David the Graduate Student Ch. 01

[If you have not already read the two-part story ‘David Begins Graduate Study,’ you should read that first, as it introduces all the characters]

Chapter 21 Jon

The Camford Men’s Fitness Trust

Shortly after his return from seeing his senile Nazi-loving grandfather, it was David’s birthday. Although up till then he had not used cosmetics or male fragrances and was rather contemptuous of them as effeminate, I had bought him a large and expensive box of ‘Storing pour homme’ products made by a distinguished Belgian perfumer: shower gel, shampoo, deodorant, aftershave and a small bottle of the fragrance itself. “I know you think nothing of such products,” I said, “but I want you to use these in place of the cheap stuff that you have been using until now, just to please me.”

He sniffed the perfume suspiciously. “Actually,” he said “it is rather nice, subtle, and not a bit like the musky products that they push on the male toiletry market. But what will they think in the lab if I go round smelling like a tart? I’m only going to use the perfume at weekends, and as you know, I don’t use aftershave. But I will use the other things if it will make you happy. ‘Storing’ means ‘disturbance’ or ‘disruption’ in Dutch. Is that the effect that it has on you? Does it excite you and drive you wild? You’re randy enough as it is! And as we often shower together, you’ll be using it as well, so it’s a good job that I like it!” As a matter of fact it did actually excite me. I loved David’s own scent, but ‘Storing pour homme’ seemed somehow to enhance it.

One morning early in the Martinmas term, David went off to work in the lab straight after breakfast. I was working at home that day, and having turned the computer on, while I was waiting for it to boot up and connect to the network, I went into the sitting room of the flat to tidy up. The morning post had arrived while we were eating breakfast, and David had opened his and left the open mail on the coffee table. While tidying up the table, I noticed David’s bank statement, which had been pulled out of the envelope and carelessly left on the table. David and I had an agreement that we would not be nosy about each other’s financial affairs, but I could not help noticing some of the details on his bank statement. To my amazement I noticed that this young man with subsistence level financial support from his studentship and a small allowance from his parents, was paying out significant sums each month in donations to no less than ten charities.

David’s living costs were not high: the monthly rent that he paid me covered 50% of my relatively modest mortgage costs and he paid me an additional monthly sum to cover the cost of his share of food, housekeeping and utility bills. The rest of his money was his to dispose of as he wished, and I assumed that he used it as pocket money to buy drinks, meals, clothes, books and trips to the cinema and all the other items of expenditure that young people of our age incur. It amazed and humbled me that somebody who, although he had no financial worries, nevertheless had by the standards of most young people of his age a relatively meagre income, should choose to give about a third of it away each month. Once again a deep feeling of love and respect welled up inside me, and once again I felt selfish and worldly and unworthy of the boy that I loved so much. The feeling was all the greater as I was due to spend the following day in London, discussing with Tim Ingledown a rent review of my family trust’s property portfolio that was the major source of my income.

The Camford Bach choir was going to perform Bach’s Christmas Oratorio at the end of term, and David was busy with rehearsals. He also spent quite a lot of time practising for his singing lessons. Marcello Fabioni was teaching him the techniques of singing Italian opera, and just occasionally he could be caught singing snatches from ‘Aïda.’ He didn’t talk much about his progress in the lab, except to moan when things went wrong. This was because our research fields were diverging at a rapid rate.

I had become involved with a new source of expenditure. I had come to hear, via various gay fitness acquaintances, that there was a proposal to start a new men’s fitness club in Camford. Several influential people in the city who were gay or who had gay sympathies felt that a fitness club along the lines of the Corinthian Club in London (made famous in a novel by Alan Hollinghurst) would be an appropriate institution for the city. The proposal would provide facilities for weight-training, general exercise training, a squash court and swimming facilities for men above the age of 18. Unlike the London Corry, it would not provide accommodation or meeting rooms. There would be a snack bar and a licensed bar and of course appropriate shower and changing facilities.

