‘Hands on the wheel at ten to two ... Now move your foot from brake to accelerator ... Gently, gently ...’
Luke tries to be gentle, he really does, but the car surges forward, startling both him and his father. He immediately jams on the brake pedal, almost sending the two of them through the windscreen.
‘Okay,’ Tony breathes. ‘Okay.’
They’re in the car park at the local aquatic centre, a popular location for learner drivers. It’s reassuringly deserted at this time of day.
‘Let’s try again. Gently, gently, that’s good ...’
This is difficult for both of them. Luke is twenty years too late learning these skills. His father is an old man who might be a lot more patient than he used to be, but whose heart may not be able to withstand too many frights.
‘Corner coming up ... Ease off your foot. Easy ... Easy ...’
Luke makes a mess of it, Tony having to eventually reach across and guide the wheel around. Luckily, there’s lots of space; they need it.
‘Sorry, that was crap,’ Luke apologises.
‘You’re all right,’ Tony says, and something about his tone makes it seem as though it’s meant in a much broader context than the driving lesson.
‘I can take you out in the car today, if you like,’ he had blurted out over breakfast.
Initially, Luke thought his father was suggesting they go for a drive somewhere.
‘We could go up to the aquatic centre. There’s nobody up there this time of day.’
Luke finally understood. His father was offering a driving lesson. He wanted to say, ‘No, thanks, too fucking late,’ but Aaron kicked him in the shin and chirped, ‘Great idea. You guys can do that while I catch the ferry to the city.’
So here they are. Stopping and starting, again and again. Turning the wheel, then straightening it. Stopping, starting, turning, straightening, going round in circles. Luke hardly notices the time – more than an hour has passed. By the end of it, he can move off relatively smoothly. He can turn the wheel, although his hands are not always quick enough to complete the arc satisfactorily, and he can brake and come to a stop without inflicting whiplash.
‘It’s a start,’ Tony says, when they swap seats for the drive home.
Luke has two weeks left of his holiday. If they do this every day, he might be someway competent going back to the UK. He’ll at least have the basics. A start.
Maxine and Jed are coming out of their house when Tony pulls up at the kerb. Jed is on his tricycle and is so distracted by the sight of Luke and Tony, he almost crashes into the gatepost.
‘Easy,’ Tony says, averting Jed’s crossbar to avoid the collision. Luke laughs inwardly. Tony has gone from one crap driver to another.
‘This one needs to learn to keep his eyes on the road,’ Maxine says with a grin.
Tony jerks his head towards Luke. ‘Tell me about it.’
Something about the exchange makes Luke suspect that they’ve spoken about this before. About the fact that Luke – at the grand old age of thirty-seven – can’t drive, has never been taught. Did his father admit to Maxine that he used his son’s sexuality as leverage for lessons?
Stop being such a faggot and I might teach you.
Luke’s been called a faggot many times since, but none that rendered him so powerless because driving, when it came down to it, equated to independence. Did flying become his substitute? All those kilometres clocked up in the air, all those long distances between countries and continents. Who needs wheels when wings can have the same effect, and better?
What made Tony change his mind? About the lessons. About his son’s sexuality. Because it’s very evident – from this morning’s events, from how accepting he has been of Aaron – that something fundamental has changed. Has it been a gradual shift in attitude over the years, so slight that Luke failed to notice on his previous trips home? Or was it Maxine and her partner moving in next door, proving beyond doubt that non-heterosexual people are perfectly nice and normal, and in fact make excellent neighbours and friends.
Maxine and Jed continue on their way, Jed veering all over the footpath and Maxine jogging to keep up with him. His father bends down to get the post and the newspaper from the mailbox. They walk side by side up the driveway, their feet crunching on the gravel. Tony parks on the street because he’s afraid the pebbles will damage the car’s paintwork; he’s pedantic about things like that.
‘When did you find out they were a same-sex couple?’ Luke asks quietly.
A pause. Laden with everything that has remained unspoken, unresolved, unforgiven between them.
Then Tony answers: ‘I met Maxine and Jed first because they’re home during the day. Jed took a liking to me and the three of us became friends. It was a few weeks before I realised that Jed had two mums.’
‘How did you feel about that?’
Tony shrugs. ‘I felt okay about it ... I’ve come a long way, son.’
Luke swallows a lump in his throat. Jesus, why is he feeling so fucking emotional all of a sudden?
‘I never asked what you voted.’ Then he expands, even though his father knows exactly what he’s referring to, ‘In the same-sex marriage survey.’
Tony’s stare is unflinching. ‘I voted yes.’
Luke has to blink away tears. His throat feels like there’s a golf ball wedged in it. He voted yes. He actually voted yes. The King of Grumps. Despiser of Faggots. Wait till Aaron hears about this turn of events! Luke wants to retort with something sarcastic but the words can’t get past the damned golf ball. His father is staring. Tony seems sad, oddly vulnerable, his hair grey and thin, his face lined and full of regret.
Then the moment is over. Tony strides towards the door, sticks the key in. The kitchen, with its seventies fittings, is bright, almost cheerful.
Tony deposits the newspaper on to the table, and flicks through the post.
‘There’s something here for you,’ he says, then looks confused. ‘Must have been hand delivered.’
The envelope has Luke’s name but no address or stamp. He opens it warily.
It should have been you they were fucking mocking, with your girlie clothes and prancing. Faggot.
Jesus. That word again. That hateful, belittling, hurtful fucking word. Far too early in the day to numb its effect with alcohol. Unfortunately.
‘Are you making a cuppa, Dad?’
Tony refills the kettle as Luke sits at the kitchen table, re-examining his memories of Robbie McGrath and what he might have done to elicit such hatred. Robbie’s locker had been situated directly below his and there was one occasion when Luke dropped a heavy textbook on his head. A genuine accident, followed by a laughing apology, because it was kind of funny. Another memory from cross country, the year when it rained heavily and the course was like a mud bath. Luke lurched over the finish line, lost his footing, and accidentally took down another competitor with him. He and Robbie ended up caked from head to toe. Another laughing – hysterical, actually – apology.
Neither incident warranted more than a fleeting grudge, if even that. Surely, Robbie would have seen the funny side? Maybe he didn’t. Or couldn’t. It can be hard to shake off the mantle of persecution in order to view someone or something through a softer lens. Luke knows this because he’s been having the same trouble.
Tony sets down a steaming mug in front of him. ‘Here you are, son.’