She sniffs. ‘Him and his rainbow.’
Glancing back at my colleague’s reddening face, I notice the Pride pin on his lapel. He may be a disastrous judge of the property market, but Petroc has an incredibly individual and elegant sartorial style – he always looks beautifully put together and highly original, whereas I manage to make a mess of trying to look like everyone else. Today he’s wearing a checked purple suit, which somehow manages to be both outrageous and understated at the same time. It’s really quite a skill.
‘You object to rainbows, do you? I think they’re very pretty.’
‘Don’t,’ says Petroc, rubbing Lafayette, who growls.
‘We all know what it means,’ she sneers.
I was at a bus stop in Stroud last year, on my way to the train station after visiting my mother. Waiting next to me was a young man wearing one of those ‘La!’ T-shirts inspired by a TV drama about the AIDS crisis. Another group of lads were jostling past, and one of them called out ‘Fag!’ The young man didn’t say anything, just stared at his pristine leather sneakers with the same shamed flush Petroc now sports. And I didn’t say anything either, because I was scared of what they might do to me, and besides, I didn’t know what to say. But now I do, and I’m not scared.
‘I know what it means. I don’t think you know what it means.’
The balloon rapidly inflates. ‘How dare you?’
‘It’s an interesting question. I might ask you the same thing.’
‘Please,’ murmurs Petroc. He’s gone pale now, but I can’t really stem this flow because I don’t know where it’s coming from, or where it’s going. I just know that, like the rolling credits, it’s going to carry on.
‘I’ll say what I want, it’s a free country!’
I take another bite of my burrito. It’s so delicious. ‘And what exactly do you want to say?’
There’s a pause as she works out how to put it. ‘Great Britain’s not what it was.’
Chewing, I nod. ‘There we can definitely agree. There used to be slums, and people dying of scurvy and TB. Women couldn’t vote, and there were only three channels on TV.’
‘That’s not what I mean.’
‘Then what do you mean?’
‘Clover, stop.’
With an eyeroll at Petroc’s interjection, there’s another inflation. ‘This used to be a God-fearing country.’
‘Again, I agree. Witches were burned at the stake. You’d have been toast.’
She bristles; she’s very bristly, in all senses of the word. ‘We used to have standards. There were rules. People knew what was what. Young folk looked up to old folk. They didn’t go off . . .’ She eyes Petroc. ‘Doing whatever they like, with whoever they like. No standards.’
‘What on earth do you mean?’ She’s speaking a language only Lafayette can hear. ‘Try talking in the Queen’s English. I bet you’re a fan.’
‘Clover, please.’
But Petroc has faded into the background; it’s just me and this gouty old cow, staring each other down, willing each other to concede. So many times I’ve stayed mute, chickened out, but today I’m putting my head over the parapet and aiming fire. She swells once more, peg-teeth bared, goaded into breaking cover.
‘It used to be illegal,’ she spits.
‘What did?’
She leans forwards, beady little eyes gleaming. ‘Sodomy,’ she breathes, jerking her head towards my friend.
I take one more bite, then find my hands are moving of their own accord, lifting the burrito again, not to my lips but across the gap between our tables. I unroll it, emptying pulled pork, Mexican rice, chopped tomatoes, refried beans, grated cheese, shredded lettuce, guacamole, and a dollop of sour cream into her sagging lap. They really do pack in a lot of fillings.
‘No,’ moans Petroc softly, burying his head in Lafayette’s fur.
‘You!’ shrieks the old woman, hauling herself to her feet, jabbing with her finger like a witch cursing a wedding. ‘YOU . . . FAG HAG.’
I start to laugh. ‘I think of myself as more of a gay icon.’
She looks so ridiculous, dripping burrito fillings, that I can’t stop giggling, which makes her even more incensed, huffing and exclaiming as she shakes shards of meat off her dress. Passers-by are stopping to look, and one of the Little Donkey bar staff rushes out to see what’s going on. Petroc is rocking and moaning, clutching his dog, the old woman is swaying and muttering indecipherable insults, but there’s no way I’m letting her have the last word, even if I don’t know what it is.
‘Get back in your lake, you old trout.’
I roll up my napkin like a snowball and throw it at her. Batting at it, she falls backwards into her chair, panting heavily. Game, set and match. The Little Donkey employee crouches by her, holding her hand and fanning her with a menu. I think she might be having a heart attack, and can’t find it in my own heart to be sorry.
‘I think you’d better go,’ the staff member says over his shoulder, and I nod, but can’t resist giving Grotbags the finger when he turns around to her again. It’s only then I notice Petroc has already gone, and catch sight of him striding off down the road. Snatching up my bag, I follow him.
‘Wait up!’
He faces me, his expression stony.
‘Do you want to find somewhere else to have lunch? We didn’t get to eat much there. Or crack that Astral1 brief.’
‘Not really. I’ve lost my appetite.’
‘I know, what a bitch. A face to turn the milk sour.’
‘I didn’t care about her. It was you who turned my stomach.’