The proposal was that it should be built on a derelict site quite close to the city centre. Because it had been the site of industrial activity, it had been acquired for a relatively small sum, but several million would be required to build the necessary facilities. I asked around at kayseri escort the lab and among acquaintances and it was clear that the demand for such facilities was high among both straight and gay men. The colleges of course made good provision for their undergraduate and graduate student bodies, but these did not usually extend to swimming pools and were more sport- than fitness-oriented. Moreover for the very large number of men working in industry in Camford, and in the service facilities of the University, many of whom lacked access to college facilities, there was very poor provision. Admittedly Camford had an excellent Olympic size swimming pool, but it was in the suburbs and relatively inaccessible for activities such as weekday lunch-hour exercise.

A trust, the Camford Men’s Fitness Trust, had been set up to campaign and raise money for the new facilities. I thought that this was such an excellent proposal that I immediately offered half a million towards the construction costs, with the promise that as soon as a second half-million had been raised, I would double my original donation, subject to the proviso that ownership and management of the facility should never pass to the commercial sector. Although I had arranged for the donation to be made via Tim on behalf of an unnamed trust, I felt that it was necessary for me to be on the board of management for the fundraising campaign. While intended for all men, irrespective of sexual orientation, the prohibition of female membership made it clear that there was a substantial gay interest in the new facility. At that time, gay men were much more interested in bodily fitness than straight men.

Getting involved on the management side of the campaign inevitably raised my profile in the gay community in Camford, which by now no longer worried me, what did worry me was the possibility of the media becoming aware of my existence as a person of wealth, so I never mentioned that I was behind the unnamed donor trust. The steering committee of the Trust after I had joined consisted of ten men, of whom three including myself were openly gay. Two other members, one of whom was the Provost of M College, were gay sympathisers, which meant in practice that they were bi or closet gay. The remaining five were hetero, but had been checked out to ensure that they were not homophobic.

David was very enthusiastic about a facility that did not discriminate against gays. He reminded me that for many years there had been a nude bathing place for men on a tributary of the Camwell, but that it had been closed, allegedly on public health grounds, in the 1970s. Any man could go there, but for obvious reasons it had been particularly frequented by gays.

Chapter 22 David

The Crabtree Family

Early in the Martinmas term, my supervisor, Charles Crabtree, invited me into his office, a tiny room opening off our lab in the Pharmacology Department. Charlie’s door was kept permanently open except when he did not wish to be disturbed. As I sat down, he closed the door. I had often wondered why our acquaintance had not deepened over the past two years. In my undergraduate year, I could understand it, final year undergraduates are unpredictable and sometimes unreliable, and it was not the norm to have them in research labs in pharmacology. However I was a bit surprised that our relationship had not deepened during my first year as a research student. Charlie was an excellent supervisor, always at hand, always helpful, full of good advice and wise tips for a person starting off on research, indeed his professional aspects were outstanding. But in spite of him coming most weeks with the group that went to the pub from the lab on Friday evenings, I did not feel that I had got to know him better during that time.

“David,” he said, “I know that you are very active in non-laboratory pursuits in the evenings and at the weekends. But I wondered if you would like to come round and have dinner with my wife and myself one evening, if you can fit it in. To be perfectly frank, I have an ulterior motive in making this invitation. One reason is that next month we are going to need a babysitter, and none of our regular babysitters or friends or relatives is available. My wife wants to meet you so that she can decide whether, if you are available, you would be a suitable person to babysit for us on 20 November. If you are free on 20 November could you pencil that in?

“The second thing that I wanted to talk to you about is much more difficult for me. I have had other Ph.D. students in the past and in most cases I have shown them greater friendship that I have shown you. I want to apologize for this. It is totally irrational of me, but I do not number a large number of gay people among my acquaintance, certainly not at student level. I had a stereotyped image of the typical gay man, with a high voice, a camp attitude, an obsessive interest in clothes, and generally a man who is not afraid to show his feminine side.”

“I don’t think that I have a feminine side, even though I do have long hair!” I said. “I know lots of women and have friendly relationships with them, but I am not attracted to them sexually, in fact most of them frighten me. Men in contrast I can identify with and have no problems. They don’t frighten me, because I know how they feel, being a man myself.”

