Identity Check

Chapter 6

"Patrick, my boy, I don't know if it's the coat, or your hair, or the combination, but you look so much like your dad that I thought I'd slipped back in time. Anyway, good to see you boys, both of you. Come on, let's get going."

"Maybe we could stop for a coffee first," Nick suggested. "We're both really ready for a cup of coffee, aren't we, Pat?"

"What?" Patrick said, still thinking about what John had said about him looking like his father. The same thing could be said of Nick actually, he grew more like his father every day. "Oh, yes," he said, catching on. "We're parched."

"You'll get some coffee when we get there. Your grandparents and your mothers are waiting to see you."

"It's not the mothers I have a problem with," Nick muttered. "So, how's it going so far?"

"Oh, nothing too drastic. The supermarket delivery came yesterday and had the wrong sort of brandy butter. But Alistair and I went on a quest to find the right sort and disaster was averted."

"Is there that much difference between one type of brandy butter and another?" Patrick asked as they reached the car loaded their luggage and bags of gifts in the back.

"What are you saying, boy?" John said, in mock horror. "Are you trying to ruin Christmas?" John and Nick chuckled, but Patrick wasn't in the mood for jokes.

"How's my mum?" he asked, voice soft.

"A little quiet," John said, his voice turning serious. "Rather tense. I'm sure she's as nervous about this as you and wants to get it resolved."

"I hope so."

*

"Here he is, my grandson the doctor," Geraldine said, hugging Nick after they arrived, hanging up their coats just inside the door. She kissed him on the cheek, having to stand on her tiptoes to do so. Her daughters had inherited their height from their father, not her.

"I'm not actually going to be a doctor for another few years," Nick protested.

"Oh, but what a good doctor you'll be. Just like your father." She patted him on the cheek.

"Ah, and my mother," Nick said, nodding to Sarah, who came from the direction of the kitchen, drying her hands on an apron and hurrying over to hug her son, and then Patrick. She looked so like Patrick's mother, the same thick, shiny hair, fine bone structure and even longer legs. But so unlike her too. Always ready with a smile. Always warm.

"Patrick," Geraldine said, turning to him and laying a hand on his arm briefly. "Still haven't cut that hair, I see. Come along, everyone, Marion is making coffee. We have cakes, and mince pies, that should keep you going until lunch."

She bustled off and the Masons and Patrick looked at each other.

"Always nice to get a warm welcome," Patrick said. Sarah stepped forward and hugged him again, making him smile.

"John, Nick, would you take the bags upstairs, please?" she said, stepping back. "Patrick, your mother's in the kitchen. Come and say hello." She took his arm to lead him there while her husband and son took the bags upstairs.

"I'm pretty nervous about this, Aunt Sarah."

"So is she. Just try to stay calm and don't be drawn into an argument. You're just saying hello now. You'll have a chance to talk more later. We have a cunning plan, you see. John's going to lure almost everyone out of here for a walk after lunch and give you two a chance to discuss things. With me there as referee," she added when he looked at her alarmed.

He stepped into the kitchen and saw her, his mother, elegant as always, in a dark green dress. She looked up from arranging coffee cups on a tray when they came in and he heard the cup and saucer she was holding rattle. She put it down on the tray and walked slowly towards him, stopped further away than she would have normally, didn't try to hug him.

"Mother." He didn't close the distance between them. Her move.

"Patrick. You look... well." She fiddled with her bracelet, leaving fingermarks on the gold. "Er... How is your job going?"

"It's fine. I'm settled in. The people are really nice."

"And..." She stopped and then couldn't continue as Geraldine bustled in, already speaking as she crossed the threshold.

"People prefer their coffee hot, Marion. And the boys must be hungry. Come along, girl, snap snap."

"I'm sorry, mother." She hurried back to the tray.

"Let me take it," Patrick said, lifting the heavy tray and heading out of the kitchen. Sarah followed with the pot of coffee. She caught up to Patrick and spoke quietly.

"See, I think that went very well."

