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Everytime Jones saw picket fences, he thought of his youth. He had one around his childhood home. It was a well-worn, wooden fence that circled all the way around the huge grounds. The nights when he finished his chores early, he would take his dirty, green jacket, lock his room door, and slip out of his window. He would run for a minute to reach the edge of the farm. He would feel the breeze batter his face. He would feel the mud stick to his big, black, wellington boots. Eventally, he would reach the old fence. He would step over it (as by his sixteenth, most of it was splayed helplessly across the grass), and step into the woods. He would make his way through the dense forest, knowing just where the puddles and rocks were, even during dark winter nights. Once he got out of the woodland, he would always go to the same neighborhood, to the same street, to the same house. He'll never forget the adress. Never, ever. He'd always knock four times. Not once more, not once less. A noise would come from inside, and it'd sound a lot like a teenager's footsteps. Without fail, each time he came by, the door would swing open. A young man would greet him. He was handsome. He looked like he belonged in a rock band. Jones would walk in, and only walk out in the early hours of the morning.
His youth was his happiest time. He had one friend, who, over time, turned into something more. It had always been innocent jokes and innuendos, until one night with gin that they stole from Jones' parents changed everything. They had caught each other's gaze. It had gone on for too long. Neither wanted to look away. So, neither did. That night, Jones learned that the little crush he had on his best friend was returned. Calling it a little crush was an understatement, Jones knew. Sometimes, he stared at his friend. Sometimes, he was caught. When he was, all he felt was guilt. What he felt for his friend wasn't natural, it was wrong. His parents had told him so. All of it was wrong. Those people were messed up, they were unnatural. They didn't fit in with others. But one night, when he was feeding the pigs, he gave it some more thought. What if he belonged in that 'they' that his parents hated so much? What would it mean, for him? Would his friend accept him still? He, of course, learned later, that his friend was like him. They were alike. They, were part of the 'they'.
How he missed those days. The mornings they spent together, running off to the lake in the woods. They would pack sandwiches and have a lunch by the lake. The afternoons they spent together, telling their parents they were just hanging out. They weren't. Instead, they were snogging. The evenings they spent together, eating dinner with their parents. The nights they spent together, laying in bed together after Jones had crossed a picket fence. They were too old to be in school, but too young to be trusted with the farm. Apart from keeping their parents happy, they had no responsibilities. So, they tried their best to uphold it. They snuck around, keeping their relationship a dirty little secret. When they heard footsteps on the dirt path to the stables, they pulled apart. When they were with family, they distanced themselves from one another. When Jones' mum told him how lucky he was to have a friend like his, Jones hastily asked whether she'd milked the cows yet. They were young, and it was casual. The two thought they vould get away with hiding their relationship for the next few months, because it was casual. They'd break up soon enough, as whatever it was between them was casual. Casual. They realized later, that it definitely wasn't.
The beginning of the end was on a sunny day, when the wheat was in harvest. Ironic, it was. In Jones' memory, the day was really anything but bright. It had been one small mistake, one thing that he had forgotten to do. He had to feed the animals. He forgot. His mother came to get him. She saw him and his friend. She didn't move. They scrambled up. Jones apologized. She backed away. He apologized again. His friend ran out of the house. Jones began to cry. It hurt. Everything hurt so much.
For many, many, years, the two didn't speak. Jones had been kicked out of the house then, but he now had the farm. He was back because his parents had passed. He had spent his twenties in pubs and breweries, wandering the lonely, cold, streets. Jones slept on those same, dark, streets. He didn't think of that time anymore. Then again, sometimes, when he had some whisky, he reminisced. He thought of not only the frigid winter winds, but of the people he met, the friends he made, the occasional flings he had. He never told his comrades back at home what he had gone through, where he had been. He never mentioned it, so the farmers he had a beer with never did either.
His friend also had the farm now. Jones had heard, in the pub, that the man's father had died. Would it be sick of him to be happy to hear that? All that man taught his friend was how to not act. He had beat him. He had drunk too much. He had sworn at the boy. So, with the man of the house gone, his friend had been taken back in. He had also been kicked out for being part of 'them'. Jones doesn't know what his friend did then, in those years when he had been gone, missing. Now, his friend took care of his mother. The man's mother forgot his name every so often. He had overheard his friend talking about it once, when the pub was quiet. The two didn't cross paths. They didn't trade. The only time they saw one another was in the pub, where they looked at one another for far too long.
On his thirty second birthday, Jones met a woman. Mary, her name was. They talked about many things that night. Football, farms, and how to make the best sauce for pork. At one point, she confessed to him. It was not a confession of love, but one regarding a secret. Mary had looked him in the eye and asked him, "Do you know whether there are any beautiful ladies at the market? I want to find myself a partner". Jones had stared at her. It was silent between the two. But then, Jones started talking. He told her about his friend, he told her about his parents, he told her about the years he spent on the streets. Mary listened. From then on, the two went to the bar together every other night.
During those nights, his friend made his way back into Jones' life. It all started with a bet on the weekend's football game. That bet, on who would win the match, was the first time the two had spoken in years. A decade, even. And, over beers and whisky, they grew close again. It was the three of them, then. Jones, Mary, and Him. Jones was truly, truly happy. One day, however, he realised it. Jones knew that it was happening again. He didn't want it to. He stared at his friend like he had when he was nineteen. He did anything to make his friend smile, just like he had when he was nineteen. He even sometimes walked over the picket fence to get to his friend's house, which he had done at nineteen too. Jones was scared.
One night, when his friend had extra work on the farm, Jones sat in the bar with Mary. That day, she had looked him up and down and asked him one question. One question that would change his life. One question, that he would regret saying yes to. Mary asked, casually, whether Jones wanted to marry her. Not that she had feelings for him, but rather her parents were getting on her back as to why she hadn't gotten with a man yet. Jones had agreed. When he did do so, he didn't think of his friend. His first love. The man who was his youth. His current love, even if it must've been unrequited. But, all of this had been forgotten then.
Eventually, the news got out to the town. Jones hadn't expected much to be different. He'd still have his horses to feed, his cows to milk, his eggs to sell. Just now, he'd have his dearest, or well, second-dearest, friend with him. But everything changed. His friend didn't join them in the pub anymore. He sat with the other farmers instead. Mary tried to console him, to tell Jones that he would get over it. His friend didn't get over it. Months passed, but not words between them.
The two wouldn't place bets on the weekend's match, nor would they joke about their youth. How could they, if they didn't even talk? Jones tried to explain himself, he tried to explain how it was a marriage of convenience, not one of romance, but his friend would walk off before Jones was done. So Jones would send letters, but they were returned, unopened. Mary tried to talk to him, but once the man heard Jones' name he left. Jones felt helpless, he felt hopeless. All he wanted was one chance, one chance to explain himself and his choices. But, his friend was good at holding a grudge. He was great at it, actually. That was what annoyed Jones to no end. If only he would just stop and listen. For once. That's it. But he never did.
And so, when a letter came with the morning post one day, Jones was scared. He knew the handwriting was his friend's. He had opened it, and read. Then he read it again. And once more. It was a confession. His friend had been in love with him. He had been, but now that Jones had gone off with Mary, he felt like he must move on. So, he had. Jones had guessed the bit about his friend loving him, why hold a grudge like this if not jealousy? It was short, this confession. Barely a paragraph. And at the bottom of the page, in loopy letters, it was signed: Mr. Pilkington.