And Then That Happened by Liam Livings

Author:Liam Livings
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: london, gay romance, mm romance, male nurse
Publisher: RJ Scott

The next day we went to a building site to meet ‘Mick,’ as he’d given Dad a sniff of some work coming up in the next few weeks. After a campaign of persuasion—I pointed out surely he didn’t want to sit at home all day, staring at the walls—he admitted he was going a bit ‘round the twist’ and did enjoy eating nicer food. ‘It’s hard to get that salmon on the dole,’ he said.

‘That’s why you should get a job, let’s go, and put one foot in front of the other, to the building site, to meet this so-called Mick.’

We left the flat, avoided the lift, as it smelt of death soaked in urine.

We arrived at the building site, Dad approached the Portakabin and shook the hand of a large red-haired burly man (not burly in a sexy way, more burly in a ‘had a hard life, seen a lot of things, not going to be fucked about with’ way, but burly all the same).

Dad introduced me. ‘He’s a nurse, a male nurse, looks after a whole ward, he does. Tells ’em what to do and everything.’

I shook Burly Man’s hand, noticing the rough fingers. He nodded his head and smiled before gesturing to Dad to follow him into the Portakabin. I sat near the door, reading the one magazine available that didn’t promise Huge Jugs.

I wasn’t just pleased with persuading Dad to come for this chat—you could hardly call it an interview—but touched how he’d introduced me to Mick like that. A couple of years after coming out, Mum told me how much stick he’d taken about having a poofy son, as well as all the awkward questions he’d been asked, like didn’t it make him feel sick thinking about his son with another man? Or was he worried about catching something from my mug or toothbrush?

Even years after the event, through my mum, it still hurt. Not just for how angry I was at their ignorance, but how it would have made Dad feel at the time. How he had to carry on working with those men, because he had no choice, taking their comments and saying nothing.

I suppose now he had something to tell them about me, other than just ‘He’s gay’—now I was a big success: my own flat in London, my own car, and a job where I saved people’s lives and told everyone what to do. Put like that, I realised it was something he could be proud of.

Now, he tapped my shoulder as he left the Portakabin and we soon ended up in a pub.

‘Any joy?’ I asked.

‘Depends what you mean. Do I have to work, or can I sit around and do nothing for another few weeks?’

‘Did you get the job?’

‘No. Something’ll turn up. Always does. Fancy a pint, or is it wine bars now, in that London?’

‘Eighties, Dad, that was the eighties. Whatever you’re having’s fine.’

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