I would love to be able to say that he was cute, or that there was some kind of conversation, some cheeky, amusing seduction process, but I honestly have no memory of the guy, nor of quite how it transpired that we ended up touching each other. He climaxed quickly, I didn’t (I was too drunk to climax at all I think), and then before I even realised it, he was gone and I was staggering home across the green with a sticky hand and a fresh burden of self-loathing resting squarely upon my shoulders.
By the time I got back, I was feeling thirsty and hungover and yet still perfectly drunk. I washed my hands and drank a few glasses of water, and struggled to push what had happened from my mind.
As a distraction, I switched the television on, and on screen was a blurred Catholic bishop talking about the repeal of a law – it was Clause Twenty-Eight, I think. Though modern society accepted many things, he was explaining, homosexuality was still a sin; it was still an abomination. Clause Twenty-Eight was, in his opinion, still very much needed. Children, he said, still needed to be protected from the sodomites. I remember, he used that word: Sodomites.
That’s when I vomited.
Beyond all of the pressures from mediaeval religions and rabid, shameful closeted politicians, beyond the constant bombardment of heterosexual imagery in the press, in film, in TV, in advertising, there was another reason that I had decided I had to be straight, and that was probably the strongest reason of all: I wanted children.
I know that in these twenty-first-century days of gay adoption and surrogate mothers, of turkey basters and test-tube implants, an act of fatherhood for a gay man might not seem, to the modern eye, to be an impossibility. But that was not the case where I grew up, and that was not the case when I grew up. And it still wasn’t the case in southern England in the mid-nineties either.
I had always, from as early as I can remember, wanted to be a father. I’d even say that it was more than a want, I just never once imagined not being a father. And so with the information I had, and based on the logic of the time, I knew that I must be straight.
The second happiest day of my life was the day Hannah told me that she was pregnant, even if that did all turn to sadness so quickly afterwards. Secretly, alone at work, I had cried tears of joy, the first tears of joy I had ever experienced.
And the only day to beat that, even now, would be the day that Luke was born. I held him in my arms and looked down at him and felt my heart swell until it was bigger than me, until it englobed everything around me, as if I had been reduced to, or perhaps expanded to, nothing other than my love for my son.
That emotion remains today – it creeps up on me when I’m unaware. I will be watching Luke from the corner of my eye, perhaps feeling vaguely irritated by something he’s doing, and wham, that same feeling will wash over me. Love, joy, pride, all mixed up. It’s ecstatic.
I worried throughout Luke’s childhood that he would be soft, like me; I was terrified that he would be bullied at school, as I had been.
When at seven he came home with a split lip, I went overboard and forced him, against both his and Hannah’s wishes, to take up judo. Poor Luke got more split lips at judo than he ever did in the playground, and I needn’t have worried: Luke had inherited not my docile pacifism, nor my desire to avoid conflict, but Hannah’s steely determination, her fiery sense of justice. So outside of judo, no one ever managed to push Luke around. Not even we, his parents, managed that.
But everything was changing, I could sense things shifting in my head. After the camping trip, I found myself unable to push what had happened with Glen from my mind. I felt as if I was maybe going mad. Everywhere I went, I found myself looking at guys, sometimes with clearly identifiable feelings of desire, but mostly with that familiar sensation of intrigue. I was still, at forty, looking at other men and wondering what they were like, how secure they felt in their sexuality, if I could look more like them if I dressed differently, if I should be more like them. Only this time, I was watching myself watching them. I had gained a smidgin of self-awareness and, for the first time in my life, I was toying with the concept that I might be gay, and that, what’s more, maybe, just maybe, in the twenty-first century that wouldn’t be the utter horror I had always imagined.
Things had changed a lot in the last twenty years, that was for sure. There were gay guys reading the weather, gay guys hosting chat shows, lesbians winning sports events, men with boyfriends – men who would have been called practicing homosexuals when I was young — being elected as MPs by the public at large.
Even within my own circle of friends and colleagues I could identify Bill, the IT guy and his boyfriend Paul; Tristan, Jill’s best friend with whom we had been on holiday when everything went pear-shaped; the couple of bearded guys at the end of our close with matching motorbikes . . . And thoughts about these people and projections about how they lived their lives started to obsess me.
About a week after the argument with Hannah, I was standing in the coffee room at work thinking about all of this (Paul had sent Bill some flowers) when Ralph, one of the partners, came in.
“Cliff,” he said. “You missed the meeting.”
I glanced at the clock and realised that I had been standing staring at the flowers, propped in the sink, specifically staring at the label – “I Love You” – for over half an hour.
“Sorry,” I said. “I got distracted, I guess. I have a lot on my mind at the moment.”
Ralph nodded and rested one hand lightly on my arm. I wondered if he would still do that if he had thought that I was gay. I reckoned not. “We had a talk. In your absence,” he said. “We all agree that you should take some time off.”
I frowned at him. “Really?”
“You’ve been pretty useless lately if truth be told. And we know that’s not normal for you.”
“As I say, I have a lot on my mind,” I said. “But I need to work on the . . .”
