To most
people he was a leper, a pariah and a filthy pervert. Remember those were the
days when the most enlightened opinion thought of homosexuality as a disease
and the least considered it an abomination and a crime against nature. Archie
had lost count of the number of times some testosterone laden, knuckle
dragging, hero had dished him out a beating. He was safe nowhere – even the
neighbourhood children would taunt him with vicious insults and throw stones at
him; Archie would simply stare at the ground and quicken his step through the
gauntlet of abuse.
He
did most of his drinking at the Railway Club where - although he was shunned by
the other customers - he was at least afforded a little peace. I’d see him in
there sitting in the corner avoiding eye contact and nursing a pint of special.
I spoke with him sometimes – even bought him a pint or two – much to the
amusement of the locals; consorting with a known homosexual made me suspect in
their eyes.
Once
prised from his shell Archie exhibited a delightful sense of humour and was
something of a raconteur. He had a million stories from his days as a wheel
tapper on the railways – a job he’d had to leave when his secret was discovered
as no-one would work with a dirty queer. He seemed to bear no grudge against
those who spurned him – neither did he complain about the caprice of nature
which had made him an untouchable.
I
once asked him why he did not move to the city where he was bound to find
others like himself. He simply replied that everyone he knew was here in this
dirty old industrial town and that cities were too big and heartless for him. I
tried not to pity him, but he was a pitiful specimen; frail in stature and
temperament. Archie was a prisoner of his circumstances and destined to lead a
lonely life – he seemed reconciled to his fate – forever outside looking in.
I
once attended a party in one of those rare households where Archie was
accepted. It was back in the day when people sang at parties and each guest had
a signature song. When Archie’s turn came he sang ‘My Way’ and I was blown away
by his beautiful velvety baritone timbre. He sounded like a Sinatra style
crooner. It was hard to believe that big voice emanated from such a diminutive
man. He was cheered on and sang several more songs to great approbation, but as
much as the singing it was the look on his face that impressed me – he was
happy, exultant even. As his voice soared heavenward I remembered something he
once told me; he was a lapsed Catholic – no longer welcome in the chapel - but
he still believed he had a home on high where questions of sexuality no longer
mattered. That was many years ago and Archie has surely passed on; if there is
any justice in the universe he now sings in a heavenly choir and that beatific
expression is permanently etched upon his face.
