY!"
But Harry hadn't heard. By the time Nigel reached the home, he'd
gone inside. The front door was wide open, so Nigel knocked quite as
ferociously as he could, but no one came. Then, in spite of the fact
he could be in trouble, he stepped into the foyer and padded across
the parlour toward the kitchen. No sign of life anywhere.
"Perhaps he's had a stroke, Pooh," Nigel rationalised, "We'd better go
see."
The house was full of so many things. Pictures and plaques and a
wicket and cricket bat and ball on the mantle, and papers and
magazines scattered on the furniture, and on the floor. There was a
plate here, a dirty fork there, an empty bottle of stout, an old
paraffin lamp, and then Nigel came across a dramatic discovery.
There, on an enormous padded chair, was all that remained of poor
Harry ... a pile of clothes: a green tee shirt, a pair of old gray
shorts with big pockets, and a pair of plaid underpants ...boxers ...
baggy ones like Nigel's father wore.
"I'll bet he's in the bath ..." Nigel said, matter-of-factly, to Pooh,
and made for the foot of the stairs. At that moment he heard Harry's
voice, not upstairs, but in the garden. So he turned about and
hurried through the kitchen, mentally preparing his alibi about the
stroke and all.
The back door was wide open, as well. As Nigel came onto the porch,
he no longer heard Harry, but the abrupt yapping of a terrier. The
small dog rushed up, snarling at the boy's ankles. Nigel danced back,
depending on Pooh for protection.
"Ralphy! Is it that bloody cat again?" came the grounds man's voice,
"Ralphy! Sod it all!"
The terrier immediately streaked off and Nigel hid behind a patio
chair. Out of the garden emerged Harry Campbell and his dog. The
very first thought that occurred to Nigel, peeking through the chair
back, was that Harry had managed to forget his own incantation. Other
than holding a lawn rake, he was completely naked.
Nigel had cleverly concealed himself behind the patio chair, but it
was Pooh's hindquarters that betrayed him.
"Oh, dear ..." Harry said, suddenly feeling painfully awkward, "Hello,
Pooh! Who is there with you?"
Nigel stood up.
"Nigel, my boy!" Harry exclaimed, both baffled and relieved, "What the
bugger ... I mean, what are you doing here, lad?"
"I'm lost," Nigel replied, hugging Pooh, "And I saw you and I didn't
know where to go ... and I knocked and knocked and no one came so I
went in. Are you angry with me?"
"Not at all!" the grounds man said, setting his rake aside. "I see
you've met Ralphy."
"He's very brave," the small boy said.
"Yes," Harry admitted, "He's quite protective, particularly back here
in the garden, and particularly when I'm ... well ... in this state."
"You look very comfortable." Nigel observed.
"Yes, I am." Harry laughed, "Say! What do you say to lemonade? You
wait here. I'll be right back. Don't worry," he reassured, "Ralphy
won't bite. He knows we're friends, now."
And the grounds man disappeared into the house. He shortly returned
with two crystalline glasses of pink lemonade, tinkling with ice...
and wearing his pair of plaid boxers.
"Here you are, son ..." He extended a glass to Nigel, but drew back a
bit in surprise.
"Well!" Harry observed brightly, "I see you've gotten comfy."
"Is it alright? I thought it was your garden rule," Nigel replied,
"No one allowed in the garden with clothes on."
Harry gave a laugh.
"Yes!" He confessed. "Yes, it is!"
"It's a nice rule, "Nigel said, and took a sip of lemonade.
Harry gazed down momentarily at Nigel, and then he peeled off his
under pants.
"Bring your lemonade and Pooh," the grounds man said, "And I'll show
you my own garden."
Initially, the garden wasn't much to look at, for the part nearest the
house was a clutter, not unlike the house itself. Pots and old
boards, a broken trellis, a hand cart, trowels and watering cans and
hoses piled up to make a nearly impenetrable barrier. But once Harry
placed a hand gently on Nigel's back and guided him through an arbour,
the boy was captivated.
Beyond the arbour was a secret world, such jungle that one might
expect macaw monkeys swinging through the trees. There was a verdant
lawn winding in and out of alder and pussy willow, plum and silver
birch, all surrounded by cascades of ivy and early spring flowers:
foxglove and lilies, honeysuckle, peonies and delphiniums. Right in
front of the boy was a small cedar gazebo, and to his right a
shimmering pond.
"Go look at the pond," Harry urged.
Nigel followed the stone path up to the pond. There was a little
waterfall burbling out and, looking down into the water, the boy
gasped.
"Pollywogs!"
It was a boy's paradise, most assuredly.
"Is this the Garden of Eden?" Nigel breathed in wonderment.
"No," Harry joked, "You can eat off any tree you want here, and I
won't throw you out!"
Nigel instinctively reached up to pluck a bunch of red berries. The
grounds man grabbed his hand.
"No, Nigel." He warned, "That's holly. It'll make you dreadfully ill
and you'll have to go to hospital."