“This interesting you should say that,” said Charlie, “because that’s exactly the conclusion I have come to after knowing you for nearly two years. I don’t know whether you have a feminine side! But I am sure that my wife can decide about that, because women are much better at recognizing female traits in men. Obviously to babysit you have to have an interest in and liking for young children, even if your charges don’t waken up during your period of duty. So, could you come round and have dinner with us next Monday?” As it happened, Monday was one of the few nights of the week when I did not have a regular commitment so of course I said yes, and mentioned that I had a younger brother of 13.

I thoroughly enjoyed my evening at the Crabtrees’. They were relaxed, comfortable well-educated people interested in classical music and culture in Camford. I tried to be more open and forthcoming than I was accustomed to be with Charlie, because I realized that that was the only way to overcome his reticence about gay acquaintances. It was difficult for people who were older than us and accustomed to dealing with homosexuality on a ‘don’t ask don’t tell’ basis to find themselves in a situation where they needed to be completely frank and open about sexual orientation. It is still possible nowadays to find people with that reticence, though it is becoming increasingly less common. Nowadays, even some schoolchildren seem to want to declare themselves gay, often without much grounds or justification for their assertions! One sometimes wonders whether some boys in particular do it in order to gain what they perceive as the advantage of being in a minority group in society, although in the real world gays can have a very rough time.

There were two Crabtree children, Martin aged 9 and Emma aged 7, and I was introduced to them just before they went to bed. I told them that I had a little brother who was only 4 years older than Martin. I was indeed free on November 20 and having satisfied Mrs Crabtree that I would be a suitable person to be left in charge of her children, I duly turned up early on that date. The children were just finishing their tea. Mrs Crabtree was getting ready to go out. They were going to the theatre, preceded by dinner in a restaurant and Charlie was already ready to leave. So he asked me to give him a hand in getting the children to bed. They had had their baths before tea, so it was just a question of them cleaning their teeth, getting into their pyjamas and saying their prayers. I was pleasantly surprised to find that they had been taught to pray. So many academics even in those days despised religion or thought it unimportant. By the time the children were ready for bed, Mrs Crabtree was ready, and just before the two of them left, Charlie asked me to read the children a story before putting their lights out.

The two children went into Martin’s bedroom. Martin got into bed and Emma wrapped herself in a rug and sat at the bottom of the bed. I drew up a chair from the corner of the room and asked the children what they would like me to read. Martin gave me a book from the bedside table. “That’s what Daddy’s reading to us at the moment,” he said, “we’ve got to chapter 5”. To my amazement, it was Edith Nesbit’s ‘The Story of the Treasure Seekers’, a book that I had always considered much too subtle and sophisticated for young children in spite of its being intended as a children’s book. I could understand how Martin, who was a practical and articulate child, would enjoy it, but I was puzzled about whether Emma would like it. I would have thought that she would have been rather frightened by offhand comments in the story like statements that Smithfield was rather a dull place, because they didn’t burn people there any more! But she seemed to enjoy it just as much as her brother. Martin giggled no end when Oswald in the story says that his brother is disgustingly like a girl in some ways. I asked whether I needed to explain about the strange money in the book, guineas and sovereigns, but they said no, their father had already done that. “So how much is a shilling?” I asked them.

“Five pence,” said Emma.

“And half-a-crown?” I asked, having taken a sneaky look at chapter 2.

“Twelve-and-half pence!” said Martin, anxious to beat his sister to the answer.

“Right!” I said “you both know a lot about the old money.” They were as bright as buttons, these two kids. No wonder they appreciated Nesbit. The chapters in the book are basically a series of episodes, so when the children asked for another chapter, I was sufficiently caught up in the story to acquiesce. I have to admit that there were many times when I giggled at something and the children looked mystified, but that is the nature of Nesbit’s sophisticated writing.

