A Surrey State of Affairs (37 page)

Sophie wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and said, “Yeah, Mum, get over it. He’s waiting for you to get in touch. He doesn’t want to put pressure on you so he’s not going to call.”

Tanya and Sophie both looked at me with expectant eyes. In the background, Boris was quietly wiping down the work surfaces.

“What do you think?” Tanya said, addressing him. “Shouldn’t Constance get in touch with her son, who’s just come out?”

Sophie added, “As in, he’s gay.”

Boris put down his cloth and said thoughtfully, “In Poland it is very hard for men who are gay if they are not in the big cities. Life can be cruel for them, sometimes their family want nothing to do with them. Here, no. Britain is better in this way, people are people. Your son is your son. It is the person what counts.” Then he went back to cleaning.

Once again, Tanya and Sophie stared at me. “Just do it,” Tanya said, handing me my mobile. I said I would send him a text, and started to key it in. I hit
SEND.
They both sighed happily, and exchanged smug glances.

But they hadn’t seen what I had sent, which was:
Rupert, pls remember to send a card for grandma’s birthday, august 24.

  
SATURDAY, AUGUST 16

7 A.M.

I have just woken from a terrible dream. It was the day of the competition and somehow Rupert was meant to be ringing with us, next to Gerald, but when we got to the belfry to take up our positions for our turn he wasn’t there; we looked and looked and finally we found him outside, standing with the St. Albans group, whose numbers had also been swelled by Graham Norton. Rupert had switched to the wrong team. He was wearing leather trousers and smiling.

Even afterward, when I was awake and knew it had just been a bad dream, I couldn’t shake off that image. I sent him a text saying:
Rupert, do you own any leather trousers?

He replied:
No. 2 jeans, 2 chinos, 2 suit trousers. That’s it.

I suppose I must draw comfort where I can. I don’t want you to think that I’m a hideous bigot, the sort of person who would harbor an unquenchable hatred for someone just because of their choice of trouser material. It’s just that when you spend years and years thinking that you know someone so well, when even the way the muscles in their cheeks dip when they smile has been familiar to you for more than two decades, and then you suddenly find out that for all of their adult life they have been hiding something from you and you don’t really know everything about them at all, that they have never shared their hopes and heartbreaks with you—well. It isn’t easy, suffice it to say.

I wonder if Jeffrey is also suffering from sleepless nights and sorrow-filled days, or if he has sublimated all his anxiety into shooting birds.

  
SUNDAY, AUGUST 17

8 A.M.

A text from Rupert:
Good luck today. Let me know when yr ready to talk.

I must rush off. Gerald will be waiting with the minibus at the village green. Despite my nerves, I have had a full breakfast—two boiled eggs, toast, tea, and juice—to sustain me through the day. I wouldn’t want to fall into a malnourished trance and find myself distracted by Graham Norton hallucinations at a key moment.

7 P.M.

What a day! Never again will I trust in the shared values that bind all ringers together.

We arrived at St. Albans at ten-thirty, a little later than
expected after having to go back once for Daphne’s reading glasses and once for Reginald’s sweatbands. It was a pleasant, almost idyllic scene that awaited us: the church spires sweeping elegantly up into a pale blue sky, merry (not gay—I will not say gay) bunting fluttering in the breeze, twenty teams of ringers from the South and South East milling about with flasks of tea and picnic hampers, awaiting their turn to show off their skills. We gathered our sashes and name tags—every team is assigned a different color, and ours was a fetching turquoise—then huddled together in a corner of the churchyard for a pep talk. After we had carefully arranged our sashes over our safety harnesses, Reginald shouted, “Can we do it?” and made us reply, “Yes, we can!” while punching the air. Gerald obeyed with particular vigor and then winced, as if he had pulled his shoulder joint.

Our adversaries, the St. Albans team, were on the opposite side of the churchyard, sitting quietly in their red sashes and praying. I was sure that one of them, a thin woman with gray-striped hair like a badger, kept staring at us with a strange look on her face, but just as I was about to mention it to the others I was swept into another rousing chorus of “Yes, we can.”

It was when we were eating our bananas, as Reginald had suggested we do for energy twenty minutes before our performance, that we first noticed something was amiss. My sash had been chafing. I presumed it was the heat, and the scratchy material, but the itching sensation kept increasing in intensity until I could hardly bear it. I suddenly realized that Reginald was scratching, and Gerald, and Miss Hughes, and in fact the whole team of ringers. There were small bumps on the skin of my shoulder. Sabotage! I called the team together and explained my suspicions.

“Who gave you the sashes?” I asked Gerald. “Was it one of the officials?”

“No, actually,” he said, jiggling his shoulders up and down. “It was the lady from St. Albans with the funny hair. I thought she was just being helpful.”

I had another theory. Itching powder. But what to do? Even if we all rinsed off in the rather inadequate bathroom facilities, we would still be too uncomfortable to perform unhindered. What we needed was chamomile lotion, and fast. I asked an official where the nearest chemist was, but she just shook her head and said that the one in the village was shut. It was Sunday. Where could I turn?

