Chapter 44
It’s Monday and the start of our final week in Italy. I’m on my way to visit Dad and Debbie in Umbria. My breathing is shallow and my shoulders are around my ears.
At least I’ve got used to driving on the right-hand side of the road—and am not fazed by a ninety-minute journey, including a long stretch on the motorway and several toll roads.
The only thing that does make me uncomfortable is having to navigate around the cyclists—and, even worse, clusters of cyclists—darting down the country lanes.
I don’t think I’ll ever get used to them.
When the satnav directs me down a tree-lined road that leads into the campsite, fear creeps up my spine. I try to concentrate on the instructions Dad gave me to get to their caravan. Take the first left, right at the clubhouse and follow the shore of the lake. …
Very quickly, it becomes clear this isn’t anything like the campsites we stayed on when I was young.
First of all, there are hardly any children: the people staying here are mainly middle-aged or retirement age, and mainly couples.
I see a spa and massage center, the equipment for all kinds of watersports, and something called a “floating sauna.” Plus, there are signs and posters for language classes, a nature trail, and an exhibition by an artist-in-residence.
The accommodation seems to be largely in static caravans that look more like luxury chalets.
Outside each are high-end cars, many of them electric, many with their own charging points.
I spot a much more modest car I think belongs to Dad and stop to look closer. In the rear window, I recognize a Manchester United sticker. Yeah, that’s it. …
My heartbeat races as I pull up alongside it and switch off my engine.
Dad and Debbie must have been listening, because they open the door and step out of the caravan.
Dad’s wearing sports shorts and trainers, with a blue-striped polo shirt that’s a little too tight for his belly.
His hair is still thick and predominantly the color of milk chocolate, with only patches of gray at the front and sides.
Debbie’s dressed in pink sandals, gray shorts and an eggplant-colored sleeveless top that complements her—presumably dyed—brunette hair.
Their skin is still pale, although Dad’s already managed to get sunburnt on his nose.
“Alreet, lad,” he says.
We exchange bright smiles and awkward hugs, and I realize my forehead has broken into a stress sweat. I wipe it with my forearm.
“After all these weeks, I still haven’t got used to the heat,” I lie.
“I’m not surprised,” says Dad. “It’s crackin’ flags.”
“I’m t’ same, love,” offers Debbie. “I’m sweatin’ cobs.” She suggests we go inside, where it’s cooler.
The caravan has several high-tech air-conditioning units that are mounted on the walls, plus real wood floors, an enormous flat-screen TV, and patio doors leading onto a terrace equipped with sun loungers and a hot tub.
“Well, this is nice,” I coo.
“It’s dead posh, i’n’t it?” says Debbie.
Scattered around are framed photos of a family, at the center of them a woman in her fifties who I recognize from Debbie’s retirement party as her former boss.
Dad sits on the L-shaped sofa, taking up most of one side with his huge frame. I perch across from him.
Debbie starts fussing over the drinks, running through a list of the cans and bottles in the fridge. “Or I’m brewin’ up,” she says. “We always bring our own PG Tips.”
I’m about to say no, thanks, and ask for something cold, but stop myself and say yes.
Debbie fills the kettle and drops tea bags into three mugs. She’s a sturdy woman with thick arms, but agile and still sprightly. She’s always been eager to please but today she seems nervous. “Sorry, love, I can’t remember if you take sugar,” she says.
“No, thanks.”
In her flustered state, she puts a teaspoon of it in my mug. As I watch her tip the contents down the sink and start again, I feel a stab of guilt for the hostility I used to show her. I’m not surprised I make her nervous.
I overcompensate by being wildly cheerful. “The campsite looks fab!”
Debbie seems relieved to be on safe ground. “I know! You want to see t’ clubhouse—it’s like bein’ in a five-star hotel.”
Dad flashes her a cheeky grin. “They don’t have beer on draft, though. Only bottles.”
Debbie gasps. “Mart! I don’t know how I put up wi’ you!” But her tone is affectionate. “Finally, we get the chance to come somewhere classy and all you can do is moan about t’ beer.”
“Not just t’ beer,” Dad teases. “They also don’t have anywhere to watch t’ football.”
