by JL Merrow
“You know, this could be an excellent way of avoiding binge drinking,” Mark murmured under his breath after a few minutes watching and laughing.
Patrick laughed. “Yeah—if you can’t work out how to get in the door, you’re too pissed to go to the pub. Nice one.” And thank God, Mark seemed to have relaxed a bit. “So what are you drinking?” he asked as they made it over the threshold. “My shout.”
“I haven’t been in here before. What do you recommend?”
“I usually go for the Tea Kettle. That’s a stout. Pretty bitter. If you want something a bit lighter, there’s the Mansion Mild. I’d steer clear of the Death or Glory, though. At least for tonight. That stuff’s lethal.”
The Tickled Trout was pretty busy, mostly with people eating in the restaurant. It wasn’t the sort of pub that was anyone’s local—that was what the Three Lions was for. Barry had tipped the bar staff off they’d be coming round, though, so the Spartans got waved through to shake their buckets at the diners while trying not to fall over and face-plant in anyone’s fish and chips.
They made a fair haul, Patrick reckoned, but it was a relief to get back into the pub part and start propping up the bar. There were only a few people in this area—a family clearly waiting for a restaurant table, and a couple of blokes in suits who looked like they were having a business meeting.
“Jesus, it’s Friday night. Get a life,” Patrick muttered under his breath.
Mark followed his gaze. “That was me, ten years ago.” He made a face. “All right, it was me six months ago too.”
Patrick turned to look him in the eye, which involved a bit of neck strain in their current positions. “Yeah? Workaholic, were you? What happened—take the ten steps programme?”
“More in the nature of a short, sharp shock. So, a pint of Tea Kettle?”
Okay, so that discussion wasn’t going anywhere. “Cheers,” Patrick said, and leaned on the bar while Mark ordered two pints of Tea Kettle.
Barry and Rory, he noticed, were on the Death or Glory.
“What’s the food like in here?” Mark asked as he handed Patrick his pint.
Patrick took a sip of the dark, malty beer. Perfect. “Well…” He glanced up at the barmaid, who was still in easy earshot. “Tell you what, wanna take a look at the beer garden?”
“In the dark?”
“Well, yeah, but they have lights on the river. It’s pretty,” he added a bit defensively.
Mark took a swallow of his pint. “Okay, well, you didn’t lead me wrong on the beer. Good stuff, this. Let me just drink a bit more so I don’t spill it en route.”
“Good idea.” Patrick gulped down about a third of his pint while Mark did the same, then they headed out the back door.
If anyone noticed them going, at least they didn’t make any loud comments about it, to Patrick’s relief. It wouldn’t have bothered him if they had, but he had a feeling Mark would’ve been embarrassed.
Tables—empty right now, of course—were set up close by the door, but Patrick took Mark around to the side, where they’d get a good view of the river. It wasn’t too cold here, seeing as they were sheltered from the wind at least.
“You’re right, it is pretty,” Mark said, gazing down at the clear water that bubbled under the bridge to sparkle in the lights from the Tickled Trout.
“Better in daylight, obviously. The ducks all went to bed hours ago. You’ll often see kids fishing from the bridge—more in summer, obviously.”
“You’re a fisherman?”
“Me? No. You?”
“Always wanted to try it when I was a kid.” Mark sighed.
He didn’t say anything more, though, so Patrick didn’t ask. “Maybe you could give it a go now,” he suggested instead.
Mark laughed. “My daughter already thinks I’m old, sad and boring. I don’t think taking up fly-fishing is going to improve matters.”
“So what would impress her, then?” Patrick asked with a grin. “Skydiving? Bungee jumping? Or there’s always Morris dancing. That’s so uncool, it’s probably all the way round to hip and trendy again.”
“God, she’d be horrified. It’s almost tempting.” Mark chuckled under his breath—Patrick felt it more than heard it. “Is this leading into a confession?”
“What, that I like to prance around with a bunch of blokes with flowers in their hats, beating our sticks together and jingling our bells? Sorry, mate. I’m not that bent.”
