Shit.
I’m about to apologize but stop myself. We’re no longer in the ’80s and I won’t allow myself to be shamed like I did when I was at school.
Before I can think of how to reply, Theo steps in and says, “Adam, you know I’m not supposed to be on social media.”
“What do you mean?” But I know exactly what he means: his school has a strict social media policy, forbidding all teachers from posting personal content, a policy he repeats to me now.
“Sorry,” I bleat. “I must have forgotten. It’s just that school seems a million miles away.”
“Oh my god,” Mabel says, dramatically, “Dad’s going to get sacked!”
Theo lets out a weary sigh. “It’s fine,” he says. “I’m not goingto get sacked. I can’t be absent from social media completely: I just can’t post anything personal myself.”
Mabel looks disappointed.
I apologize again and open my Instagram to remove the post.
Theo puts his hand on my arm. “Leave it,” he says. “It’s not as if you’ve tagged me in. I’m not even on Instagram.”
“You know, you could always make your account private,” Callum suggests, looking me in the eye.
“That’s a good idea,” I say. Then I stop myself again. Actually, I’m not sure itisa good idea. Wouldn’t that be accepting that my sexuality should be hidden away like a dirty secret? Shouldn’t we have moved on from that kind of thing?
Theo intervenes. “No, don’t do that, Ads. We’ve nothing to be ashamed of.”
I smile and put my phone down. It’s a relief to hear him saying that.
The only problem is, from the look on his face I’m not entirely sure he believes it.
“They’re homophobic,” I say. “They’re actually homophobic.”
I’ve come up to the castle to speak to Ian on the phone.
“And I know it’s only because the kids at school have said awful things,” I add. “It’s perfectly normal for them to be affected by it.”
“But that doesn’t mean it isn’t going to be triggering for you,” Ian observes.
I tap the back of my heels against the stone wall. “I have to say, today was pretty grim.”
I can hear Ian sitting up and rearranging his cushions. I picture him in his living room, on his olive-green sofa, under relaxing low lighting and surrounded by calming candles.
“But what you’ve got to remember is, phobia means fear,” he goes on. “It doesn’t necessarily mean hatred. The kids are probably just scared of what they’ve heard, just like you were at that age.”
“But I thought things were better now,” I protest.
“They are,” Ian says, “they’re much better. Come on, remember how awful it used to be.”
For some reason, I don’t think about my experience but Wilf’s.I think of him and his friends in the Union, living in terror that the pub would be raided, that they’d be arrested and their families would disown them. I want to tell Ian about the letters, but not until I’ve finished reading them.
“No, you’re right,” I admit. “They are much better. I suppose the kids’ situation is very unusual.”
“And no one can blame them for reacting like that, not at their age. I’m sure once they’re older, they’ll come round.”
I look at the sun falling in the sky. Tonight it doesn’t give off pink rays but is glowing a deep orange. “Yeah, but it’s not just that, my sister. Callum and Mabel have been a nightmare the whole time. They literally hate me. And I’m not very good at being hated.”
“OK, so which of those two sentences do I start with first?”
I chuckle. “Take your pick.”
