Page 30 of Not Strictly Ballroom

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.

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