“What are you like?” Debbie rolls her eyes and brings the tea over. She sits down next to Dad and he shuffles to one side.
“How’s Theo, love?” she asks.
I feel a twinge of discomfort. I haven’t officially told them Theo’s my boyfriend, although they obviously know.
“Does he still support Man City?” pipes Dad.
My discomfort doubles. Why does Dad always have to make it about football?
But I tell myself I don’t need to feel inadequate anymore. I don’t need to be upset by football.
I reveal that Theo and Callum went to the match yesterday and share Theo’s comments and observations. Dad’s fascinated, his eyebrows raised.
“And how’s it goin’ wi’ the house you’re doin’ up?” asks Debbie, blowing on her tea.
“Yeah, brill, thanks.” I give them a rundown of the improvements, making special mention of the windows for Dad.
“It sounds fantastic,” Debbie comments, sipping from her mug. “Did you say it belonged to your mum’s uncle?”
“Yeah. He was called Wilf.”
Dad runs his hand through his hair, leaving it even more tousled than usual. “You know, I’ve thought about it and I can’t remember her mentionin’ him. Or anyone else in t’ family.”
I fill them in with a summary of Wilf’s story. “So nobody had spoken to him since Mum was very little. But she got in touch with him a few months before she died. I actually found her letters.”
Something shifts in the atmosphere, as if the air has sharpened.
But I’m not backing out now.
I finish my tea and set it down on the little glass-topped table. “Actually, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about, Dad.”
Debbie stands up and says she’ll nip out.
“You don’t need to,” I insist.
“No, I need a pint o’ milk from t’ shop,” she says. “It won’t take long. And it’ll give you and your dad a bit of time on your own.”
Dad smiles but I can tell he’s concerned.
“I know how Mum died,” I blurt out, as soon as Debbie’s out of the door. “I read her letters and found out she was seeing another bloke. I phoned Auntie Julie and asked her about it.”
Dad frowns. “We always said we’d protect you from that.”
“To be honest, I didn’t give her much choice. And I’d already found out most of it from the letters.”
I spot what looks like shame scudder across Dad’s face. “Yeah, well, I could tell summat were up. But I didn’t realize it were as bad as that. I didn’t realize she were going to leave me.”
I give a little cough. “Apparently, Mum and this bloke were going to stay with Uncle Wilf.”
Dad tilts his head. “Well, I didn’t know that. Although now you mention it, I do remember she were goin’ to Italy.” He finishes his tea and puts down his mug. “What else did Julie say?”
I draw in a ragged breath. “She told me about the night Mum died. She told me how it happened.”
Dad looks out of the window. “I hope you didn’t find it too upsettin’.”
“I’m glad I found out,” I say, nodding, firmly.
There’s a beat.
I tighten my jaw. “But it must have been upsetting for you.”
Dad’s eyes take him somewhere else. “It were, lad, yeah.”
I don’t want to be cruel but need to push him a little further. “Auntie Julie said you took it hard.”
Dad turns to face me. “Well, if you want to get everything out in t’ open, yeah, I couldn’t cope. I had a breakdown.”
I squeeze my eyes shut and snap them open again. I’m so stunned I can’t think of anything to say. Surely not? Surely not my big, strong, manly dad?
“In them days, men didn’t have breakdowns,” Dad goes on. “Or posh, clever men might have done—not men like me. If they did, they didn’t talk about it. So I were ashamed and didn’t want anyone to know.”
“Oh, Dad,” is all I manage to say.
“Obviously, I were grievin’,” Dad continues. “And whatever ’appened, I did love your mum. But I were also gutted she’d cheated on me. And I thought it were my fault.”
“How do you mean?”
“Well, I could have paid her more attention, told her she looked nice and that, taken her out, told her I loved her.” He lets out a shaky sigh.
“If I had, maybe she wouldn’t have started messin’ about with that other bloke.
Maybe she wouldn’t have walked into that car. Maybe you wouldn’t have lost your mum.”
I’m flabbergasted. I had no idea he was thinking all this. All I manage to say is, “Dad, don’t think like that.”
He leans forward and clasps his hands. “I don’t anymore. But I did at t’ time.”
“And how did you get over it?”
“Your Auntie Julie marched me down to see t’ doctor. She wanted me to see some counselor an’ all, but I couldn’t be doing with that.”