“John’s happy to take over your workload for a bit. We all think that you should take a week off. Get yourself sorted out.”
I nodded. “Oh,” I said vaguely. I was trying to imagine how I could get through a whole week alone in the flat. It seemed like an impossible task, a terrifying desert of emptiness to be crossed.
Ralph slapped me on the back, said, “Anyway, just hand the files to John before you go,” and turned and left the room.
Once the door had closed behind him, I said quietly, addressing the empty room, “My wife has left me for my brother. She wants to take my son to live in Australia. And I think I might be gay. It’s not really something I can sort out in a week.”
Just before twelve the next day, Hannah called me.
“Hi, Hannah,” I said coldly.
“Hi, it’s Hannah,” she replied briskly, as if she hadn’t heard me. “I wondered if we could have a word. About Luke.”
“Luke . . . yes. Sure.”
“I’m not disturbing you am I?”
“No,” I replied, which was something of an understatement. Even though it was Hannah calling, and even though I was still angry with her, the telephone ringing had been the highlight of my day. Since getting up at nine, I had done nothing but watch breakfast TV. “So, Luke!”
“Now, I know we already discussed this, but would you have a word with him about this Australia trip?”
I must have sighed at this point, because Hannah said, “Don’t sigh at me Cliff.”
“I’ll sigh if I want to,” I said, thinking . . . It’s my party and I’ll sigh if I want to. My mind had been coming up with lyrical witticisms as long as I could remember, but I had learned at school never to say them out loud.
“Look, Hannah,” I continued. “You’re right. We already did discuss this, and you know that I don’t much want him to go, and Luke definitely doesn’t want to go. So quite why—”
“Please Cliff? It’s really important to me,” Hannah pleaded. She sounded like she might be close to tears.
I started to sigh again, but caught myself doing so, because s
omething in her tone had registered, had reminded me that once, not so long ago, I had loved her. “I’ll have a word with him,” I said quietly. “But I really don’t think it will help. You know what he’s like.”
“I do. But please try.”
“I will. I promise,” I said.
“Do you need anything?” Hannah asked.
“I’m sorry?”
“I presume you’re off with the flu, are you? Everyone’s getting it. It’s sweeping the school like wildfire.”
“No, I’m not sick at all.”
“Oh. That’s what they said when I phoned the office.”
“Really? Well, that’s incorrect.”
“Then why aren’t you at the office?”
“Sorry, I have to go now, Hannah,” I lied. “There’s someone at the door.”
I ended the call and laid down the phone, then stared out of the window at the grey November sky, and tried to imagine Christmas here without Luke. That would be even worse than this horrible week off.
An hour later Jill, Hannah’s sister, phoned. As she had never phoned me in my life, this was an unsettling development.
“I just phoned for a chat,” Jill declared.
I pinched the bridge of my nose, and took a deep breath. “Did Hannah put you up to this?”
“Of course not.”
“But she gave you my number, presumably.”
“Actually I texted Luke for it,” Jill said, sounding vaguely angry.
“Look Jill, I’m just gonna come out and say this. You have never phoned me. Not once. So this is weird. To say the least.”
“Yes, I know.”
“Then why now?”
“I’m worried about you, I suppose. Is that allowed?”
I softened my tone. “I suppose so.”
“You’re off work. Hannah told me that much. And she doesn’t know why.”
“So she did get you to phone me?”
“Not at all. I promise.”
“OK.”
“Anyway, I hardly talk to Hannah these days about anything. She’s always going on . . .” Jill’s voice faded.
“About James,” I said, completing the phrase.
“Yes. Sorry. I get sick of hearing about him to be honest.”
“But not as sick as me.”
“No. I can imagine. So are you sick?”
“I . . . I’m . . . You know what, Jill. I don’t want to offend you, but I can’t really talk to you about anything that’s going on in my life right now. You’re Hannah’s sister. I’m sorry.”
“Can’t I be a friend as well? Isn’t that possible?”
“I’m not sure. But no, I don’t think so.”
“Even if I promise not to say a word.”
“I’m . . . not sure I’d believe you,” I said. Jill had never been much good at discretion. Hannah hadn’t nicknamed her Blabber Mouth for nothing.
“Oh. OK,” Jill said, sounding resigned. “Actually, I’m not sure I would either.”
“But the . . . um . . . intention is appreciated.”
“Sure. But you do have someone to talk to, right?”
“Of course,” I said, realising only as I said it that I truly didn’t.
“Right. Of course. Do you want Tristan’s number?”
“Why the hell would I want Tristan’s number?”
“I don’t know. I just thought maybe . . .”
“So Hannah said something. She must have.”
“She really hasn’t.”
“Then why Tristan?”
“Well, actually Tris’ may have mentioned something. In passing. Something about Grindr?”
“He told you?! Then that’s a really great reason why I don’t want his number.”
“He’s just worried about you. We both realise that this hasn’t been easy for you either.”
“Thanks.”
“OK, sorry. I suppose I shouldn’t have called. But if you ever do need to talk . . .”
“I now have your number.”
“I mean it, Cliff. I know I’m Hannah’s sister and everything, but we’ve known each other forever.”
