Page 119 of Pansies

He found him half under the family car, looking a bit like the Wicked Witch of the East if she’d gone for steel-toed boots. The Haynes Manual, very thumbed, was propped open on the workbench. The way his dad tended the car, whatever car it was, from the Ford Fiesta they’d had when Alfie was growing up, to the Vauxhall Astra now jacked up and wheelless in the middle of the garage, you’d have thought it was going into outer space, not down the shops twice a week.

“Uh. Hi.”

Alfred Senior emerged slowly. His spanner clanked on the concrete floor. “Alfie.”

Silence. Going on forever.

Say something say something say something.

Then his dad asked, “Shower alreet?”1

“Yeah.” Alfie tried to keep his voice normal. No disappointment or frustration. Or hope. “It’s fine.” Another silence. Crushing him slowly until he was only about an inch tall and maybe six years old. He took a deep breath. “Fen’s van won’t start. Probably needs a mechanic, to be honest, but I’d like to take a proper look at it. So I need to borrow some stuff.”

His dad shrugged in a help-yourself kind of way. Alfie felt a bit like Aladdin let loose in the cave of wonders, with all his dad’s shining, meticulously cared-for tools to choose from. Back in London, he had his own, but it didn’t feel the same, somehow. These were the treasures of his childhood. And his dad was trusting him with them, man-to-man.

He found a spare box and filled it up with wrenches and ratchets, screwdrivers and plyers. He nabbed a hammer and a breaker bar as well, and a couple of vice grips. His dad’s second-best multimeter because he didn’t quite have the balls to take his favourite.

“Does the engine crank?” his dad asked suddenly.2

Alfie looked up from an extension bar he was wondering if he needed. “I managed to get her going, but when you put her in gear, the engine cuts out.”

“Probably electrical, then.”

“Aye. Reckon it’s the transmission.”

“Torque converter playing silly buggers, mebbe?”

Alfie opened his mouth, intended to say something about the van—hopefully something that would impress his dad and prove what a good son he was. But what came out, ragged with a child’s uncomprehending hurt, was, “Dad, why does it matter that I’m gay?”

His voice echoed off the garage walls.

Gay-ay-ay-ay.

And the silence fell even heavier afterwards.

“Well.” His dad looked faintly confused. Definitely aggrieved that this had been sprung on him. “Cos it does.”

Alfie grabbed for something safe to feel. Found anger and held on tight. “That’s not an answer.”

“Bring the tools back when you’re done.”

“You can’t even talk about it, can you?”

His dad swung round slowly like a hammer blow. “I’ve nowt te say. You’ve been too long doon sooth, lad.”

“What? Cos I expect people to talk to each other?”

“Aye well. Not all of us have te be gan on aboot wor feelings every five seconds.”

“On account of it being so gay, you mean?”

A shrug.

“It’s not gay, Dad. It’s…it’s fucking human.” Alfie’s anger was getting away from him. Tangling up in other things. Making his voice shake. “I’ve spent my whole life trying to live up to you. Make you proud of me. Be the sort of son you want. And you…you can’t even say ‘I love you.’”

Alfred Senior was staring at him like he’d grown an extra head. Probably it would have been less awkward if he had. Probably they could have dealt with that: just make sure you buy longer scarves and two hats. But this, this mess of pain and silence? Impossible. His dad pushed himself to his feet, wincing a little as his back clicked, and grumbling rather than actually saying, “Divvent be daft. Ye know I do.”

“How? How would I know that, Da, when you won’t even look at me?”

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