by Alexis Hall
“See. He was worse than you. I bet he’s grown into the sort of person who thinks having a swastika tattoo is a good laugh.”
Alfie frowned. “What kind of van is it?”
“A . . . white one?”
“Fen, come on.”
“I’m serious. It’s white. Has four wheels. Used to move, now doesn’t. That is the full extent of my knowledge.”
That was too much for Alfie. He reached up, caught Fen by the back of the neck, and pulled him into a deep kiss.
“I’m not objecting,” said Fen afterwards, “but what was that for?”
“I really lo—um, admire your commitment to not giving a fuck about stuff that doesn’t interest you. I’m going to take a look at the van tomorrow, okay? Then we can maybe think about reestablishing some of your mam’s relationships. Start having, y’know, cash flow.”
“Look at you, Alfie Bell.” Fen touched his lips softly. “Riding to the rescue.”
Alfie shifted a bit self-consciously. “Just like you came to mine.”
“I’m pretty sure I didn’t.”
“I like who I can be with you.” Alfie stacked up some papers that didn’t need stacking. “I’ve never really liked myself much before.”
“I . . . God, you’re so romantic sometimes, I don’t know what to do with you. Thank you. That’s a ridiculously nice and slightly too intense thing to say to someone.”
Alfie laughed. “Anytime, mate.”
“I have to go take care of the shop.” Fen slid off the desk and scurried away, blushing, and hiding behind his hand what was obviously his goofiest, toothiest grin.
And Alfie threw himself back into the books. It wasn’t as bad as it could have been because Fen’s mam—and her mam before her—had kept really detailed records. Time slipped away from him, and when he next looked up it was well into evening, the workroom was all tidied up, and there was no sign of Fen.
He found him, finally, outside, scrubbing FAGGO off the grille with what was left of the solvent, the last of the day’s sun making the hair on Fen’s forearms glint gold as he worked.
Fen glanced up with a wry, weary smile. “Well, at least they’ve learned to spell it.”
“What are you doing?”
“What does it look like?”
“I thought you didn’t care.”
“I don’t. But you did so . . .” Fen shrugged. “Maybe if I keep doing it, they’ll get bored.”
It didn’t seem likely, but it would’ve been a bad time to say that. So Alfie grabbed some wire wool and started cleaning.
Fen made an effectual attempt to shoo him away. “I’m pretty sure it’s my turn.”
“Like I’m going to sit around scratching my arse, while you pull a Cinderella down here.”
“Are you my fairy godmother?” Fen fluttered his eyelashes prettily.
“I’d rather be your handsome prince.”
“Are you sensitive, clever, well-mannered—”
“Wow, you’re kind of demanding about your princes. I thought they just had to be charming. Oi, what’s so funny?”
“Nothing bad.”
They got back to work. With Fen singing this time—a remarkably cheerful song about being in agony. Probably one of his weird musical things. Alfie was going to have to get educated about this stuff. Not that he minded. It was just . . . Fen. Like the taste of his mouth and his cock and his tears.
“Can I ask you something?” asked Fen, in a little while. “A personal question?”
“Mate, you’ve seen me blubbing like a . . . like . . . a . . .”
“You’re not going to say ‘like a girl’ are you?”
“Fuck’s sake, go back to London, Kitty. I’ve already dated you.”
Fen slanted an arch look at him. “What’s that? Women don’t like misogynistic language. Say it ain’t so.”
“Oh shut up. It’s just an expression.”
“Like that’s so gay?”
Alfie sighed. “Look, you’ve seen me cry and had your cock up my arse. Not sure how much more personal it can get. Ask whatever you like.”
“I just wanted to know . . . I guess I just wanted to know how you didn’t . . . sort of notice you were gay.”
“It’s daft.” He shrugged a bit self-consciously. Greg had asked him too and hadn’t understood the answer—though that might have been Alfie’s fault. It wasn’t the sort of thing he was good at explaining. But maybe it would be easier with Fen. “It was just never a possibility. I mean, we all knew what gay was, right? It was, well, it was you.”