*

After they served the coffee, Geraldine took Marion and Sarah back to the kitchen, to work on lunch. Meanwhile the men, barred from such domestic chores, sat in the drawing room - anyone else would call it a living room or lounge.

Clive puffed on a cigar, despite the looks from John and Nick at least. Patrick didn't mind too much. A man could smoke in his own house, after all. Alistair looked as if he wanted to join his father-in-law, but perhaps Mother had forbidden him. Clive didn't offer cigars to Nick and Patrick.

He dominated the conversation, standing in front of the fireplace, in classic patriarchal pose, opining on the iniquities on the Labour government, and the decline in Britain's moral fibre - all attributable to mobile phones, immigration and women who wore their skirts too short. Even Alistair, conservative with an upper and a lower case C looked uncomfortable at times. John argued a few points, but Clive took little notice.

The boys sat beside each other on a sofa, ate their weight in mince pies and biscuits, taking little notice of the old man, until he started asking Nick about medical school. What he was studying this year, what he hoped to specialise in, which hospitals he'd like to go to for that part of his training. His questions came too fast for Nick to get in much of an answer to any of them.

That interrogation over, at last, he turned to Patrick. "And you're working as a clerk now, your mother tells me."

Clerk. Kind of an old fashioned word. Patrick supposed that's what they'd have called it years ago.

"Well, they call it an administrative assistant," he said. "I process the identity checks on new accounts."

"What's that? Identity checks?"

"It's the law now that a bank has to confirm the identity of anyone who opens an account. It's to prevent money laundering and fraud."

Clive snorted. "Back in my day your bank manager knew who you were. You didn't have to prove your identity. My father took me in to introduce me to the manager the day I started my first job."

"It doesn't work that way any more," Patrick said.

"About time we got back to it. Seems any Tom, Dick or Harry can walk in off the street and open an account now."

"Er, well, no," John said, "That's what Patrick's saying. They do checks to confirm -"

"Half of them probably fake identities. Especially from the immigrants."

John positively twitched, Patrick thought and wondered if he would bite and start an argument, but instead he asked Nick to pass him the biscuits.

"Another thing about banking in my day," Clive said, looking at Patrick again. "A lad wouldn't have been allowed to wear his hair like that. What's the public going to think of a bank clerk with hair half-way down his back?"

"I don't work in a branch," Patrick said, a hand going instinctively to the hair in question. It was several inches past his shoulders, but not half way down his back, though he now had the urge to let it grow that long. "I work at the head office. Anyway I keep it tied back at work."

Clive snorted and shook his head. "Yes, your father used to wear it like that sometimes. Not right in my eyes. A man shouldn't wear his hair in a damn ponytail like a girl."

"It's not like I wear a ribbon or a scrunchy," Patrick muttered, making Nick choke on a biscuit.

"Scrunchy? Eh? Well, it wouldn't have been tolerated in my day. Man wore his hair like that when I was a lad, we knew what to think of him."

Patrick tensed, and felt Nick do the same, picking up on it.

"And what was that, Grandfather?"

Alistair and John both gave him warning looks and he wished that he could take the question back. But he let the old man answer.

"That he was a nancy boy of course. Not saying you are, lad, obviously."

Nancy boy. Patrick tasted bile in his mouth. "What if I was?"

"You know," John said, standing up, speaking loudly. "I'd like a fresh pot of coffee. And perhaps some cake."

"Was what?" Clive asked Patrick.

"Alistair?" John said a hint of desperation in his too-loud voice. "More coffee for you?"

Alistair had the same alarmed look, and stood, joining his brother in law, putting empty cups on the tray on the coffee table. Nick rested his hand on Patrick's arm. Restraint or support, Patrick didn't know. He didn't care suddenly. This old bastard needed a strong dose of the real fucking world.

"What if I was a nancy boy?" Patrick said, ignoring Alistair and John's bustling around the table. Clive laughed as if Patrick had made the most hilarious joke of the year.

"You have to have more than the long hair!" he said, chuckling.

