Chapter 18

I raise my glass and take a long drink of the cool beer.

Darcy and I have been practising hard over the last few days for the regionals, as well as what we plan to dance at the Nationals. We've also been discussing plans for the forties event, though that will happen after the competition. But today, Darcy is having a family dinner with his sister and his parents for their anniversary. And so it is that I find myself at a loose end on a Sunday afternoon and accept my dad's invitation to join him at the club.

It's been a long time since I've gone to the working men's club. It used to be a regular haunt when I was younger, being dragged along to bingo nights and cheesy discos. I don't think it's changed much since then. The bench-style seating is still covered in the same worn Draylon,and half the tables have beer mats wedged under one leg to counteract the wobble. If you sniff too deeply, not to be recommended, you can still smell the faint whiff of stale tobacco from when smoking was permitted. It's also been the event location for every imaginable personal occurrence in our community. From christenings, through birthday parties, weddings, and wakes, the club is a focal point for recording all the major events of life.

Mostly, though, it serves as a local pub—especially for the workers who have been, or still are part of the steel industry. Dad has been coming here to meet his friends every weekend since he started working. I can't remember a time when he's missed a Sunday. Even on Saturday match days, he would meet up with his friends prior to kick-off. Sundays were for game analysis, which was what was happening around me. My dad, Alan, and their other friend, Barry.

I let their discussion wash over me. I don't have any interest in football, so I'm completely oblivious when they ask a question.

"Is tha coming t'match next week?"

"Hmm?" I look up, a little dazed.

"T'match? Is tha coming?" It was Barry who asked.

"No, I can't. I'm dancing next weekend." It's the date of the regional competition, and my chance to prove I'm good enough to dance at the Nationals.

"Is tha still doing that?" They knew I danced, but I don't see my dad's friends very often.

"Yes, I am. Darcy and I have a competition next week."

There's a brief pause before Barry responds. "Darcy? She sounds summat posh for you."

I wince slightly, even though it's a natural enough assumption. Men dance with women, right? And it's not like Darcy is a masculine name. It can be used for any gender.

I catch my dad's eye. He's gone stock still, pint glass half-raised to his mouth. At this moment, I understand he'd never told his friends about me. I didn't think it was a secret, but I can't imagine him announcing to the world that he has a gay son. It's only been a couple of weeks since I knew he fully accepted me.

I don't have a problem with the world knowing who I am, but I'm here, in my dad's domain, and I don't want to make his life any harder. These aren't my friends, so I don't need them to know. I can just walk away. But these are my dad's only friends, and I think back to how I'd heard him with Alan when they were working together, the jocularity and how comfortable he was. I wouldn't ruin that for him.

As I watch him, he blinks very slowly, and then gives me a barely perceptible nod. Luckily I speak Dad, and I know he's saying, "It's up to you, son."

I'm pretty sure my dad knows his friends well enough to know they aren't homophobes, but he could be putting their friendships on the line here. A warmth spreads in my core and expands in my chest with pride, that he's willing to do that for me.

I give him a small smile to show that I understand.

It's my call.

He's known and worked with his friends for years. I know what working banter is like, especially in heavy industry, and to say it isn't politically correct would be an understatement. Even though they might not hold the prejudices behind their words, they are of a generation where racial and gender stereotyping were normal, especially on television. It's a hard habit to break, the sayings and catchphrases that have been beamed into your brain every evening for decades. I don't feel like taking on the role of educator for them. But at the same time, if I don't say anything now, I'll miss my chance.

It's my call.

I think back to Darcy's concerns that he felt he didn't know how to behave in society. His fears that he wouldn't be accepted. He wasn't even exposed to the same dour and unpretentious people I was through my dad and work, and he was still worried. But we can only make things easier for people like Darcy if we're willing to stand up for ourselves and normalise who we are. I could do this for him, I would do this for him.

It's my call . . .

And then it isn't.

My dad kicks it straight out of the park.

I watch as he turns to Alan and Barry.

"Darcy's a lad. He's Nick's boyfriend."

Time stretches. No one says a word. I receive a small, nervous smile from my dad and I fully understand what he's just done for me. He's been the one to stand up for us and I've never loved him more than I do right now.

I can see that, even though he was confident things would be alright, in this moment where everything hangs in the balance, a thousand possibilities are probably hurtling through his mind. The silence at the table warps, and sounds I haven't heard before create a jarring contrast. The clink of glasses at the bar. The door through to the toilets bangs. The clack as someone takes a shot at the pool table in the corner.

I reach for my glass, needing to ease the sandpaper lining my throat. As I take a gulp, Barry stands, and three sets of eyes follow him.

"Well, I hope he looks better in one of them fancy frocks than tha would. Tha's shoulders are too wide to carry it off." He slaps me on the back as he passes. I choke on my beer.

