Crossing the line - 11. Gran

Dan’s Gran lived in a tiny house, almost bijou, on an estate in Eltham in darkest South-East London. There was something almost Arts and Crafts about the houses, though there was also an air of council estate. I’m not quite sure what that means, but you could tell. The houses were certainly not designed to create large living spaces for workers. I knew of the estate and had read about it but had not visited; created as a garden suburb for munitions workers in 1915, the houses were on the small side, but surrounded by green areas. Gran had a small garden at the back and at the front, a lovely view of a village green type area. Once inside, it was clear that Gran’s taste was eclectic, mix and match furniture, strong patterns, and a clear love of colour.

Gran was small, bird-like with fast movements and large eyes; she certainly neither looked nor acted her age which was late 70s at least. She wore no appreciable make up, but her skin still had a warm olive-y colour, but her hair was an alarming shade of dark brown which probably owed much more to a bottle than to nature. She’d greeted us at the door, with dark eyes that seemed to miss nothing. I was aware of being examined, and unlike Mother, I felt that Gran would be marking me.

And I had no idea how to behave, nor what to wear. Dan said casual, and would be in polo shirt and chinos, but I was uncertain, unwilling to seem too casual and not to have made an effort, yet also concerned not to judge things wrong. In the end, I opted for comfort, clothes I was fond of and comfortable in.

Her accent was almost pure South London; I shouldn’t have been surprised, after all she’d lived here since she was a baby. We were welcomed inside, and Dan was almost immediately set on in the kitchen. There was no hallway, simply two rooms downstairs; the door from the street led into the living area with the kitchen next door. A gust of warmth hit us, and I was presented with a glass of orange liquid. Dan started to say something, but she stopped him. I looked at the glass, somewhat dubiously.

“Campari, orange and soda”, it tasted, strong, good. She smiled, “Home-made, better than the shop.”

“You made it?”

A laugh, “Course not, Joyce, one of the girls at the day centre, her grandson makes it”, a grin here, “as good as an Italian.” Then there was ‘Dante’ and a burst of Italian.

He smiled and mouthed to me, ‘I’m slacking’, and went back to his tasks in the kitchen.

Throughout the evening, when it came to food, Gran moved into Italian, but the rest was chatter in English. Not that everything was relaxed, you understand. Dan was, not surprisingly, watchful whilst Gran eyed me constantly.

Dan had been in two minds about how to approach Gran regarding me, and our relationship. In the event it was sort of taken out of his hands. She had phoned him whilst he was at my place; a simple call to his mobile, about problems with her heating (an ongoing saga, evidently) and I had come into the room unbeknownst. There was the inevitable question from Gran, who was the man? So, Dan explained, and I retired, expecting fireworks. But it seems she had been quiet and thoughtful, then the invitation had come. A command, more like, bring him to eat.

And here we were.

“So, why don’t you have a girlfriend, settle down, have kids?”

“Gran”, Dan was horrified and expostulated through the kitchen door, but she shushed him and told him to concentrate on the cooking. Her dark eyes stared at me. I shrugged.

“Because when I’ve had a girlfriend, nothing happens.”

She frowned, “What do you mean?”

I stared at her, should I? Dan was looking like a trapped animal there in the kitchen, his knife poised mid-air. That decided me, “Sex with women doesn’t work, for me. Believe me, I’ve tried. And failed. No girl would have me beyond the first night. Clear. I don’t rule out kids, but that depends on the guy.” I grinned, “And Dan and I have not talked about that. Yet.”

She continued staring at me, and Dan made an explosive sound. She nodded her head at Dan, “What about him?”

Another, “Gran”, from Dan.

“I’ve no idea, we’ve never discussed it”, I turned to him, “How did it go with the girls, with you?”

He rolled his eyes at me, “Terrible.”

Gran looked at him, “There was Lucia, you were very friendly with her.”

“I didn’t get beyond first base, wasn’t really interested and”, he paused, “I realised that her brother was more attractive.”

“Martin?”

“Yep, got past first base with him.”

He grinned at her; this was obviously something she hadn’t realised. And to give her credit, she didn’t look shocked, more thoughtful. And I’d swear that, when I came out with the comment about not being able to perform with a girl, underneath she’d been amused.

“But Martin’s married now, with kids.”

Dan shrugged, “It happens.”

She shood her head, “I don’t know, what things are coming to.” Another stare, “How do two guys have kids?”

“The usual way, if you can. Otherwise adopt. Or a little glass jar”

“A little glass jar?” Then she twigged and flushed slightly, “You can do that?”

“Well, I haven’t. I don’t know that Dan has either, but I know guys that have done.”

He shook his head, “But it’s possible. If we wanted. It’s early to talk about kids, Gran, we don’t even live together.”

From there we moved on to how we met. All the while she would look from me to Dan and back, assessing. Then we reached the inevitable. How did I make a living? Everyone wanted to know that. Why? If you met a builder or freelance craftsman you wouldn’t feel you could simply ask how much money they made, yet journalism and writing didn’t seem to count. She’d seen the blog, evidently, she used a computer in the library. How did it pay?

“It doesn’t”, I shrugged. “It’s partly for fun and partly as a showcase, advertising what I do. I earn money by writing articles for other people, reviews, interviews, features. But frankly, my main income comes from things you might never see, stuff I do for private companies, writing brochures, publicity material and all sorts”.

That seemed to satisfy her, and luckily the meal was ready so that interrupted things. There was quite a feast, and with the advent of the food it seemed the rules of hospitality took over, and detailed questioning stopped.

Post-meal, the atmosphere was friendly enough and questions about my income seemed to fade, but there were still answers to give about my background, parents and such, and of course, that led us back to being gay and what my parents had made of it. I struggled somewhat to explain my parents’ combination of resigned acceptance with conservative social attitudes. But then Dan said that that was enough, and we had answered enough questions. Gran had the grace to laugh.

--oOo—oOo--

“You realise that she is going to start bothering me about having children, don’t you?”

I laughed. We were on the way home in the back of a cab (neither of us had wanted to drive, or rather we’d wanted to be able to drink).

“Not seriously?”

“Think so. She’s keen on my having kids and if I’m going to be gay, then that would be a way.”

“But children are not the be all and end all.”

He shrugged, “My cousins are numerous. We’re not very close, but she’s aware that all she has is me. The patter of tiny feet is important to her.” He grinned, “How would you feel about that?”

“Frankly, a bit scared.”

“Me too”, he sighed, “looks as if I’ll have to fend her off then.”

Gran didn’t so much accept us as resign herself. A battle she had lost. When Dan phoned her, she would ask after me, though he wasn’t convinced that she was either accepting or understanding. Simply resigned.