Free Going Home by Harriet Evans Page A

Tom. I’m gay.’
    The old clock on the wall behind him ticked loudly, erratically, as it must have done for over a hundred years. I gazed into my lap, then looked up to find everyone else doing the same. Someone had to say something, but I didn’t know what.
    Then, from beside my father, Rosalie spoke: ‘Honey, is that all?’ she asked, reaching for a cracker. ‘You doll. I knew that the moment I laid eyes on you.’
    Another silence.
    ‘Well, come on,’ said Rosalie. ‘Did any of you guys really not know?’
    Kate cleared her throat and pouted. Tom was staring at her, with what seemed to be terror in his eyes. ‘I have to say I’ve always thought you might be, darling,’ she said. She reached across the table for his hand.
    ‘Er…me too,’ said Chin, and my mother nodded.
    ‘And me,’ Jess added, her lip wobbling again. ‘I love you, Tom.’
    ‘Oh, do be quiet, you fantastically wet girl,’ said Tom. A tear plopped on to Jess’s plate.
    ‘Good on you, mate,’ said Gibbo.
    ‘Come on, Mike,’ Rosalie appealed to her husband. ‘Didn’t you wonder?’
    ‘I must say I did,’ muttered Dad, which says it all, really. If Kate and Dad – people who think ‘friend of Dorothy’ refers to someone who is acquainted with Maisie Laughton’s sister in the next village – can be aware of Tom’s sexuality, then who had he thought he was kidding?
    Tom looked discomfited. It must be awful to get seriously drunk and reveal your darkest secret to your family, only to discover that they knew it already.
    ‘What about you, Lizzy?’ said Tom. ‘Didn’t you wonder why I never talked about girls? Or boys?’
    ‘Not really,’ I said. ‘I just thought you might be and you’d tell me if you wanted to.’
    Mike agreed. ‘I always wondered, Tom, you know. You asked for that velvet eye-mask for your twenty-first. I wondered then whether you were going through a Maurice phase. Jolly brave of you, must have been nerve-racking telling us today. I cancel my toast to Rosalie. Stand up, everyone.’
    Our chairs scraped on the old floorboards. ‘To Tom,’ he said. ‘You know…we’re proud of you. Er. You know. For being your way. Here’s to Tom.’
    ‘You’re proud of me for being my way?’ said Tom, incredulously. ‘Good grief! This is like being on Oprah. ’
    ‘Shut up, Tom,’ I said. We raised our glasses and intoned, ‘To Tom,’ and sat down again.
    ‘Well,’ said my mother. ‘Does anyone have room for another mince pie?’

SEVEN
    By the time you’ve finished Christmas lunch, it’s incredibly late, and even though you’re stuffed you have to have tea with Christmas cake and Bavarian stollen , made by my mother, and by about nine p.m. you’re starving – the huge amount you have ingested over the last four hours has stretched your stomach, which is now empty and needs to be filled again. So you have the traditional Christmas ham, accompanied by the equally traditional Vegetable Roger, which is what Tom called it once when he was little, and which is Brusselsproutscarrotsroastpotatoescabbagestuffingand-breadsauce but not necessarily in that order, all whizzed up in the food-processor, then served with melted cheese on top. I console myself with the thought that this was what kept Mrs Miniver going through times of stress.
    Because it was a time of stress. I’ve been underwhelmed in my time (George Alcott, 1995, step forward), but never quite so much as by Tom’s outing himself for the benefit of his family. The drama of the moment wasn’t matched by the significance of the announcement. Ever since Tom showedme the picture of Morten Harket that he kept hidden in a secret compartment of his Velcro-fastening, blue and red eighties wallet, I’ve always suspected that he was as gay as a brightly painted fence.
    Immediately after lunch, Kate ordered him to bed for a nap. He protested loudly (what a great way to start your new life, being sent to bed by your mother), but he was so drunk it was for