I suddenly had a thought. Rupert. Whenever I mention a place I’d like to go to—a National Trust house, a restaurant—he has the annoying habit of tapping it into his mobile or his LapTop and telling me exactly how many miles away it is and how to get there. Perhaps he could do the same thing for open chemists in the St. Albans area. I got out my mobile and scrolled through to his number. It rang twice, then he answered: “Mum! I’m so happy you called! This means so much to me.”

“Rupert, I need chamomile. Urgently. Where is the nearest open chemist to St. Albans Church?”

“Uh, what? Uh, hang on, I’ll go on Google Maps.”

And he did. He found one and, while Reginald drove, called out the directions. I ran in, grabbed a bottle, threw some money at the baffled-looking girl behind the counter, jumped back in the car, and then Reginald sped us back to the church at five miles over the speed limit, apologizing loudly to God and any hidden speed cameras as we went.

We arrived with six minutes to spare, and slathered the lotion all over our red, bumpy, uncomfortable shoulders. The relief was
sweet. When we were summoned into the belfry, we felt abuzz, united, determined to perform. We rang our bells as we had never rung them before. We had precision, we had passion. Even Gerald didn’t peak prematurely. At the end of the afternoon, none of us was surprised when we won; and the look on the faces of the St. Albans team as the results were read out made me forget, for a few glorious moments, that my son had recently announced he was gay. Instead of shaking our hands, Reginald rolled his into a fist, which he bumped against each of our hands in turn. The chamomile lotion must have gone to his head.

We drove home singing along to Radio 2, Miss Hughes tapping her long, yellow fingernails rhythmically against our trophy. And now I have just enough time to chivvy Sophie out of the bathroom so that I can have a quick shower before we all meet in The Plucked Pheasant for a celebratory drink.

  
MONDAY, AUGUST 18

The light hurts my eyes. I feel sick.

Why did I not stop after two glasses of champagne? Why?

I dimly remember calling Jeffrey, and his phone rang and rang to answerphone before I hung up, and then I remember calling Rupert, who picked up straightaway, and I told him that I loved him and that he would still be my son even if he went to live in Brighton to start a shop selling stick-on handlebar mustaches. I am mortified. English people do not articulate their feelings.

I think I will ask Boris for a glass of ice water and then go back to bed.

10 P.M.

My hangover is forgotten. I feel so much better. Rupert has just left. At about four o’clock he called to say that he needed
one of his old programming books that Jeffrey had stored away in the attic, and asked if it was okay if he came around after work. It was quite a long drive for a weeknight, so I said he had better stay for dinner, and I would make one of his favorites, chicken surprise with potato rissoles. As soon as I got off the phone, Sophie said she was glad I was sorting things out with Rupert because he was doing her head in calling her up to ask about me all the time, and then announced that she was off to meet a “mate” in the Italian café because chicken surprise was “lame”—the only surprise was that “it was chicken breasts stuffed with cheese and green stuff.” I told her that the green stuff was chopped sage and that I varied the cheese between Cheddar and Gloucestershire, so there was indeed an element of suspense. Then as I heard the door clink shut I thought of Rupert, and wondered what it would be like to look into his hazel eyes, which have just the same mix of green and gold flecks as Jeffrey’s.

A couple of hours later, I found out. After hearing him clunk the knocker three times, in exactly the same way he has done since childhood, I opened the door and saw him standing there, looking so handsome and shy in a light gray polo shirt and blue jeans, holding a small bunch of freesias in a cellophane wrapper. As I looked into his eyes I felt a familiar rush of affection, with a new edge to it. I am not normally the hugging type, but I hugged him. The spicy scent of his aftershave for some reason made me want to cry. Then I ushered him into the kitchen and gave him a cold beer from the fridge, which he sipped as I finished off dinner and chattered away about the bell-ringing championship and the size of Tanya’s bump.

It was only when he was halfway through the chicken surprise (Rupert agreed that the name was entirely appropriate) that he put down his knife and fork and looked at me, with a frown
making a tiny dent in his forehead. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner, Mum, I really am,” he said, speaking quickly. “I felt awful keeping it from you and it was just like there was never a good time. I thought about doing it when I was in university, which was the first time I felt like I could really be myself, but it was still so fresh, then I just kept putting it off and putting it off.…I did try to mention it once, but when I said that I had something to tell you, you said, ‘You haven’t been smoking that whacky baccy, have you?’ and went on about how you’d read in the paper that it was much stronger now than it used to be and it would poison my fine mind…”

I stared at him. He was right; I had completely forgotten that episode. Why hadn’t I listened to my son?

“And then I met Alex, and…I’m just really happy. I hope you’ll get to know him, Mum. I really think you’ll like him. He’s repotted that spider plant you got me at Christmas, and he loves reading, just like you.”