The Boy from Thamesmead

*David remembered exactly what he was doing in the month Joshua was born.

It was October 1986, and David had just started writing for Blitz. In the same week, he also began writing for Look-In, the children’s magazine built around ITV’s seemingly endless supply of kids’ programmes. The contrast could hardly have been greater.

Blitz was all style, fashion and culture. Look-In required David to find words that might appeal to schoolchildren without making him sound like an adult trying desperately to appeal to schoolchildren. Yet, strangely enough, his best work turned out to be for the latter.

His editor praised him for bringing to life such characters as T-Bag, Super Gran and the cast of Jossy’s Giants. At twenty-two, David decided it was probably best not to put this particular achievement on his rapidly evolving CV.

His ambition was to write for The Face. That never came to fruition, but not for want of trying.

That summer, David had met Nick Kamen, whom he regarded as the most beautiful man in the world. With a confidence that now seemed almost incomprehensible, Kamen had agreed to be interviewed. There was no fee involved. They met twice in Hyde Park, where David discovered that he was a pleasant young man and, more importantly, precisely the sort of person David hoped might one day make excellent boyfriend material.

There was, however, one small problem.

Kamen was completely straight.

He also giggled whenever David flirted with him.

They recorded several hours of material, which inexplicably disappeared over the years. Kamen had dutifully talked about boxer shorts, Levi 501s and Madonna for what was probably the thousandth time, but had also opened up about his interests and ambitions.

Somewhere in a box in the attic at Cleaver Square there was, David was fairly sure, a typed manuscript of the interview, flatly rejected by The Face and, as far as he could remember, everybody else who had subsequently seen it.

There was also a chance that the box contained the fading photographs of the stunt David and his drunken friends had pulled that same year.

They had gone into a late-night launderette on Paddington Street, stripped down to their boxer shorts and attempted to recreate Kamen’s famous advert. They photographed one another with a Polaroid 600 and had the pictures developed at SupaSnaps.

The results had been less than inspiring.

Skinny white bodies. Boxers far too baggy. Not a hint of the effortless eroticism that had made Kamen famous.

Bloody hell, David thought. If Kamen had lived, he’d be sixty-four now.

Meanwhile, nine months earlier, Terry and Brenda Turner had suffered the consequences of a shag.

Joshua Turner was born.

His name had all the makings of an artist.

All of this came to light when David broached the subject of Joshua’s upcoming fortieth birthday.

David had decided to take Joshua away for his October birthday week.

They hadn’t been abroad together for a while.

When they had first met, David had spoiled Joshua with trips all over Europe. He hadn’t expected a relationship with a young man in his twenties to last, and this was his attempt to keep him for as long as possible. The boy from Thamesmead had suddenly stepped into a world that wasn’t meant for him, but he had taken to it with gusto.

Except the relationship had lasted.

Sixteen years, to be precise.

Eventually, the novelty of city breaks wore off.

In recent years, with a solid income from his artwork, Joshua had taken to travelling alone. A few days here, a few days there.

At first, David had been suspicious of these random jaunts.

There had been a photograph of Joshua on Instagram. He was leaning against a balcony rail, his back to the camera. David had immediately wanted to know who had taken it.

“A friend from Barcelona,” Joshua had said, irritated by the question.

David had been forced to accept that Joshua was entitled to live his own life.

But the fortieth birthday meant that they would travel together again.

“I’d like to go to Italy,” Joshua decided.

That got David thinking.

“Verona?”

“Absolutely not,” Joshua retorted.

“Why not?”

Joshua had looked at David with a raised eyebrow.

“If you’re suggesting that we’re going to meet up with Miles, then the answer is definitely no.”

“He’ll have left Verona by October,” David reasoned.

“No.”

Joshua had realised a long time ago that David was secretly in love with Miles.

The feeling was not reciprocated. David held no attraction for Miles whatsoever.

If only I was thirty years younger, David mused.

Joshua, however, still regarded Miles as a threat, and their friendship was cool at best.

“I’m thinking Rome or Venice. Or both.”

David began working on a plan, but Joshua had known him long enough to spot it.

“And if Miles comes anywhere near us, I shall be on the first plane home.”

David had to admit defeat.

He changed the subject.

“You do realise that it will also be your father’s seventieth birthday while we’re away?”

“That’s tough luck.”

“But won’t you be expected to see him?”

“No.”

It hadn’t been the easiest time when Joshua’s parents discovered that he was gay. After weeks of arguments, they had eventually accepted that nothing they did was going to change anything.

That fragile peace came to an end when they discovered that Joshua was moving in with David, a man twice his age.

Joshua’s father tracked David down and accosted him in the street. He had accused David of many things, but one word had hit home.

Paedophile.

David hadn’t spoken to Joshua’s parents since.

Of course, the relationship wasn’t meant to last. David’s friends had told him so. Somehow, much to their amazement, and occasionally his, it had held together.

David had struck gold.

Joshua was polite and never caused a problem. Unlike most men his age, he turned out to be a homebody, shunning wild nights out in favour of spending time at home with David.

David encouraged him to leave his job serving on the tills at Morrisons and rather enjoyed the idea of looking after Joshua financially. But it had been a strain when the family fortune nosedived and David’s income from writing dipped.

Back then, David had rented rooms in Paddington, or the edges of Tyburnia, as he liked to call it.

And then Uncle William left Cleaver Square to him.

They moved to Kennington and couldn’t quite believe the number of rooms that were suddenly available to them. Joshua insisted that they should each have a room for their work: David for his writing, Joshua for his art.

David soon realised that his young lover had talent. Sketching, photography, creating monstrosities out of almost nothing. He paid for Joshua to study at art school, which widened his horizons considerably.

Joshua was intent on becoming famous and used David’s connections to climb the social ladder.

And David watched as the passive young man he had first met turned into someone with an unwavering focus.

The boy from Thamesmead was no more.

The journey had been fun, and the two of them loved each other immensely.

But they no longer had sex.

David couldn’t remember the last time they had been intimate. He could, however, remember the last time Joshua had rejected his advances.

He had said he was tired and wanted to sleep.

David had heard that excuse before.

That was six years ago, and he vowed never to embarrass himself like that again.

For a while, David had thought it was because of his age. He compared them to Christopher Isherwood and Don Bachardy, W. H. Auden and Chester Kallman, perhaps even Andy Warhol and Jed Johnson.

Eventually, David realised that Joshua would have to satisfy his own urges, which explained his suspicions about the brief excursions abroad.

David told himself that he no longer cared.

That was far from the truth.

His sex drive hadn’t waned. The opportunities had.

Joshua, to borrow the words of Boy George, gave the distinct impression that he would rather have a cup of tea.

Oh, to be young again, thought David.

And then he wondered whether it was youth he really missed.

Or simply being wanted.