I rub my collarbone. “And what did the doctor do?”
“He put me on antidepressants and said I should get someone to look after you for a while. That’s when you went and lived with her. By the time I were back on my feet, you didn’t want to come back wi’ me.”
I’m still reeling. “What, so it wasn’t because I was gay?”
I realize that’s the first time I’ve actually told Dad I’m gay. I realize I’ve just come out to him.
He looks confused. “You what? Why would it be because of that?”
“I don’t know. I just thought you were disappointed, with the way I turned out.”
After so long, I can’t believe we’re having this conversation—and both of us speaking so openly, much more openly than we’ve ever spoken to each other before.
In a way, it’s like I’ve detached from it and am watching two actors play our roles.
At the same time, I’m so engaged I can feel every muscle in my body clenched, every nerve on edge.
“I thought you wanted to start again with Trevor and Keith,” I go on. “I thought you liked them more than me.”
Dad shakes his head. “Give over, lad! I’ll admit I knew what to do wi’ them but that’s not t’ same thing. I didn’t know owt about gays. I hadn’t met any till you. You have to remember I grew up in t’ fifties, on a council estate in Wigan.”
I feel a pique of annoyance. “Dad, I’m sure there were gays on council estates in Wigan.”
“Well, not any who admitted it. It were another world back then.”
I stiffen in expectation of the question I need to ask next. “You did know I was gay, then?”
Dad runs his hand along his jaw. “Your mum said she thought you might be, but I didn’t really know what it meant.
I just thought it meant you’d be lonely and hang around public toilets and get beaten up and die of AIDS.
And I wanted to stop that ’appening to you.
So I tried to get you interested in football.
I tried to steer you towards things normal boys liked. ”
He spots me flinch at the word normal.
“Sorry, lad. Even now I don’t know t’ right words.”
I slide my hands under my thighs. “But you can’t change someone, Dad. You can’t make someone fancy girls, just like no one could have made you fancy boys.”
He scratches his cheek. “Yeah, well, obviously I know that now. But I didn’t at t’ time.
Nobody talked about that kind of thing in them days.
The only thing you heard about gays were horrible things you read in t’ paper.
It’s not like now, when you can go online and find out about anything you want and there are gays in Corrie and Emmerdale.
They even ’ave ’em on quiz shows, you know.
Debbie saw a lesbian on The Chase the other day. I’n’t that great?”
I smile. “Yeah, it is.”
But I’m realizing how little I know of Dad’s story. And there’s so much overlap between our lives, so many ways in which his life has influenced mine. In a way, his story is my story. If I can’t understand him, I can’t understand myself.
“Anyway, I didn’t know what to do about it,” he goes on. “And I didn’t know how to talk to you. I just felt like I’d failed you as a dad.”
I lower my eyes to the floor. “I felt like I’d failed you as a son.”
There’s a heavy silence.
I look up. “Dad, why have we never talked about this?”
“I always thought you weren’t comfortable with it,” he says. “You never wanted to see me at t’ best of times. I were frightened if I pushed it, I’d lose you completely.”
I feel dragged down by guilt. Because he’s right: I do feel uncomfortable around him.
I do struggle with his masculinity—his deep voice, his slightly earthy scent, his love of beer and football, even the way he calls me “lad.” As Ian would say, I find it triggering, because it reminds me of what I’m not.
So I pushed him away. To protect myself, I shut him out completely.
I swallow. “Sorry, Dad. I think I misunderstood you. I didn’t give you a fair chance.”
He inches forward. “Don’t be daft, lad. You’ve nowt to apologize for. I’m sorry I weren’t always sensitive. I’m sorry I didn’t know how to talk about things.”
“It’s OK,” I manage to say. But I can feel myself collapsing inwards. Because all this time I’ve been thinking I was abandoned by both parents, I’ve been thinking that neither of them loved me. And it turns out I was wrong on both counts.
I can feel the tears rushing to my eyes. But I don’t want to break down here. I don’t want Dad to see me crying.
I stand up and make for the door. “Sorry, Dad, I’ve got to go.”
“You what, lad?”
I grasp the handle. “Sorry. I will be able to talk about this. Just not yet.”