“We have,” I admitted.
“OK, bye then.”
“Bye,” I said, but then something caught in my throat. “Jill?” I asked urgently.
“Yes?”
“Just one thing.”
“Yes?”
“If you were me . . .”
“Yes?”
“Who would you talk to about . . . you know . . . about all of that stuff.”
“Oh. Me maybe? I’m surprisingly good at . . .”
“Too close.”
“Fair enough. Then why not Tristan?”
“Too partisan. And indiscreet as well.”
“What about a therapist?”
“A therapist?”
“Yeah. If you need someone detached, someone objective . . . if you need confidentiality. Well, that’s what therapists are paid for, isn’t it?”
“Right.”
“You’re not OK at all, are you?”
“Not really, no. But please don’t say anything to Hannah.”
“No. I promise. I promise on . . . On Pascal’s life, OK?”
“Pascal the pool guy? Are you still seeing him?”
“On and off, yeah. He’s coming over next week as a matter of fact.”
“Blimey. I mean, he seemed nice enough. I just didn’t think . . . I thought it was a holiday romance thing.”
“I did too. Life’s full of surprises, isn’t it? Look, I’ll send you a number. As soon as I hang up. A woman my friend Lisa sees. A counsellor. Lisa says she’s great. And she’s not too far from you.”
“OK.”
“Give her a call. We all have to talk stuff through sometimes.”
“Sure.”
“And at least you know she’ll be honest and it’ll be private.”
“Right.”
“Look after yourself, Cliff.”
“Thanks, Jill,” I said. “I’ll try.”
The text message arrived about a minute later. It said: “Jenny Church. Counsellor. Call her,” and was followed by the number. I was still fingering my phone and thinking about phoning it when Luke got home at six.
“Hey, Dad,” he said, dropping his rucksack on the floor. “What’s up?”
“Nothing much,” I replied. “Your mother called.”
“Mum? Not Jill? ’Cos she texted me for your mobile.”
“Yes. Jill called too.”
“What did Mum want?”
“She just asked me to talk to you. About Australia. About Christmas in Australia.”
“There’s no way,” Luke said. “I already told her a hundred times.”
“Well, we both think you should maybe reconsider it a bit. It would be a great experience for you. You’ve only ever been to France, and—”
“Don’t you want me here at Christmas?” Luke asked, looking genuinely hurt at the idea. “Is that it?”
“Not at all. I love having you here. And you know it.”
“Then I’m not going,” he said. “End of.”
I exhaled deeply and shrugged: I had neither the energy nor the desire to fight this battle. “OK. Whatever,” I said.
Luke smirked.
“What?”
“Nothing,” he said.
“No, come on. What?”
“You said, ‘Whatever,’” Luke laughed. “You’re always having a go at me for that.”
“Well, I’m tired,” I said. “And what exactly are you doing with that?” Luke had picked up the TV remote and was pointing it at the television.
“It’s seven. The Simpsons!” he said.
I nodded. “Sure. Whatever.”
SEVEN
Hannah
Cliff’s mystery absence from work had me worried. I tried to interrogate Luke, but he was useless, insisting, simply, that Cliff was “fine”. When I asked him what he was doing all day, he said, “Dunno. Watching The Simpsons and stuff.”
In desperation, I got Jill to call him, but she drew a blank as well. He wasn’t going to talk to my sister either, which was unsurprising really.
It was illogical and more than a little hysterical of me, I know, but I started to convince myself that Cliff had AIDS. I had always had hypochondriac tendencies (which I fought) but I now started to Google the symptoms and became persuaded that our various bouts of fever over the last few years had been not flu but HIV conversion symptoms, that the weight I had lost since France had been not caused by stress, or the endless long walks that James and I were taking, but some related wasting disease. I steeled myself and made an appointment at the doctor’s.
The consultation was one of the most humiliating experiences I have ever undergone. I told him that I was in the process of separating from my husband, and before I could explain my fears, he assumed that I was suffering from depression. “So you need a little something to help you over the bump, do you?” he asked, his pen already poised to write a prescription for Prozac. Men!
I explained that, no, I wasn’t feeling depressed at all, and then flushed with shame at the admission.
“Oh! Good!” he exclaimed, straightening in his seat and looking surprised.
Once I had managed to splutter the purpose of my visit, he explained that he could take a blood sample and give me the results in a week, or that I could walk into the private clinic on Weybourne Road and get it done instantly. Because a week of uncertainty seemed hellish to me, that’s exactly what I did.
It was still only ten-thirty when I got there and, thankfully, the waiting room was empty. I had been wondering what I would say if I bumped into someone I knew.
Despite the morning lull in trade, I still had to wait fifteen minutes before I was seen, and during that time I convinced myself that the result would be positive. It seemed, in that moment, that it had to be positive – that the laws of karma required retribution for my having left my husband, for sleeping with his brother, for not being as depressed as I was supposed to be about the end of my marriage.
The nurse asked me a few embarrassing questions, finishing with how would it change my life if I had a positive result, or a negative result? I replied twice that I had no idea, and she seemed satisfied with this, which left me wondering why she had asked me in the first place.
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