“Right.”
“Sorry.”
Fen rolled his eyes. “I’m not even particularly camp.”
“I know but you’re not . . . you’re not a lad, are you? And I did everything right. I like cars. And football—or, at least, I did when I got a chance to watch it. And I don’t really care about my hair.”
“That’s a complete lie.” Fen’s hip nudged Alfie’s in play rebuke. “I saw you styling it the other day. Making it all cool and spiky.”
Alfie glanced away, feeling himself flush.
“Oh come on. There’s no such thing as gay hair.”
“Oh yeah?” He reached out and curled Fen’s pink strands around his fingertips.
Fen laughed, a little sharply. “What, you think the fact I was sufficiently bored and depressed one day to dye bits of my hair makes me gayer? It’s just hair, Alfie. My hair.”
“I know.”
“You should try working in theatre. Some of the campest men I know are straight.”
Alfie pulled Fen fully into his arms, pressed his face into the curve of his neck. “I know it’s all bollocks really. But that’s how I grew up. I genuinely believed that being gay was this feature of gay people. Not something that could happen to me. I mean, be part of me.”
“I get it. I grew up here too, you know.” Fen dropped his gloves and wire wool, and wrapped Alfie up tightly. “You must have been so lonely. All these years.”
He made an embarrassed noise. “It wasn’t so bad. Kept myself busy. It was kind of easy, really. You can always make it about something else, if you try hard enough.”
“I’m so glad you worked it out.”
He looked up. Grinned. “Me too.”
“It can be one of the most difficult things in the world, I think. To accept yourself.” Fen’s eyes were intent on his. So green they were almost black in the fading evening light. “I . . . I’m so proud of you, Alfie.”
It was like a fishing hook, embedded deep, suddenly torn loose. At first, all he felt was pain. Then something else, something so bright and pure it almost hurt more. Made his eyes sting with water.
“Fen,” was about all he managed to say.
And then Alfie was kissing him, hard and deep, and as rough as the edges of his unshackled heart.
20
The next day, Alfie insisted on being allowed to help open the shop because that way Fen didn’t have to get up as early, and so they had longer in bed together. There was something especially sexy about Fen in the morning when he was all warm and fluffy, this strange mixture of hard—very specifically—and sleepily lax. It gave Alfie lots of ideas, though some of them were sufficiently lavish they’d probably have to wait until the weekend. So it was a tangly wank instead, bodies pressed together, crossed-over hands wrapped around each other’s cocks, Fen’s moans hot and wet, like kisses against his neck.
They were still a bit later than they should have been. But since it was one of Gothshelley’s days, there was much less for Alfie to do. She was wearing a black velvet cloak with a hood over what looked like a tutu, and pink-and-black stripy stockings. And when he asked how she was, she answered, “Entropy is the inevitable consequence of the human condition.” So he left her to the window display, got the keys he needed from Fen, and went to see about the van.
It looked a bit tragic, hunched in what might once have been a garage, but was now obviously a dumping ground for unwanted floristry stuff. He cleared
some space as best he could, kicking aside boxes and buckets and crumbly foam blocks, and then ran through the usual checks—the battery and the terminal cable, the fuel supply and the spark plugs—but there was only so much he could do with the tools he kept in the Sagaris. And obviously Fen wasn’t going to have any. Which meant he could either buy everything he needed for a one-off job. Or . . .
Half an later he was pulling into his parents’ driveway. His mam looked genuinely startled to see him again as he stomped into the kitchen.
“Just wanted to borrow summin from Dad,” he explained.
“Eee, sorry, pet. He’s just nipped down the betting shop. Dunno how long he’ll be. Y’knaa what he’s like when he gets talking.”
“Oh yeah. He’s totally voluble, is Da.” She didn’t seem to notice the sarcasm—which was probably for the best. It was generally accounted the lowest form of wit in the Bell household. Unless either of his parents deployed it, in which case it was hilarious and appropriate. “Is it okay if I wait?”
“Course it is, love. I’ll put the kettle on.”
