The Beard (24 page)

Tom remained silent. It was a fair enough request, but he was concerned that more delays would only lead to more problems. “And yes, Thomas,” Amy said rigidly, “as soon as I know, I’ll have the courage to tell her.” Tom nodded, while simultaneously hoovering his breakfast up. “Do you want me to tell her we’re not an item?” Amy then asked, rather oddly.

Tom stopped eating. “Yes, of course. It’s a nonsense. It gets us into more binds than it gets us out of.” Amy nodded slowly, raising her eyebrows as if to say, “Uh-huh.” Tom realised that something had happened, but wasn’t sure what. Surely, she wasn’t suggesting what he thought she was suggesting. “You’re not saying that if you tell your mum you’re single, I should tell work, are you?”

Amy shrugged and lifted he
r eyebrows as high as she could.

“It’s totally different,” he said defiantly. “If your mother finds out about you, what’s the worst that’ll happen? She’ll get ancy with you and keep telling you that she’s not got long left to see a grandchild. Me? Oh, well, I could just get sacked, not get another job, lose the house and become homeless. The stakes aren’t exactly stacked in the same way, are they?”

There was an air of exasperated irritation about Tom now. It maddened him that he was aware of the scale of issues facing Amy, but as far as she was concerned it was a simple matter of just coming out. Like declaring what you were having for lunch. People were killed for coming out. People lost their jobs, their homes and their lives for coming out. Amy’s mother already thought that Amy was a screw-up, so what was there to be lost? He could lose everything he’d worked his life to get. He’d kept his head down, played the game and ignored his own desires for years. Instead, he’d helped others through charity work, and befriended waifs and strays. He’d done all of this so that he could get on in life. Yes, people were out, people were gay in public life, but there was no legislation to stop him being fired. There was no protection. So every step he took into his own personal unchartered territory could be fatal. This wasn’t something that could just be decided and done. The ingredients were a bit more explosive than, “Mum, I lied – I’m actually still single.”

Tom’s anger was evident and Amy knew that she’d pushed the wrong buttons. Right now, she needed him on her side, so she went into salvage and soothe mode.

“I’m not saying it’s easy,” she said gently. “I’m not saying you can do it just like that. What I’m actually saying is this… I don’t care if you let people at work know. That’s your business, not theirs. You only work there, after all. What I AM saying is… well… it’s time for you to find someone, too. You use work as a defensive mechanism, something to hide behind. Yes, you could lose your job, so it might make sense for you to stay quiet there. But really, is that a reason why you should act like a monk? You deserve to be happy, too. That’s what I’m saying.”

Tom’s bubble was burst. His irritation gave way to humility. He knew that Amy was right. He felt like he’d been felled by the stunning simplicity of her point. Only in distant dark, drunken moments alone, or as yet another one-night stand walked out rather than stay the night, did he consider such toxic topics. Tom had spent so many years hiding, avoiding and dodging that he’d forgotten what it was like to feel, to crave, to desire. All of his emotions had been frozen, suspended, preserved. As time continued its remorseless path towards tomorrow, Tom remained stuck in the past, his body ageing, his opportunities narrowing and his hope eviscerated.

He rarely had moments of such crowbar clarity, where the truth smashes the barriers and pretence. On such occasions, he just panicked. Tom was a man who’d built his life around a capacity to control, to co-ordinate. He’d endeavoured to insulate his life from any shocks. An adult life invested in the pursuit of protecting his privacy had created a vacuum, a space where his life should be. He’d sanitised his prospects to avoid conflict, to such an extent that he had nothing left to enjoy. He defended his personal status quo on the basis of self-preservation but, as times moved on, such a line looked increasingly flimsy.

For all his work guarding, avoiding and distancing, it had been for nothing. Yes, he could say he was safeguarding his job and his house, but what else? He was now working to preserve a life that kept him alone. At what point did that not require defending?

This deeply and rightly unsettled Tom. He’d begun to think dangerous thoughts, thoughts he was sure that he’d locked into a mirror and sent tumbling off into space. Was his job more important than his personal happiness? By continuing to remain closeted, was he merely ensuring that he always would be? The longer he refused to live, the more he never could. At some point, that had to change. The prospect of a life spent alone, just so that people at work didn’t find out, was too much to cope with. At what point did one say, “Enough is enough”?

