Comfort and Joy by India Knight Page B

juxtaposition of Indian people and monkeys, but I know from long experience that this is
     a
losing battle. There aren’t any brown or black people where Pat comes from, and she marvels every time she takes Maisy to
     school with me at the multiculturalism on display. Or, as she puts it, the number of ‘darkies’. We had out first row about
     this, many aeons ago. ‘Don’t mind me,’ Pat had said. ‘I don’t mean any harm.’ And she doesn’t. However.
    ‘I don’t think gibbons are little brown monkeys,’ says Tamsin.
    ‘What are the wee brown ones called?’ Pat asks.
    ‘Marmosets?’ Sophie suggests, looking confused by the turn the conversation has taken.
    ‘No,’ Pat says, frowning. ‘Ah, come on, the wee brown ones. Agile, like. They always remind me,’ Pat starts, chuckling affectionately,
     ‘of Clara’s friend …’
    ‘Sam!’ I shout across the table in despair. ‘Sam. Darling. Please.’ I flick my eyes to Pat.
    ‘So,’ Sam says, bang on cue. ‘Who’s coming to see my show on the 27th? I’ve offered you all tickets, right?’
    ‘He was a lovely wee dancer when he was a boy,’ Pat says to nobody in particular, her mind having – mercifully – wandered
     away from primates. She takes a genteel sip of her vodka and lemonade. ‘Loved it. Absolutely loved it. His da and I used to
     joke that he was a pansy, didn’t we? Oops,’ she laughs. ‘Not a pansy. Oh, it’s that hard to keep up with how you talk in this
     house. What would you say – a gay? We used to think he was a gay.’
    ‘So you did,’ says Sam. ‘And I’ve always thought you’d secretly like it if I had been.’
    ‘Ooh
yes
,’ says Pat, nodding violently. ‘I’d have
loved
it. Well, not then – I’d have been that ashamed. I wouldn’t have been able to show my face. Oh, I’d have died. It was bad
     enough having to take you to dance classes – I used to cry about it sometimes. The shame, you know.’ Sam rolls his eyes, having
heard this all his life, though the other people round the table look mildly astonished. ‘But I’d love it now. Like in
Sex and the City
! All the gays. Oh, they have fun, don’t they? They have great fun. They’re that colourful.’
    ‘Do you know anyone gay, Pat?’ asks Tamsin.
    ‘No, my darling, I don’t,’ Pat says, looking pretty cut up about it. And then, seamlessly, ‘You’d like a gay, wouldn’t you?’
     she asks Sophie. ‘One of your kiddies. I can tell. A wee mammy’s boy. A wee gay dote.’
    ‘I …’ says Sophie. ‘Good Lord, what an extraordinary thing to say. I wouldn’t mind a … gay. A gay child. I wouldn’t mind at
     all. But that’s not to say …’
    ‘Aye,’ Pat says. ‘I knew it. For company.’ As I was saying, Pat occasionally has piercingly acute flashes of insight. This
     particular one has the welcome effect of temporarily silencing Sophie. Tim, meanwhile, is now howling with laughter – an oddly
     feminine sound – at something Hope, whose breasts are falling out of her dress, has said, and I feel the first twinge of pity
     for Sophie. The horrible truth of the matter is, you can home-make all the yogurt you want, but it’s not going to stop your
     husband’s eye wandering.
    ‘Have we finished eating?’ asks Jake. ‘Because I think it’s time for a little smoke. A little doobie. A little blow. Mind
     if I skin up, Clara?’
    I don’t know what’s happened to my supper. It sounded perfectly normal in my head: a few friends round, a couple of acquaintances,
     us, pot luck in the kitchen, two days before Christmas, everyone out by about eleven. Instead, this. It’s not quite the easy,
     relaxing evening I had in mind. Good practice for the 25th, I suppose, but still. And now Tim and Sophie, both very active
     in the PTA, are going to go back to all the Reception parents and share the glad tidings that we adore make-up and heels on
     small girls and like nothing more than a bit of
skunk after supper. Though I suppose I could