Alfie plonked himself at the kitchen table. It felt slightly unreal being back here yet again, his mam pottering about and being normal, after she’d basically told him she thought the whole idea of a man falling in love with a man was some kind of weird, impossible mistake. Which basically meant he was. And that what he felt for Fen was—
Too quick, he knew that. But if this butterfly thing, beating its bright wings so strongly inside him, wasn’t love, what was?
“Ma?” he asked.
“Yes, love?”
“You know cooking like?”
“Yes, Alfie, I know cooking.”
“It’s not that hard, right? You just follow the recipe?”
“Well, there’s a bit more to it than that.”
“What would you make for a vegetarian?”
She turned away from the tea things, frowning slightly. “Well, I wouldn’t. I don’t hold with those fancy southern fads.”
“It’s like you said the other day,” Alfie went on doggedly. “I want to cook for Fen. And he’s a vegetarian.” Well, a little bit for Fen and a little bit for himself, because a toast and takeaway diet wasn’t doing him any favours.
“Why can’t he be the one who does the cooking?”
“Because he doesn’t like to. And I don’t know if I like to or not cos I’ve never tried.”
His mam gave him a wary look.
“Ma, I’m not playing housemaid. If you must know, I only really came round cos I needed to borrow some tools from Dad so I can fix a van.”
“It sounds like you’re doing a lot for him, Alfie.”
“He’s working.” Alfie drummed his fingers impatiently on the table. “I just can’t win, can I? Either what we’ve got isn’t real, or I’m turning into some kind of limp-wristed nancy, or he’s somehow taking advantage of me. Will you just pick one, mebbe?”
She didn’t answer. Hurt, probably. Which was fair enough. But, also, not fair. Because wasn’t he allowed to be hurt too?
“What about lasagne?” she said, finally. “With vegetables instead of meat? I think I’ve got some peppers and aubergines.”
“Sounds good.” Actually, it sounded terrible. Lasagne was supposed to have meat in it. But that was Fen’s fault, not his mam’s.
And so, without either of them exactly intending to, they ended up cooking together, Alfie chopping up vegetables while his mam talked him through how to make tomato sauce and then white sauce, neither of which seemed too complicated. From there, it was basically an assembly job, layers of vegetables, and pasta sheets, and sauce, and cheese—of which Alfie snuck in extra when his mam wasn’t looking, thinking it would probably compensate for the vegetables. He felt a lot more confident in the whole process than he had about plastering the wall. And nothing ended up covered in concrete, so that was definitely a plus.
His dad came home when they were halfway done, grunted, and disappeared into the garage. Once the lasagne was in the oven and bubbling cheesily, Alfie headed out after him.
He found him half under the family car, looking a bit like the Wicked Witch of the East if she’d gone for steel-toed boots. The Haynes manual, very thumbed, was propped open on the workbench. The way his dad tended the car, whatever car it was, from the Ford Fiesta they’d had when Alfie was growing up, to the Vauxhall Astra now jacked up and wheelless in the middle of the garage, you’d have thought it was going into outer space, not down the shops twice a week.
“Uh. Hi.”
Alfred Senior emerged slowly. His spanner clanked on the concrete floor. “Alfie.”
Silence. Going on forever.
Say something say something say something.
Then his dad asked, “Shower alreet?”
“Yeah.” Alfie tried to keep his voice normal. No disappointment or frustration. Or hope. “It’s fine.” Another silence. Crushing him slowly until he was only about an inch tall and maybe six years old. He took a deep breath. “Fen’s van won’t start. Probably needs a mechanic, to be honest, but I’d like to take a proper look at it. So I need to borrow some stuff.”
His dad shrugged in a help-yourself kind of way. Alfie felt a bit like Aladdin let loose in the cave of wonders, with all his dad’s shining, meticulously cared-for tools to choose from. Back in London, he had his own, but it didn’t feel the same, somehow. These were the treasures of his childhood. And his dad was trusting him with them, man-to-man.