Yes, it was a leap – a terrifying, bat-shit-scary leap, but he knew deep, deep down that it had to be done. The longer he left it, the harder it became. Amy was right, living like a monk wasn’t a route to happiness.

Tom sat opposite Amy, chastened.

“Looks like we’re both full of shit, then,” Amy said as if reading a menu. Tom smiled. Who was he to judge? “Shall we go and pack?” she enquired, plopping her knife and fork down onto an empty plate.

Tom glanced down at the faint trails of eggs left on Amy’s empty plate. “It’s nice to see that your news hasn’t spoiled your appetite,” he said bitchily.

Amy laughed. She knew that he was stung by her comments. “Yeah, well, it’s nice that you can see what you’re eating in that dark closet of yours,” came the immediate and waspish retort. “Besides,” she said, rummaging in her bag for her purse, “we’ll need the sustenance. It’s gonna be one hell of a weekend.”

And with that, she stood up and walked to the counter to pay. Tom looked around the room at the men going about their business. They sat in pairs, in threes and alone. He imagined what life would be like if they were couples. He imagined them out for dinner. He’d seen men out together many times in gay bars, but had somehow thought of them as something different. They were outside of normality. These men, they were reality. Tom struggled to align his feelings with a sense of normality. Brought up to understand normality as one thing, he couldn’t reconcile what he was within that. He was different, yes, but not different and equal. He was different and somehow lesser; somehow beyond or under normal. He worried that if he opened up, declared who he was, he’d never be as valid and as straightforward as the men sitting around him. As Amy chatted to the waitress, he scanned the room. He hid under a cover of straightness because, to him, that was a veil of normality. The concept that a gay man was also run-of-the-mill, every-day normal was a total anathema. He could never stand shoulder to shoulder with these men and be the man he really was. He would always have to be something else, or someone else. How could he be equal? They were men; he didn’t feel like he qualified for that title. And with that, Tom wiped a solitary tear away as it darted briskly down his cheek.

“You ready?” said Amy, wandering back to the table, putting things back in her bag.

“There’s only one way to find out,” said Tom, smiling and standing to his feet.

Amy’s mother was immediately suspicious. “What’s wrong?” she asked, concerned. “You are still coming, aren’t you?”

“Yes, mother,” Amy replied petulantly. “I’m just telling you that we’re running a bit late. Tom had to go into work, as he had a small crisis to sort out.”

Tom glanced in Amy’s direction, as he stood surrounded by piles of clothes. He rolled his eyes and shook his head.

“But you are still coming? You’re BOTH still coming?” Amy’s mother asked, pronouncing each word as if in an elocution lesson (and to ensure that there could be no misunderstandings).

Amy sighed. “Yes, mother, for the umpteenth time, we’re both still coming.” There was a short pause of disbelief. Amy sighed and theatrically looked up at Tom, who was staring at clothes, trying to work out where to begin. “Tom,” Amy asked loudly, “what time is it?” Tom turned his watch up so that Amy could see the time. Amy had no interest in the time, as this was merely an exercise in maternal placation. She shook her head. “Sorry,” she said with pronounced determination, “what did you say?” She held the phone in Tom’s direction.

“Nearly two,” he said to the phone.

Amy put the phone back to her ear. “Right, now, unless you think I just collared the gas man to give me the time, are you going to believe that we’re both coming? I have some final bits of packing to do and then we’ll be off.”

“Packing?” said Amy’s mother. “Why haven’t you packed?”

Amy moved from one foot to another. “Oh, I had but I knocked a cup of coffee over my luggage, so most things had to go through the cycle again. Don’t worry, everything’s dried.” Another pause followed. “And yes, I aired everything.”

Amy’s mother was now less concerned with their late arrival than her daughter’s damp clothes. “Good. Because you know that Mrs Dyke got pneumonia from clothes that hadn’t been aired. They said it wasn’t that, but we all knew. Have you made sure everything is bone dry?”

