‘Never mind. I’m coming on Sunday. And Rory’s name is Rory, not _that man_. I care about him. Partner. And it doesn’t need managing.’
‘Partner.’ She said it like tasting something unfamiliar. Testing the pH.
‘Partner. Not colleague. Not friend. Not situation. Partner.’
‘Neil, I understand that you’ve been...’
‘Gay, Mum. The word is gay. I’ve been gay. And I still am.’
He hadn’t planned to say it. The word had come up from the same place as the thumb on Rory’s jaw.
‘I’m gay,’ he said. ‘I’ve been gay my entire life. I was gay when I drew Adam Kershaw’s shoulders at fifteen. I was gay when I married Gemma, when I loved her, and the love was real, but my body wasn’t. I was gay when Freddie was born. I was gay when the marriage ended. I’ve been gay every day since. I just couldn’t admit it. Even to myself.’
He was crushing the phone, the plastic warm against his ear. The kitchen was dark except for the hob light. Freddie’s drawings on the fridge. The sketchbook.
The line was quiet. Her entire system being reorganised around a word she’d never heard her son say.
Another silence. Then, quieter, the careful register cracking:
‘I was trying to protect you.’
‘From what?’
‘From your father. From the... the difficulty.’ She paused. ‘I wanted you to have a straightforward life, Neil. I know that sounds...’
‘It sounds like you wanted me to be someone else.’
‘I wanted you to be safe. I thought safe meant invisible. I was wrong about that.’ Her voice dropped. ‘I’ve been wrong about that for a very long time.’
‘You kept me from Dad.’
‘I kept you from your father’s reaction, yes. If he’d seen your face...’
‘What was on my face?’
‘Recognition.’ The word came out quiet. Stripped of the careful register. ‘You were watching those men on the television and your face... you were interested, Neil. The way a person is interested in something that belongs to them. And your father was sitting three feet away and I could see him seeing it andI changed the channel because if I didn’t he would have said something and the something would have been...’
‘Disgraceful.’
‘Worse. He would have... your father’s love is conditional, Neil. I’ve lived with that for thirty-five years. His love requires that certain things remain unsaid. If they’re said, the love withdraws. Quietly. It just recedes. Like a tide going out. And it doesn’t come back.’
Neil sat down. He hadn’t realised he’d been standing; the chair took him, the kitchen quiet around him, his mother’s voice on the phone telling the truth.
‘You’ve known since I was fifteen.’
‘I suspected from twelve. Remember our old neighbours? They used to have students staying for the summer, to practise English. There was a Spanish boy. You couldn’t stop staring at him when he was sunbathing in the garden. You looked confused. And frightened. I never said anything. And it’s the thing I’m most ashamed of.’
‘Ashamed?’
‘I should have said something. I should have... I don’t know. Sat you down. Told you it was alright.’ A long breath.
‘I didn’t. I was afraid. Of your father. Of what people would say. And I chose the easier thing. And you paid for it.’
His eyes were burning. He pressed his free hand over them. The dark behind his fingers.
‘You kept it from Dad.’
‘I kept everything from your father. That’s the marriage. I keep things and he trims hedges and we both pretend the silence is agreement.’