He found a spare box and filled it up with wenches and ratchets, screwdrivers and plyers. He nabbed a hammer and a breaker bar as well, and a couple of vice grips. His dad’s second-best multimeter because he didn’t quite have the balls to take his favourite.
“Does the engine crank?” his dad asked suddenly.
Alfie looked up from an extension bar he was wondering if he needed. “I managed to get her going, but when you put her in gear, the engine cuts out.”
“Probably electrical, then.”
“Aye. Reckon it’s the transmission.”
“Torque converter playing silly buggers, mebbe?”
He opened his mouth, intended to say something about the van—hopefully something that would impress his dad and prove what a good son Alfie was. But what came out, ragged with a child’s uncomprehending hurt, was, “Dad, why does it matter that I’m gay?”
His voice echoed off the garage walls.
Gay-ay-ay-ay.
And the silence fell even heavier afterwards.
“Well.” His dad looked faintly confused. Definitely aggrieved that this had been sprung on him. “Cos it does.”
Alfie grabbed for something safe to feel. Found anger and held on tight. “That’s not an answer.”
“Bring the tools back when you’re done.”
“You can’t even talk about it, can you?”
His dad swung round slowly like a hammer blow. “I’ve nowt te say. You’ve been too long doon sooth, lad.”
“What. Cos I expect people to talk to each other?”
“Aye well. Not all of us have te be gan on aboot wor feelings every five seconds.”
“On account of it being so gay, you mean?”
A shrug.
“It’s not gay, Dad. It’s . . . it’s fucking human.” Alfie’s anger was getting away from him. Tangling up in other things. Making his voice shake. “I’ve spent my whole life trying to live up to you. Make you proud of me. Be the sort of son you want. And you . . . you can’t even say ‘I love you.’”
Alfred Senior was staring at him like he’d grown an extra head. Probably it would have been less awkward if he had. Probably they could have dealt with that: just make sure you buy longer scarves and two hats. But this, this mess of pain and silence? Impossible. His dad pushed himself to his feet, wincing a little as his back clicked, and grumbling rather than actually saying, “Divvent be daft. Ye know I do.”
“How? How would I know that, Da, when you won’t even look at me?”
No answer. An
d his dad studiously staring at his workbench.
“You might as well just say it. I know you don’t like that I’m gay.”
Yet another interminable silence. And then, “No, Alfie. No, I don’t.”
What the fuck had he been expecting? And how could he ever for a moment have imagined it would feel better to hear it? The Torx screwdriver he’d been holding slipped between his fingers and clattered into the box.
“It’s not,” his dad was saying, “the life I pictured for any son of mine.”
Alfie churned confusedly. He’d felt pretty much disowned since he’d come out, so it was actually really nice to suddenly be his father’s son again. But the problem was he’d also sort of got used to being . . . not someone else exactly, but someone more. Maybe the person he’d always wanted to be. Who Fen had believed in long before Alfie’d had the faintest bloody clue. “Yeah, well, mebbe I don’t care.”
Alfred Senior got that look—the tightening about the jaw that turned his face into a wall Alfie couldn’t climb. But then something shifted, crumbled almost. And he sighed. “Ye’d understand, if ye had bairns of your own.”
“I might someday.”
“Ye want ’em happy. That’s all ye want.”
And that was when Alfie recognised what he was seeing, right there in front of him, etched into the lines surrounding that stern mouth, those deep-set eyes. It was sadness. His dad was . . . sad.
“Hang on—” he blinked back a damp burning in his eyes “—you think being gay means I won’t be happy?”
A shrug. Typical Alfred Senior response.
But, for once, Alfie wasn’t looking or hoping for more. “That’s really messed up, y’know. I mean, how happy do you think I was going to be as a bloke so deep in the closet I was practically living in Narnia?”
“Ye could’ve had a normal life.”
“What’s a normal life, Da? A home, a job, a partner who loves me, a family who cares about me, kids someday.” He hooked his thumbs over the pockets of his jeans, realising only as he did it how Fen-like a gesture it was. “Just cos I’m gay doesn’t mean I can’t have those things. Not unless you start taking them away from me.”