“Mother!” shouted Amy. “Everything is brittle to the point of desiccated. It’s dry.” This was one of life’s permanent fixtures, hearing about her mother’s friend’s chiropodist who’d died of pneumonia. It was said that Mrs Dyke had never believed in making sure that her clothes were dry before wearing them and, as a result,
she’d died. This alarming, cautionary and generally unbelievable tale was wheeled out whenever laundry or related issues were discussed – in other words, more often than Amy cared for. “You can check when I arrive if you like,” she said. “I’ve had them in the tumble dryer all night.” It was another lie but, one could argue, a white one.

“Even the woollens?” gasped Amy’s mother in shock.

Amy had grown tired of the meaningless see-saw. “Mother, the longer I stay on here talking, the later we’ll be. Your move.”

Yet another pause arrived, until Amy’s mother said, “Your father and I can’t wait to meet Tom. Drive safe.” There was a kiss and then the phone was disconnected.

“Right,” said Tom, looking down at Amy’s wardrobe, which was scattered across her bedroom floor. “We need to get rid of everything that says three months in Thailand and replace it with stuff that’s more a weekend in the countryside.” Then, glancing around at the array of clothes, he added, “How fortunate that you have so many chunky items.”

Amy shot Tom a curt glare and began stuffing things in bags. Appalled by his friend’s guerilla style of packing, Tom wandered over and took control. “Pass me the items,” he said, pushing Amy out of the way. “I’ll pack.” Then, looking her up and down, he added, “Heathen.”

In no time at all, both Amy and Tom were navigating the roads, plotting an escape of the city for the wilds that lay outside. While they were aware of the inherent beauty of the countryside, neither was especially fond of it. They’d both noted that if they wanted to go anywhere to clear their heads, they would just retreat to their favourite pub. They knew when it would be busy and quiet, so they could relax quite happily without having to smell cow poo.

“You nervous?” Amy asked as they took the slip road onto the motorway and out into no-man’s land.

“Nope,” Tom replied confidently. He was feeling a bit bored, a bit impatient and a bit apprehensive, but not nervous. He was fed up with playing roles and with the related shenanigans that it brought. In truth, he just wanted to get back to the city and start building his new life as an out gay man.

Well, that was the plan (again).

As for the weekend ahead, he had no nerves, no fear – and no interest, if he was honest. Just a desire to get it over and done with, so that life could continue. A weekend making small talk about babies, weddings, children, vol-au-vents and the like left him cold rather than scared. His greatest fear was being bored to tears by some over-eager family member keen to know when he and Amy were naming a date. The more he imagined the mind-numbing tedium that evidently awaited him, the more depressed and bored he felt. That made him feel impatient, as if these were to be the longest two days known to mankind.

On the upside, not caring one way or another made him relax. He wasn’t looking forward to the wedding, but at least he wasn’t dreading it. That’s what he’d expected to feel – dread. So, having a casual, “come what may” approach was oddly liberating.

Amy, however, remained unconvinced. “You sure?” she asked again.

Tom turned briefly to look at her. At least her eyes have un-puffed, he thought. “Sounds to me like you’re the nervous one,” he offered as yet another sign edging them closer to judgement day whizzed by.

“I’m not nervous,” countered Amy. “Just… I don’t know. I just want this weekend to pass off without any incident. I’m prepared to be bored. I’m ready to be annoyed and patronised. I don’t mind people asking me when I’m finally going to have kids or saying that I’ve put on weight. I’m ready for all of that. I just don’t want any… any… you know, cock-ups.”

Tom smiled. “Neither do I,” he said, before cheekily adding, “figuratively speaking.”

Amy looked out of the window. As each clump of greenery sped past, she felt as if she was being propelled through a vortex, hurtling back in time. As it didn’t matter whether her parents liked Tom or not, it had never occurred to her to worry about that. Had she been bringing a real boyfriend back, she’d have been suffering paroxysms of self-doubt and, probably, loathing. As it was, she hadn’t given any thought to it. This felt like she was just bringing a friend home for tea. In some respects, she regarded it as a dry run for the real event.