"Oh, like what? Wanting to sleep with men, hmm, let me check, yeah, got that one. Anything else, or does that cover it?"

"Patrick! Stop it!" Alistair ordered.

"I don't live in your house any more, Alistair," Patrick said. He turned back to Clive who was staring at him in utter confusion. "Oh and we don't say 'nancy boy' any more. That's really not considered polite. The word is gay." He stood up. "A gay boy. That's what I am. Gay. I'm gay."

Clive's face twitched a few times. The cigar in his hand dropped ash onto the carpet.

"So, go on, Grandfather. I asked you, what if I was? What do you have to say about that?"

Clive took a breath. He looked past Patrick and roared out, "GERALDINE!"

"Oh, shit," Patrick heard Nick mutter. He glanced at Nick as Nick stood up and put a hand on Patrick's shoulder. He leaned close and said. "I really should have worn my 'I'm with stupid' T-shirt today, shouldn't I?" But he left the hand on Patrick's shoulder. Stupid, but I'm with you.

The door burst open and the women rushed into the room, probably thinking someone had fallen into the fire or something after Clive's wall-shaking roar.

"It shouldn't have been this way, Patrick," John said, with a sigh.

No, it shouldn't and Patrick wanted an 'Undo' command then. Like on his PC, where a quick click undid the stupid thing you'd just done. Not that he cared about Clive's feelings or even Geraldine's, they didn't care about his. But his mother... He hadn't sorted things out with her and now he'd ensured he wouldn't, because all hell was about to break loose.

"What's wrong, Clive?" Geraldine demanded. "For goodness sake, we thought something terrible had happened."

"Do you know what this boy just said to me?" Clive gestured at Patrick, cigar ash flying and raining onto the abandoned coffee cups on the table. "He said he's queer!" He glared at Patrick. "If that's supposed to be a joke it's not funny."

Patrick gulped. Could he claim he'd made a stupid joke? That he was just trying to challenge Clive's attitude? Could he defuse this even now? No. You can't defuse a bomb after it's gone off. And to deny it now, no... he couldn't do that. Another part of his soul would just burn away.

"It's not a joke," Patrick said. "It's who I am."

Geraldine stared at Patrick, before turning to Marion.

"You knew about this?" The 'this' ended in a soft hiss.

"I..." Marion began and then glared at Patrick. He felt even worse now, that he'd put her in this position. Never mind his own reconciliation with her - what about her relationship with her parents? Had he just destroyed that?

"This is why he left home, isn't it?" Geraldine said. "Did you throw him out?"

"No!"

"Why not?" Her words cracked out like a whip.

"What? Why not... He's my son!"

"He should be dead to you!"

"Leave her alone," Patrick said. Geraldine snapped her head around, glared at him and spat her words.

"Be quiet, you pervert."

The venom in her voice left Patrick too stunned to speak, but the others took up the slack, Nick, John and Sarah all talking over each other.

"I think that was rather uncalled for," Alistair said, amazing Patrick.

"Uncalled for?" Clive said, turning on Alistair. "And why didn't you throw him out of your house? He's not even family to you. What's wrong with you? Haven't you any moral courage?"

"I... I was angry of course."

"Not angry enough, clearly. More interested in keeping your wife happy than acting on your duty as the head of the household."

"This is not the nineteenth century!" Sarah yelled at her father. "We don't drive our children out into the night and tell people they died, for God's sake!"

"Watch your mouth, young lady."

Sarah took over the 'too stunned to speak' role, just as Patrick got over his own paralysis and shouted at Clive.

"Mother and Alistair were furious! They may not have thrown me out, but they drove me away. Are you happy? Is that the right thing for them to have done? Is that the Catholic thing?"

Geraldine wasn't finished with Marion. She turned on her youngest daughter again, showing no mercy in the face of the tears now ruining Marion's once-perfect make-up.

"How could you bring him here knowing this? Bring this evil into our house? And you..." She turned to Sarah now and waved her hand at Nick. "What's wrong with you, letting your son share a house with him? Don't you realise what that will lead to?"

