Page 72 of Pansies

The day. God. A whole one.

He thought about giving up and going back to London early. But there was no way Greg would want to stay in on a Saturday night, which would mean Alfie would either have to sit around on his own on his sofa of doom, or let Greg take him to Fire or Heaven or Freedom, or somewhere else he wanted to party. And then what? Drink too much, dance like a twat, say no to drugs,and shag some bloke at the end of the night because it was what you did. It wasn’t even as if there was anything wrong with that. It had been pretty exciting at first when Greg had told him he needed to sow his oats, or spread his wings, or whatever. But it wasn’t what he wanted now.3 The taste of a stranger in his mouth. Not after Fen.

It crossed his mind that he could (should) go and see his family. Thank his dad properly for sorting out the bathroom after he’d made such a mess. Except that would involve actually talking to him—looking him in the eye—and yesterday had been bad enough. A hot, nasty feeling churned in Alfie’s stomach, just remembering. Better to be in London, in a careless crowd, where there was neither rejection nor belonging. But that was more than enough moping for one day. He texted Kev to see if he and his missus wanted to go out that night.

Raj?Kev sent back in a minute or two.

Somewhere else?suggested Alfie. And they went back and forth for a bit until Kev came up with another place near the Laygate Roundabout, and they agreed to meet there at seven.

Alfie had expected to be basically miserable, confused and unwanted, and waiting twitchily for the call that wasn’t coming. But, actually, neither his day nor his evening were as bad as he’d thought they might be. He wandered up the road to the Minchella’s, which was the local ice cream parlour and had a bunch of branches scattered about South Shields.4 His dad, who was weirdly into local history, had told Alfie this massive long story5 about how the family had emigrated to the North East at the end of the nineteenth century. There’d been bandits in it, but that was about all Alfie could remember.

The place hadn’t changed since he’d been brought here on summer Sundays for a treat. Well, maybe it was kind of smaller.Alfie could remember sharing one of these grey-leather booths with Billy, and it being infinitely capacious. Now he could barely squeeze into it. But the glitter of the Formica tables was just as bright, just as magical as it had ever been. He ordered a cheese toastie which was a cheese toastie in the most essential sense: very yellow cheese and very strong onion smooshed between two slices of very white bread, and it tasted amazing. If he’d asked for this anywhere in London, it would have been Gruyere and shallots in artisan bread.

Then he had a Coke float with vanilla ice cream, and that was perfect too. Right down to the way the froth bubbled up the sides of the glass. He drank it slowly, faffing about on his phone, trying to ignore the fact he was getting some odd looks. He’d forgotten there wasn’t much of a hanging-out-in-cafés culture in South Shields. If you wanted to sit around in public, you went to the pub like a normal person. If you wanted to look at the internet, that was what your house was for. The people around him were people with purpose: families and their children usually. An old man came in by himself at one point, but he left again once he’d finished his cup of tea. All the same, time slipped away pleasantly enough.

Later he met Kev and his new wife, Lisa, at The Place That Wasn’t The Raj. It was a bit awkward at first, especially since Kev thought it would be funny to start the conversation with “So, are ye still a poofter like?” But, as it turned out, it wasn’t the worst thing he could have said, because it meant Alfie and Lisa bonded over a mutual desire to smack him one. And then it was just like normal: old jokes and old affection, a friendship as familiar and comforting and slightly shabby as a favourite coat.

“So,” announced Kev over mains, “we’ve got some news, haven’t we, pet?”

“Oh aye, you tell him.”

Alfie glanced between them, slightly anxiously. “Tell me what?”

A pause, as if Kev was hoping for a drumroll, and then, “We’re expecting.”

“Expecting what?”

“A bairn, ye doylem.”

“Seriously?” Alfie nearly choked on his naan. “Already?”

Kev looked very slightly sheepish at that. “Well, te be completely honest wi’ ye, we did gerra a bit of a head start. But we was ganna do it anyway.”

Lisa—who Alfie was starting to realise was very pretty indeed, in a dark-eyed, expertly spray-tanned, Newcastle way—glanced anxiously at him. “Promise ye won’t say nowt? I divvent want people te think I’m a slapper.”

“They better not,” said Kev. “Cos it took the two of us.”6

They were kissing now—not making out, just tender, contented kisses. Far more intimate than all the groping and grinding and tashing that Alfie had witnessed over the years.

He took a fortifying swig from his pint. “They’d be able to figure it out, though.”

“Who?”

“Well, anyone able to do basic maths?”

Kev laughed. “This is Shields, man. I’m not worried.”

“Well, congratulations.” Alfie lifted his glass in an awkward toast. “I’m really happy for you. Um, have you thought about names yet?” That was the sort of thing you were supposed to ask, right?

Lisa nodded. “If it’s a lass, I’m thinking either Kate, after Kate Middleton, or Daenerys after Daenerys Targaryen.”

“I like Kate,” said Alfie quickly.

“Fer a lad”—Kev smirked—“I was thinking Kevin had a nice ring to it.”

Lisa punched him in the arm. “Howay, man. I’m not naming wor kid after you. He’s gorra be his own person like.”

“Anyway,” Kev went on, “we were wondering if ye wanted te be the godfather or summin.”

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