"Oh," the little boy replied, giving the berries a disapproving frown,
and then sat at the edge of the fountain.
"So, what do you think?" Harry asked, sitting beside the boy. "Do you
like it?"
"Oh, yes!" Nigel breathed. "You can be comfortable and pick flowers or
climb a tree like a naked Indian and not have anyone bother you, like
Mrs. Whitby."
"You're absolutely right," the gardener laughed. "It's freedom. Here,
I'm as free as a monkey."
"You're not a monkey."Nigel giggled in delight. "You're Harry ... and
you are hairy! Especially down there and on your back and bottom ..."
Nigel was so tickled at his cleverness that his eyes got wide and he
clapped a hand over his mouth before he got overly-giggly, then he
added, "So it's alright to be starkers?"
"Of course it's alright!" Harry exclaimed, "You just can't do it any
place at all. People get all bothered, you see, without any good
reason, really, and cause trouble. That's why it's good to have a
private garden."
The small boy thought for a bit.
"You're not a grown up person at all," Nigel concluded solemnly and
smiled, "You're a boy like me. You're just extra big."
Harry quickly glanced away, for the first time truly embarrassed.
Concerned, Nigel scooted right next to him, skin touching skin, and
took the man's huge hand in his small one.
"I'm sorry," Nigel apologised, "I didn't mean to make you sad."
"No worries," the gardener said, distracted, "... it's a good sad ..."
"Like when you wiggle a loose tooth?"
Harry looked back, smiled and gently cupped Nigel's hand between both
of his.
"Precisely!"
"Can I ask you a question?"
"Certainly," the gardener replied, clearing his throat, "Anything."
"Could you come to my house for a sleep-over?" Nigel suggested, "We
could play a game. I've got a cat ... "
Harry softly petted the back of Nigel's head.
"I'd love to, but I don't think it's a very good idea."
Disappointed, Nigel sat for awhile, sipping lemonade and listening to
the singing of the fountain and the birds. Then, without comment, he
set Pooh and his glass aside, climbed up and sat in Harry's lap,
facing him. He scruitinised the man's chest.
"You're like a black sheep," Nigel observed in a mischievous tone, and
then wiggled his small fingers into the man's mat of chest hair,
investigating the coarse and kinky quality. The boy's affectionate
exploration was innocent, but for Harry it was at once delightfully
sensual and alarmingly erotic. Fascinated by the texture, Nigel laid
a cheek against the man's woolly chest.
"Oh!" the boy exclaimed, "You're heart is beating like Indian drums!"
"Yes, it is, isn't it?" The gardener managed to say, caressing Nigel's
back with a hand, "Like excited drums."
With his cheek nestling in over Harry's thundering heart, Nigel again
combed his fingers through the man's chest hair and ran them down over
his hirsute stomach. A wave of longing abruptly swept over Harry,
cascading down through his heart and into his abdomen. A feverish
stirring and swelling in his groin slowly began to fill the space
between his tummy and Nigel's, then reaching its apex, pulsed intently
against the boy's soft warmth and brushing against the boy's delicate
hand.
"No, Nigel," Harry intended to say, trying to force himself to lift
the boy off, but he could only manage to whisper, "Oh, Nigel ..."
Just for a moment, Nigel's curious fingers instinctively closed over
the new object. Suddenly he drew his hand back, leaned far back and
glanced down in wonderment and surprise.
At last, the boy found his voice.
"Look. I've got one, too." Nigel noted, smiling almost nonchalantly,
then demonstrated by arching back and poking Harry's navel with it a
few times.
The man could only nod.
"But mine's small!" Nigel complained, reaching down gently to make a
closer comparison, "It's like a little peg."
Harry gave a little chuckle. "It's a very nice one, just the way it is
..."
"You're shaky," Nigel observed, putting his hands on Harry's heaving
chest. "Are you cold?"
"No," the man stammered. "It's just that ... well ... damn it all.
You're a wonderful boy and I'm afraid I've become quite fond of you.
Do you mind very much?"
Without answering, Nigel rose up on his knees. He laid his cheek
against Harry's stubbly one and wrapped his arms around the man's
sun-tanned neck. Then he gave him an affectionate hug that nearly
brought Harry to tears. In pressing against Nigel's comforting warmth
and hearing the lad's heart pattering away like a rabbit's, inhaling
the boy's moist breath and feeling the tickle of the boy's eyelashes
brushing his cheeks, in breathing the intimate scents of a small boy's
embrace; he was sent reeling back in remembrance of the joys he'd
shared, and then lost, so many years ago at Leeds.
Nigel sat back with an innocent smile and the spell was broken.
"Don't be sad, Harry," the boy comforted, "Can I come back to your
garden sometime?"
Harry enveloped the boy in his two strong arms and gave him a long,
fervent cuddle.
"Why, of course you can." Harry promised, "Any time you feel
uncomfortable."
HMSVV2010
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