"What?" Nick barked out a laugh. "Do you think I'm going to catch gayness from him?" He laughed again, a defiant laugh and took Patrick's hand. "It's not transmittable by touch." Tears welled in Patrick's eyes at the gesture, but he blinked them away. He would not show weakness in front of these people.

"Plenty of other things to catch from him," Clive snarled.

"You old fool," Sarah sneered. Nick just squeezed Patrick's hand tighter, whether as more reassurance or in anger, Patrick didn't know, but was glad of it.

"I knew something like this would happen," Geraldine said. "I didn't know what it would be, but I knew there'd be something. From the moment you took up with that Irishman, I --"

"Leave my father out of it!" New fury surged in Patrick. He knew they'd never approved of his father, but had only hinted about it before, with snide remarks. He wouldn't stand by silent and listen to them spew their hatred fully. But Geraldine ignored his protest.

"I didn't think it would be this, of all things! I thought he'd get a girl in trouble, like his father did with -"

"Shut up!" Patrick yelled.

He couldn't hear this. He knew it, of course. His parents' marriage certificate and his birth certificate were dated only seven months apart. It didn't take much maths to figure out what that meant. But his mother had always told him he'd been a premature baby and he'd accepted that as what she needed to believe. It didn't matter much to him, but it mattered to her. He wouldn't see anyone tear down her precious illusion.

"It's got nothing to do with my father, or Mother. It's just who I am. It's just my nature."

"Nature has nothing to do with it," Clive said, with a contemptuous snort. "Perversion that's all. And you even flaunt it now, with your disgusting parades! Acting like it's something to be proud of. Demanding equal rights!"

"Well why not?" John asked. "What harm does it do anyone else?"

"What harm? What about the harm to the whole of society?"

"I seem to remember you making the same arguments about giving women and black people equal rights too," Sarah said.

"At least they can't help what they are."

"Oh yes, you've got nothing against them as long as they know their place, right, Dad?"

"Dad," Marion said, in a pleading voice. "The church does tell us to hate the sin and love the sinner. That's all I'm trying to do, for my son."

"That's the kind of liberal nonsense that's weakening even the church," Geraldine said. She looked at Patrick and shuddered. "I want him out. I want him out of my house now."

"No!" Sarah yelled, her face pale now. "If you turn this boy out, I go too and I will never come back."

"That goes for me too," Nick said, letting go of Patrick's hand and stepping to his mother's side. John stood at the other side of her. The three of them stared Geraldine down, while Marion turned to appeal to Clive.

"Daddy, please, can't we try to talk about this? If we all try to calm down and talk..."

"What can I have to talk about with a pervert?" He took a step towards Patrick, who stepped back, involuntarily. Not afraid, just repelled by the hatred radiating from Clive. "My wife wants you to leave this house, boy. You have ten minutes to fetch your belongings."

It took him only five minutes. Patrick ran upstairs to find his unpacked case lying on the bed in the room he was supposed to share with Nick that night. He grabbed the case and ran back down the stairs. The raised voices still came from the drawing room and he wanted to go back in and speak to his mother at least, ask her to leave too. But he couldn't go in there. Like stepping into a room full of choking smoke. He'd be unable to breathe.

He just had to get out. Now.

The door slammed behind him. He pulled on his coat that he'd grabbed on the way out and started to stride down the long driveway. He hadn't even reached the gates when he heard the sound of a car. The Mason's Volvo stopped beside him and Patrick bent down expecting to see John or Sarah driving, but instead found Nick in the driver's seat. Nick opened the passenger door and smiled at him.

"Hey, handsome face. You need a lift?"

"I'm not going back."

"Of course you're not. You actually think I'd expect you to? Come on, get in."

"No." Patrick shook his head. "I'm fine." He closed the passenger door and started walking again. "I'll get home myself." The car followed him after a moment, moving slow, tyres crunching on the gravel.

"Pat, you dummy, it's Christmas Eve. All the trains will stop running in a couple of hours."