Patrick held his breath for a heartbeat, because there was an obvious lead-in if ever he’d heard one. Mark didn’t take him up on it, though—no teasing questions as to just how bent he was.
He was pretty sure the bloke had tensed a bit, though. He was choosing to believe that was a good thing.
“So… You never did tell me about the food here,” Mark said with the air of a man who was going to change the subject if it killed him. “What was so bad you couldn’t say it in the bar? Suspected salmonella?”
Fair enough. Patrick could skirt around elephants in the room as well as the next man. “Nah, it’s nothing like that. Just, it’s gone downhill a bit since the old chef left. More stuff brought in frozen and microwaved, you know how it goes. Just a bit bland, that’s all. You’re better off going up to the Sticky Wicket these days.” Now he came to talk about it, it seemed a bit of a weak excuse for getting the bloke out here on his own.
Mark was nodding, like he thought so too. Not that Patrick was paranoid or anything. “That’s the one opposite the cricket ground?”
“Yeah. Take you up there for lunch one day, if you fancy. We could do it on a weekday—it’s always a bit busy at weekends anyway.” Patrick had nothing against Fen, but he’d rather have her dad to himself given half a chance.
“Oh, do you work in the village, then?”
“Yeah, I work for a local charity. SHARE—stands for Shamwell Regional Enterprise for Adults with Learning Disabilities.” He caught Mark’s look. “Yeah, well, SREALD didn’t make for a snappy name, all right? Anyway, it’s what we stand for. Sharing. People with disabilities ought to be part of the community.”
“I wasn’t questioning the name.” Mark paused. “It’s just… You’re a professional charity fundraiser. And for relaxation, you join an organisation that raises funds for charity?”
Patrick couldn’t help bristling a bit. “Yeah, so?”
Mark backed off—at least, he tried to. Seeing as he had his arm around Patrick’s waist and their legs were tied together, he made it about a millimetre. “Er, that’s very commendable?”
Patrick had to laugh. “Good save, mate. Yeah, well. I like to give something back, you know? And the day job, yeah, that’s all good stuff, but I get paid for that, don’t I?” He gave a tiny shrug. “Actually, they’re not totally separate. The next thing the Spartans are doing is a fun run for SHARE. I’m organising it—can I sign you up?”
“Oh, absolutely—um, it’s not going to be a marathon or anything, is it?”
“Nah, don’t worry. You get to choose between 2K, 5K and 10K. Course, the 2K’s really only for the under-fives.”
“I may not be in training for a marathon, but I’d hope I’d be able to stagger a bit further than two kilometres,” Mark said drily. “Are you running?”
“Wish I could, but there’ll be too much to coordinate.” He smiled. “Happy to train with you, though, if you like.”
“Thanks.”
That wasn’t taking him up on the offer, but it wasn’t rejecting it either. Patrick decided to let it slide for now. Maybe the bloke was just worried his age would show him up? “No problem,” he said, leaving it open.
“Have you always worked in the charity sector?” Mark asked after a pause.
“Well, I did other jobs when I was younger—usual weekend stuff just to get a bit of cash—but this has been my only proper job.”
“Oh
? You must have interviewed very well to get the job with no experience whatsoever.”
Patrick would’ve been more flattered by the admiration in Mark’s tone if it hadn’t been mixed with a healthy dose of surprise.
“Well…one of the jobs I did when I was starting out was charity fundraising. As a chugger—you know, the ones who mug you when you come out of Marks and Spencer and try and sign you up for a standing order to whatever charity they’re plugging that week?”
“Oh God, yes. What’s it like, being on that end of it?”
“Says the bloke who clearly doesn’t like being on the other end of it.”
“Not much, no. I’d rather choose which charity I donate to based on its merits, not on the persuasive abilities of some young person who’s just accosted me on the street.”
“Yeah, but do you? Donate, I mean. A lot of people never get around to it without a bit of a push.”
“Well, my employer—my old employer—had a scheme where you could have part of your salary paid into a charity account, and they’d match it. So yes, I do.”