It was nearly 9 pm when I finally put the children’s lights out. They each insisted on being tucked up in bed and kissed goodnight, which I found touchingly sweet. Then I was finally able to settle down to learning a new aria from Aïda. The house was in a western suburb of Camford, and was detached, so I was able to sing the aria quietly without fear of disturbing neighbours. Round about 10 pm, I heard a sound at the sitting room door. A dishevilled-looking Martin was standing there listening to me singing. When I had finished the aria, he said “I can’t get to sleep! I didn’t know that you could sing.”

“I sing in two choirs,” I said, “the Bach Choir and St Boniface’s College choir.”

“I sing in a choir too!” he said, “Winton College choir.” Winton was a big, well endowed Camford college, with a big, male, semi-professional chapel choir, and a boys’ school to provide soprano singers.

“You go to Winton College School then?” I asked.

“Yes,” he replied.

“Can you sing this?” I asked and fished out of my music bag the words and music of Handel’s ‘Largo’.

“The words are funny,” he said, but nevertheless, stumbling a bit with the pronunciation, he started to sing

‘Ombra mai fu, di vegetabile/

Cara ed amabile, soave piu’

in a ravishingly sweet soprano voice. He obviously could read music without any difficulty. “That’s VERY good!” I said and kissed him goodnight and sent him back to bed. The rest of the evening passed uneventfully. I learned two new arias and when the Crabtrees got back about midnight, I told them of our impromptu concert. We had coffee together and then I went home on my bike. After that I became a regular, though not frequent, visitor to the Crabtree household, acting as a reserve babysitter. The children were sweet, they seemed to like me, and I found their affection could partially console me for not seeing little Jeroen my brother more often.

Chapter 23 David

My first professional Singing Engagement

Work in the lab progressed slowly but steadily. My confidence in working with enzymes increased as I found that many were nothing like as unstable and difficult to handle as I had been led to believe. Charlie was warmer and even more supportive in his role of supervisor. I think that he was impressed that both his children had taken a fancy to me. My singing also progressed, and Marcello talked of finding one or two singing engagements for me, to increase my repertoire and give me practice in performing in public. They were mostly recitals where a programme had been advertised, and the artist engaged had been taken ill. There was usually only a few days notice of such events, but Marcello not only got me the engagement via his network of contacts, but also gave me intensive coaching for a couple of days beforehand. I made it clear that under no circumstances would I undertake more than four such events per year, as that would interfere seriously with my day job. The fees though would be a useful addition to my income, and I intended to spend them on buying more music.

My first engagement was a recital for a concert society in a town in the Home Counties south of London. The original artist had become ill at the last moment, and the society’s committee was desperate to find a replacement. The recital was a very mixed assortment of numbers, which I think is why Marcello thought I should do it. There were songs by Vaughan Williams, Handel and Schubert, and I was allowed two numbers of my own choice, for which I selected two Mozart arias. The recital was on a Friday night, so I took a day off from the lab and arrived in the town in early afternoon in time for a full practice in the hall, which was part of the local government complex. Fortunately, I had not been expected to provide my own accompanist. The rehearsal went satisfactorily, and about 5-30 pm the local secretary and treasurer took me out to dinner at a local restaurant, prior to the performance at 7-30.

The performance went well, and I sang as encore a couple of arias by Mozart and Handel. After the concert (there were no requests for autographs!), we went for a drink with the accompanist at a nearby pub before I was taken back to the secretary’s house, where I was to stay the night. The secretary was a charming middle-aged lady with a handsome teenage son. The son Simon had been to the concert, so I asked him if he was musical. Like most gays, I tend to admire attractive males and chat them up, even though I have no sexual intentions. The boy said that he was, that he sang in the Cathedral choir as a baritone. I suppose that he was about 17. I asked him if he intended to become a professional singer, but he said no, he wanted to be a doctor. I asked if he planned to apply to Camford University to study medicine. I found myself wondering if he was gay. I guessed that he might well be uncertain about his sexuality, as I had been at his age. He said that Camford had not been on his list, as there was no tradition at his school of applying to Camford or Oxbridge. I told him that there were wonderful opportunities for doing things like singing in Camford, and that Camford had a big teaching hospital and excellent Medical School facilities. He was impressed when I told him that I was a research student in the Pharmacology department, studying to become a different kind of doctor.