"Reyt, it's my round. Does tha want another?" He doesn't wait for an answer and toddles off to the bar. The world comes back into focus as I cough, trying to recover from my beer going down the wrong pipe. I snort to dispel the residue that's coming back down my nose.

My dad sits back, blowing out his cheeks in relief.

Alan glances between us and then fixes his gaze on my dad. "What, you didn't think we knew about Nick?" He jerks his head at me. I pick up my glass to take another swig. I'm very behind on finishing if Barry is fetching more.

My dad stares wide-eyed at him for a few seconds, a furrow across his brow.

"I mean, the lad doesn't like football," Alan pronounces.

I lose my beer again.

"You can't say that!" I cough, wearing more of my drink than I'd like, which is none.

"Well, it's true, isn't it?"

"Well, yes, I don't like football, but that isn't a prerequisite for being gay. There are loads of gay footballers, and fans."

Alan grunts at me. A noise that means he understands his argument doesn't hold up, but he's clinging to it anyway. I bite back a smile. My dad and his friends are cut from the same cloth. They'll believe what they want to believe and create a world around it.

Barry arrives back from the bar and, with a long-practised art, places three pint glasses down in one go, disappearing for a moment to fetch the fourth, and a few packets of crisps and pork scratchings which he plops down on the table. Beer snacks. This is unprecedented. It's almost a celebration. My dad, who still looks like he's in shock, turns to Barry.

"Did you know about Nick?"

Barry is busy opening a packet of pork scratchings. "Aye, suspected, for sure." Having extracted one, uses it for emphasis as he waves his hand in my direction. "He wears makeup, Frank."

Again, not an indication, but as I'm currently wearing a bit of eyeliner, I'm going to let that one pass for now. Looks like I got the educator role after all.

My dad runs his hand down his face like he can't take it all in, and I give him my most reassuring smile. He'll be alright.

I pick up the full pint glass in front of me and raise it slightly.

"Thanks Barry."

"Tha's welcome lad." Barry nods. "Now tell us 'bout this dance competition. Our Brenda loves that one on the telly. Is it owt like that?"

I spend the next few minutes explaining the similarities and the differences between official competitions and the celebrity versions that are broadcast. I tell them a bit about the regional and the national competitions.

They ask questions, some of them intelligent about the dances, and some of them for fun, like, "Who gets to be t'girl?" and, "Dus thee have to wear a dress?" I decide to take them all in good humour.

When I say that the Nationals are being held at the city hall this year, Alan pipes up. "Ooh, is that what our Maggie's been on about? She mentioned something the other day. I reckon I might get her some tickets, then."

"Aye, me too, for our Bren," Barry chimes in.

They both look at my dad, who's looking like someone has replaced his friends with aliens.

"You must have got some already, Frank."

That my dad would want to come along had never occurred to me. I wasn't sure he knew about it as I hadn't told him, though of course Mum knew. No doubt she would have found a way to make sure he came along in that subtle way she has with him. I see confusion cross his face, because if there's one thing my dad isn't, it's a liar. But I don't want him to have to uncomfortably own up to his friends that he doesn't have tickets.

"Of course he has," I reply for him, making a mental note to ask Claire if it's possible to get some really good tickets for my parents.

My dad smiles a look of thanks, and recovers enough to join in the rest of the conversation. He looks more comfortable when talk returns to familiar ground, and we stay for a couple more rounds.

Later, we walk back up the hill towards home. I'm trying to process what just happened. I've spent a lot of my life feeling like I just existed in my dad's life. That he was fine with me as long as I didn't draw attention to being different. That he could ignore it, sweep it under the carpet.

I discovered he was more accepting the other week. But what he did tonight has blown me away; to own me in front of his friends is no small thing.

Dusk is settling around us, and I don't know if it's the effect of the afternoon drinking, or if it's that time of day—on the cusp between light and dark, when confidences seem able to slip more easily through the cracks—that prompts him to speak.

"I'm sorry, son." His voice is quiet and I'm not sure if I've heard him right. I don't answer.

"I'm sorry for not taking an interest. I didn't realise it meant so much to you."

He stops and I halt beside him. He's staring straight ahead and I want him to look at me. I want to know if he means it.

"Dad?" He turns to face me. "Thank you for doing that for me back in the pub."

"I'm proud of you, Nick. I might not always have shown it, but I am. I want you to know that."

He opens his arms and I step forward into them. I can't remember the last time my dad hugged me. I bury my face in the rough material of his jacket and hug him back. Eventually, he releases me and I step back. He gives me a couple of nods and I smile. He doesn't speak and I know why. If I can see the dampness I feel in the corners of my eyes mirrored in his, then the lump in my throat must be there, too. We silently resume our journey back home.