“Glad to hear it. But you know, chugging gets a bad press, but for charities, it’s a major source of income. Even after the chugger gets paid. See, people give to people, not to charities. And the standing orders they collect last an average of six years, so it’s good for budgeting.” Patrick laughed, feeling a bit self-conscious. “And I’ll be getting off my soapbox now, all right?”
“No, no, it’s okay.” Mark smiled, and suddenly Patrick felt a bit short of breath. Hard work, this three-legged walking. Even though they’d been standing still for the last ten minutes. “It’s great you’re doing something you really believe in.”
Patrick was still trying to work out whether he should ask Mark about his work situation—he’d said former employer, so maybe he’d been made redundant? He might be a bit touchy about it—when Mark spoke again. “Look, about earlier—I mean, what Rory said. I don’t want you to feel I’m uncomfortable about you being, well, however you’d describe yourself.”
Patrick gave a one-shouldered shrug. “I’ve never really bothered much with labels.”
“No?” Mark’s smile was weird, sort of wistful but not quite. “If it wasn’t for labels, I’m not sure I’d know who I was half the time.”
“Well, if I had to pick one, I guess I’d say bi. Or gay, maybe. Somewhere in the middle, really. I’ve been out with more girls than blokes, but I think maybe I was trying too hard, you know?”
“You didn’t want to be gay?”
“Didn’t wanna be with a bloke.”
“There’s a difference?”
“Oh yeah.” Patrick forced a smile. “Nothing you wanna hear about, though. So what about you? Bi?” It was a bit mean, maybe, pushing the bloke—but sod it, he’d been the one to bring up the subject, hadn’t he?
Mark’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. “Gay.”
“But you were married to Fen’s mum? What was it—you trying too hard, and all?”
“More like too successfully.” Mark made a face. “She got pregnant, Ellen I mean. We went on holiday to Italy, and that was when I knew for sure. We had a great time, got on really well—and all I could think of was how much I’d rather be with one of the waiters.”
“Lemme guess—snake-hipped, dark-eyed, curly haired and as macho as hell?”
Mark nodded. “It wasn’t any one in particular. They were all like that. So when we got back, I told her I was sorry, but I didn’t think it’d work between us. I mean, I didn’t tell her why. And she was upset, obviously, but she accepted it.” He grimaced again. “Maybe she’d rather have been with one of the waiters too. But three weeks later, she told me she was pregnant.”
Patrick hesitated, but for Christ’s sake, the bloke had to have thought of this. “Look, not being funny or anything, but are you absolutely sure you’re Fen’s dad?”
Mark gave him a look like Patrick had asked if he was sure bears shat in the woods. “Well, of course. Ellen wouldn’t lie about it.”
Right. Not going there again.
“So you got married.” Patrick’s smile felt a bit twisted. “You do know most blokes wouldn’t bother these days?”
“She’s my child,” Mark said like that explained everything. And Christ, way to make Patrick fall in love with him, the bastard. “She doesn’t know any of this, of course,” Mark went on. “We told her we were married in May, not September. Before the holiday.”
“Uh-huh. And what about when she finds out?”
“Why would she ever find out?” Mark’s tone was sharp.
“Hey, I’m not gonna grass you up. Just, it’s a matter of public record, innit? What if one day she, I dunno, gets the urge to draw up a family tree or something? Births and marriages, that’s how you start all that. Or what if your mum has a few too many glasses of sherry one Christmas and lets it slip?”
“My parents are both dead, so it’s unlikely, I’m afraid.”
“Sorry.” Patrick found himself giving Mark another squeeze.
“Well, I never really got on with my father in any case.”
Patrick huffed in sympathy. “Tell me about it.”
“But you live with your mum, don’t you? At least, I think that’s what Barry said.”
So Mark had been asking about him, had he? “Yeah. Her and my dad have been split up since I was a kid, so it’s always been just us two. She’s a radiographer up at the hospital.”
“You’re proud of her, aren’t you?”
