CHAPTER EIGHT SNAPSHOT

“You’ll have to forgive the mess,” said Jerome, aware that his guest was attempting to protect his clothing. “The bed's just suffering from the after effects of one too many toasted cheese sandwiches that’s all. I’m afraid it’s my little vice. In its defence, it’s entirely pleasurable at any time of day, if perhaps a little challenging to one’s girth.”

As if to illustrate the point, Jerome pulled open his night-shirt to reveal his belly fanned with numerous rolls of fat. On witnessing this somewhat graphic display, Leslie’s eyebrows shot high into his brow. Noticing this, Jerome twisted his face to match his guest’s surprise.

“Well, I must say you’re not one of the usual are you?” said Jerome.

Leslie wasn’t aware of what “the usual” might actually be, although given what he’d experienced over the last couple of days he had a vague idea of where the old man was coming from.

“And I doubt you’re one of those other young bucks either,” continued Jerome, building on his character profile. “All leather jackets, Range Rovers, and three-day stubble looking for an easy lay. No, I can see that you are different.” Jerome made the final point with an outstretched finger that segued into poking a piece of hot cheese back into his sandwich.

“So,” said Jerome as he carried on munching. “Can I presume then that if this is not a social call, are you, like every young person I seem to meet these days…” Jerome’s tone then descended into a weary octave. “Just looking for some herb?”

“Er, no thank you,” replied Leslie, imagining a soggy bite from a toasted cheese sandwich. “I’ve eaten earlier.”

Jerome giggled lightly as his finished off the remains of his meal. He then stared at Leslie for a moment, wondering if he was some sort of joker; a chancer cadging some sort of a favour, but the conventionality of his young guests dress sense informed him that he was probably from somewhere a little more mundane. For a moment, he imagined that he might be a junior clerk from the tax office or the council, out to investigate the status of his finances or, more likely, to check on the array of people camping in his grounds.

“Inland Revenue?” said Jerome swallowing the last morsel of his sandwich.

“I beg your pardon” replied Leslie, thrown by the randomness of the comment.

“Well alright, local authority then?”

“I'm sorry?” said Leslie shaking his head from left to right. "I don't understand." While he knew the phrases, he wasn't aware of what Jerome was trying to get at.

Noticing his young guest’s visible bemusement, Jerome broke into a smile. In a way he was relived, as even a cursory glance at both his tax and planning records would have provoked a jaw dropping response from even the most liberal of civil servants.

“You have to excuse me,” continued Jerome with a lighter air. We’ve always had a sort of fairly laisse faire attitude to uninvited guests over the years. It’s only now I’m beginning to wonder what draws people to my neck of the woods, especially with folk like yourself who appear, shall we say, somewhat more conventional than the rest.”

At this, Leslie put his head down, confused as to whether Jerome was being critical or just plain odd.

“You see,” continued Jerome more spiritedly. “This unconditional welcoming had become something of a tradition with my family. As far as I can remember, any guest, however tenuous the connection, was royally welcomed into the fold, regardless of  any overture or invitation. In fact, they would probably be afforded more privileges then we ourselves could ever enjoy.” With that Jerome burst out laughing, only to segue into a loud rasping burp. “I remember this one poor chap, he came to stay the weekend, ostensibly a relative of some sort, well I don’t know, let's just say he arrived. Well anyway, it turns out that the fellow had only gone and got the wrong house; should have been somewhere else miles away! Nonetheless, he was fed, watered and entertained in my parents’ inimitable style, and he accepted the lot. It was only on the Sunday morning that we realised he had the wrong place.”

Jerome giggled gently to himself at his sentimental vignette. Watching his young guest finding it difficult to share in this memory, the old man squared him full on with a serious, enquiring look.

“So, do you think we might have a similar scenario here today? Ummm?”

“What?” replied Leslie, clearly confused at what Jerome was trying to ascertain. 

“Well you know,” said Jerome, systematically licking each of his fingers. “The uninvited guest arriving by mistake, that sort of thing?”

Yet again. this obtuse statement by Jerome only served to make Leslie look down in bewilderment. To be fair, he wanted to start his enquiries there and then, but, given the old man's animated preamble, was unsure on how best to proceed. 

“Okay, well shall we start with an easier one then?” said Jerome, clearly eager to elicit some information from his young guest. "Your name?”

“Oh right,” said Leslie, aware that this at last could be a precursor to starting the conversation in earnest. “I’m Leslie, Leslie Marshall.”

“Leslie?" replied Jerome, somewhat surprised. "Well, that’s a truly androgynous moniker if ever there was one.”

Once again, Leslie looked on bemused at the old man’s semantics. Thinking that “androgynous” might be some sort of code for homosexuality; he instinctively put his head down and drew his legs together.