typing, by the looks of things, even today when the train’s central heating was on the fritz and his fingers must have been stiff with cold. Still, it seemed to make him happy -- like that dream of running his own small publishing house was just around the corner. I had no doubt he could do it if he wanted. He’d been brought up to believe that life was what you made of it.
Whereas all I’d learnt was that trying to follow my dreams ended in pain and humiliation. Thinking of that lesson, I felt my jeans pocket and the stiffness of the folded envelope inside. I could have saved it until I got to the privacy of my studio, but for some reason I felt compelled to take it out on the train. Maybe because there was safety in numbers, and I knew that whatever it was, no matter how bad, I wouldn’t react if I was surrounded by strangers. I hooked my arm around the support bar so I could use both hands to open the envelope.
Mum’s perfume hit me as I tore it open -- that familiar scent of roses firing off a keen edged nostalgia so sharp it was painful. There had been a time when things were good between us, before it all went to shit.
Before I came out.
The train groaned and clattered around me, and the lights flickered for a brief moment before regaining strength. I took a deep breath of frigid air and unfolded the sheet of notepaper.
Dear Jeremy, the letter began. I’m sorry to give you the news like this, but it’s taken me ages to track down your address and I couldn’t get hold of your phone number. Your dad has been battling with cancer for the last year, but now the doctors say he only has weeks to live.
There was more, but I couldn’t make any sense of the words. I stared at the paper, willing it to disappear and erase the words from my mind, the obligation I knew I now had.
Why couldn’t the old bastard have died already?
“Jez? Are you all right? Come on, sit down. You’ve gone white.” I was dimly aware of Steve guiding me to sit, and eventually I focused enough to see him crouched down in front of me, his hands on my thighs and worry etched into his face. “What’s the matter, Poppet?” he murmured, just loud enough for me to hear. Normally I’d have gone apeshit if he’d called me that in public, but it just goes to show how tits up everything had gone, because instead I found his endearment comforting. I handed him the letter without a word. He gave me a puzzled frown then started reading.
“Oh, shit. Jez. I’m so sorry.”
“Why? You didn’t do anything.”
Steve ignored me. “I’ll call the office and get the day off. We can change at Baker Street and get a connection for Slough. We’ll be there before you know it.”
I let Steve prattle on for a bit, my head turning over a replay of Dad’s words as he’d thrown me out of my childhood home. Of how he’d said he had no son, and that dirty little cock-sucker had better get off his lawn or he’d have his face smashed to a pulp and then no man would want to fuck him. I recalled Mum’s face at the kitchen window, gray and expressionless, only her eyes pleading with me.
“I’m not going,” I said, when I realized Steve was waiting for some kind of a response.
“You’re not? But he’s dying.”
“Good.”
Steve gave me a searching stare and I felt like he could see straight through me. I hoped he liked what he saw, because I honestly don’t think anyone else out there would be willing to put up with me, and I’d be lost without him. Eventually he squeezed my thigh, saying we’d talk about it after work. It was only another minute or two before we reached my stop, and he gave me a quick kiss as I stood to leave. We’re not normally demonstrative in public, but I couldn’t help kissing him back. On the walk to my studio, I concentrated on the memory of his lips on mine, their warmth and promise.
Better that than thinking about anything else.
***
That afternoon I texted Steve to let him know I was going home early. I
Whereas all I’d learnt was that trying to follow my dreams ended in pain and humiliation. Thinking of that lesson, I felt my jeans pocket and the stiffness of the folded envelope inside. I could have saved it until I got to the privacy of my studio, but for some reason I felt compelled to take it out on the train. Maybe because there was safety in numbers, and I knew that whatever it was, no matter how bad, I wouldn’t react if I was surrounded by strangers. I hooked my arm around the support bar so I could use both hands to open the envelope.
Mum’s perfume hit me as I tore it open -- that familiar scent of roses firing off a keen edged nostalgia so sharp it was painful. There had been a time when things were good between us, before it all went to shit.
Before I came out.
The train groaned and clattered around me, and the lights flickered for a brief moment before regaining strength. I took a deep breath of frigid air and unfolded the sheet of notepaper.
Dear Jeremy, the letter began. I’m sorry to give you the news like this, but it’s taken me ages to track down your address and I couldn’t get hold of your phone number. Your dad has been battling with cancer for the last year, but now the doctors say he only has weeks to live.
There was more, but I couldn’t make any sense of the words. I stared at the paper, willing it to disappear and erase the words from my mind, the obligation I knew I now had.
Why couldn’t the old bastard have died already?
“Jez? Are you all right? Come on, sit down. You’ve gone white.” I was dimly aware of Steve guiding me to sit, and eventually I focused enough to see him crouched down in front of me, his hands on my thighs and worry etched into his face. “What’s the matter, Poppet?” he murmured, just loud enough for me to hear. Normally I’d have gone apeshit if he’d called me that in public, but it just goes to show how tits up everything had gone, because instead I found his endearment comforting. I handed him the letter without a word. He gave me a puzzled frown then started reading.
“Oh, shit. Jez. I’m so sorry.”
“Why? You didn’t do anything.”
Steve ignored me. “I’ll call the office and get the day off. We can change at Baker Street and get a connection for Slough. We’ll be there before you know it.”
I let Steve prattle on for a bit, my head turning over a replay of Dad’s words as he’d thrown me out of my childhood home. Of how he’d said he had no son, and that dirty little cock-sucker had better get off his lawn or he’d have his face smashed to a pulp and then no man would want to fuck him. I recalled Mum’s face at the kitchen window, gray and expressionless, only her eyes pleading with me.
“I’m not going,” I said, when I realized Steve was waiting for some kind of a response.
“You’re not? But he’s dying.”
“Good.”
Steve gave me a searching stare and I felt like he could see straight through me. I hoped he liked what he saw, because I honestly don’t think anyone else out there would be willing to put up with me, and I’d be lost without him. Eventually he squeezed my thigh, saying we’d talk about it after work. It was only another minute or two before we reached my stop, and he gave me a quick kiss as I stood to leave. We’re not normally demonstrative in public, but I couldn’t help kissing him back. On the walk to my studio, I concentrated on the memory of his lips on mine, their warmth and promise.
Better that than thinking about anything else.
***
That afternoon I texted Steve to let him know I was going home early. I
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