Okay, that was a problem. But he rallied after a doubtful moment. "Then I'll hitch-hike."

"Ooh, nice plan. Send me a postcard after you're kidnapped and sold into slavery."

"You're a big fool." Patrick scrubbed a hand across his eyes, to get rid of tears forming, telling himself they were only from the cold wind blowing in his face.

"Please get in," Nick said more quietly. "You know I'm not going to let you walk off on your own."

Patrick stopped and the Volvo jerked to a halt. He looked down at Nick's face. The face of a man he'd come to trust as a friend. A mature friendship now. Not of boys, like they'd had when they were younger, but grown men. Finally he nodded.

"Okay."

He got in, shoving his case into the back seat and Nick drove off, wearing a relieved smile.

"What about your parents?" Patrick said. "Should we wait for them?"

"Dad said they'll catch up later. Mum's got some things to get off her chest, and I get the feeling it might take a while."

"So I suppose that means I've ruined not just this Christmas, but every Christmas to come." He choked off and tried to get control of his voice.

"Screw Christmas. And it wasn't your fault."

"Really? I started it, didn't I? I didn't have to bring it up. I was just scoring points."

"Hey, he was insulting you. You don't have to stand for that."

Patrick sat in silence for a while, then spoke quietly. "I've torn my family apart. My mother will never speak to me again."

"You did the right thing," Nick said. "I wish I'd had the guts to stand up to their crap. Not just today, I mean years ago."

"Years ago?"

"They're poison, the pair of them, and we've all tried to ignore that for years, tried not to rock the boat. Hang on a second." He looked in the rear view mirror and hit his indicator to turn off into a petrol station, but pulled up well away from the pumps, out of anyone's way and turned off the engine.

"Nick, what are you..."

"Just give me a second here. Mum has some stuff to get off her chest, well I have too. The Tavis, we laugh and we try to pretend they're just old-fashioned, just 'characters', but that's bollocks. We just don't want to admit that they're bitter and filled with hate. Think of it, every little remark, about blacks, Asians, Muslims, Jews, gays, gypsies, foreigners of any kind... Any single one of them, it's nothing much, but add them up."

"Nick..."

"I'm not done. The world isn't run the way they like it any more and they think that means the world is shit. You think this is just the liberal in me talking? You want an example? Can you remember a few years ago, a girlfriend I had called Becky?"

"I think so. The black girl?"

"That's right. One time, she came round when the Tavis were visiting and Clive took me aside later, for what he called a 'man to man talk'. He told me that science had proved that white and black people should never interbreed and that all mixed race children that resulted were genetically damaged."

"What? Where the hell do they get this sort of shit?"

"Don't ask me." Nick snorted. "I asked my dad about it and he told me it was crap of course and he and Clive had... words about it." He put his hand on Patrick's shoulder. "So they hate you? Well, so what? The good opinion of people like that means nothing. You're worth ten of either of them, Pat. You're a better person and you're a better Catholic."

"You don't even believe in God, Nick."

"No, but I know it's still important to you. And I know enough about it to see that you're more Christian than that pair."

"What about Mother though? I do care what she thinks of me. But I've really screwed it up with her."

"Maybe. Or maybe she's seen their true colours today and will be ready to talk to you now. Anyway, my Mum won't give up on fixing that."

"Are you sure we shouldn't go back and wait for your parents? Like you said, the trains will stop running soon."

"Okay." Nick restarted the engine and started to manoeuvre out of the petrol station. "And maybe we can pop back in and make Clive have an actual stroke by telling him about your Jewish boyfriend."

Patrick frowned at him, not understanding. "Simon isn't Jewish."

"I meant Russ."

"Oh! But... Russ isn't my boyfriend."

"He's not? But, you hang out with him a lot and unless I'm totally reading things wrong, you've had sex with him several times."

Patrick blushed. "Well, yes, but, he's not my boyfriend."

Nick grinned. "Clearly we have different definitions of what a boyfriend is."