“Yeah. Yeah, I am.” Patrick hesitated, but sod it, Mark had been open enough with him. Least he could do was pay him back with the same coin. “See, my dad’s a bit of a shit. As in, in-and-out-of-jail, knocked-her-around type of total shit. She was in a right state when I was little, but she pulled herself up, kicked him out, went back to college and stuff. Got a decent job and made us a home. So yeah, I’m proud of her.” He looked at Mark closely. Was that too much for the bloke to handle? Finding out Patrick came from a family of violent criminals? Well, a violent criminal. “You all right, mate?”
Mark was breathing hard. And blinking a bit fast. “Fine,” he said, and pulled up a wobbly smile. “But I think this calls for another drink.” He downed the rest of his pint in one, then seemed to remember there was no way he was getting to the bar for another without Patrick, not tied together as they were. “Um. If you’re ready?”
“Yeah, no problems.” Patrick tossed back the rest of his beer, even though he’d had a bit more left in his glass than Mark had. “C’mon, then. Although you know we’re only supposed to be having one drink per pub, right?”
“That’s official Spartans rules, is it?”
“Nah, it’s official pub crawl rules, innit?” Patrick grinned. “We’ve got to get you out more.”
They sidled in the door and made their way to the bar, not without a bit of awkward threading their way through tables and around carelessly scattered barstools.
“Two pints of Tea Kettle,” Mark said, getting out his wallet.
The barmaid seemed to be fighting a laugh. “All right, but you do know the rest of ’em left ten minutes ago, don’t you? Your lot, I mean, with the three-legged bit and the collecting buckets.”
“What? The wankers. What do you reckon, Mark? Stay here, or try and catch ’em up?”
“What’s the route from here?”
“Up to the Sticky Wicket—it’s a fair old walk, mind—then back over the fields to the Pig & Poke. You know it?”
Mark shook his head.
“It’s a bit spit-and-sawdust, but they do good pub grub there. And the beer garden’s nice in the summer.”
“How about,” Mark said thoughtfully, “we have our pints here, maybe take our time a bit, and then catch up with the others at the Pig & Poke?”
“Good plan. Very good plan. That’ll teach ’em
to ditch us.”
“You tell ’em,” the barmaid said, already pulling their pints.
“Wanna go back outside?” Patrick asked when they had their drinks in their hands.
Mark took a slow swallow. “Maybe warm up a bit in here first?”
As they pulled two stools together and sat down, Patrick wasn’t sure if he was relieved or sorry. On the one hand, it had been a lot more, well, intimate out there in the dark, just the two of them, huddling together for warmth. Or something. On the other hand…
On the other hand, he wasn’t sure if he was ready for any more of that just yet. And he was pretty sure Mark wasn’t, seeing as he opened the conversation with a discussion of how City pubs were different from country pubs, and whether it was a good thing or not that the restaurant trade was saving so many of them from closing down.
Mark maybe noticed it wasn’t a subject Patrick was all that fired up about—after all, if all you had to worry about was whether your local was losing its character, Patrick reckoned you were doing all right—as he trailed off after a bit. “You’re the first person I’ve ever told all that to,” he said.
Patrick gave him a searching look. “Okay, we’re not talking about pubs now, are we?” he said after a pause.
“No. The…other stuff. About Fen. And me.”
“You’re not out to anyone?” Patrick kept his voice low, even though this part of the pub was empty.
“No—well, not anyone who knows me. Apart from Ellen, of course. I mean, I went to a few bars, back in London.” He swallowed. “Tried out a couple of dating sites. Didn’t really seem my sort of thing.”
“Yeah? Lot of blokes in your position, they’d be off playing musical beds every night. S’pose it’s a bit harder with a teenager at home.”
“God, no, I don’t do any of that now. No, this was before, when Fen was still living with Ellen.”
“Oh—so you didn’t get custody right away?”
“We have joint custody, but she’s always lived with Ellen. We both thought it was best.”
“So what changed?”
Mark pulled a face. “She became a teenager. Worse, she got in with the wrong crowd and managed to get herself expelled from school. Ellen was finding it all a bit difficult. That’s why I’m here—in the village, I mean. I wanted Fen to have a fresh start, away from all the bad influences.”
